Page 186 of Marrying the Savage

“Yes.”

“Why?”

I lift my chin. “Because I want to.”

He watches me for a long moment, as if he’s checking whether this is fear, shock, guilt, or another escape plan.

It’s probably all of them. It’s also want.

I want him so badly that I’m tired of pretending the ache in my body is only stress. I want his mouth, his hands, his weight, his voice when he loses control. I want to feel alive in a way that is mine, not something stolen by men who think they can grab, arrange, trade, or claim me without consequence.

Damir steps closer. “Tell me what you want, Sofia.”

“I want you,” I say. “I want to go to your room, I want you to touch me, and I don’t want to talk about anything else right now.”

His eyes darken. “All right,” he says.

Then he turns and walks up the stairs beside me. He lets me choose each step, and maybe that’s why by the time we reach his door, I’m the one who grabs his shirt and pulls him down to me.

His mouth comes to mine hard. The door is still half open. I don’t care. He walks me backward into the room while kissing me, one hand at my waist, the other reaching behind him to shove the door closed. It shuts with a solid sound, and then I’m against it, his body pressed to mine, his mouth taking the air I still don’t want to think about losing.

This kiss is not like the one in the car.

That one was relief and anger. This one is choice.

I push his shirt open with shaking fingers, too impatient for buttons. One tears loose and falls somewhere on the floor. Damir makes a low sound against my mouth and catches my wrists for one second.

“Careful,” he says.

“No.”

His eyes flash.

I pull my wrists free and drag my hands down his chest. “I don’t want careful.”

He studies me, breathing hard, and I know he understands what I mean and what I don’t. I don’t want to be handled like glass. I don’t want to be interrogated. I don’t want to be pitied. I want him to know I’m here because I chose to be, and I want him to want me without making me feel breakable.

His hands slide under the coat and push it off my shoulders. It falls to the floor.

Then he touches me the way I asked.

His mouth comes down on mine again, and his hands are firm on my waist as he turns me away from the door and walks me toward the bed. I pull at his belt. He grips the back of my dress and drags the zipper down, slow enough to make me shiver, rough enough to make my body tighten with anticipation.

“Still no talking?” he asks against my mouth.

“Less talking.”

He gives a short, dark laugh. “That I can do.”

The dress comes off. He looks at me in the low light, and something hot and possessive moves across his face. I stand there in my underwear, throat marked, hair loose, skin already flushed, and for once I don’t cover myself.

Damir steps in and cups my breasts through my bra, thumbs dragging over the lace until my nipples tighten. I gasp, and his attention drops instantly to the sound.

“There,” he says, voice low. “That is better than silence.”

I should snap at him. I can’t, because he lowers his mouth to my breast and sucks my nipple through the lace, and the heat of it punches straight through me. My hands go into his hair. I arch into him. He unhooks the bra with one hand and pulls it away, then takes my bare breast into his mouth.

My knees weaken. He catches me easily and pushes me down onto the bed.