Page 93 of Marrying the Savage

I do it again. And again.

Her mouth opens, but no words come out now. Only breath. Heat. Soft, helpless sounds she can’t swallow no matter how hard she tries. I keep my thumb on her clit, steady and relentless, while my fingers stroke deep inside her.

Her cunt flutters around me. Her body goes rigid.

“Damir,” she gasps.

I put my mouth to her ear. “Come for me, Sofia.”

She breaks.

The orgasm takes her hard. Her whole body locks against mine, then shudders, hips jerking into my hand as pleasure tears through her. She cries out, loud enough that anyone in the corridor could hear, and I cover her mouth with mine, not to silence her, but because I want the sound inside me. Her cunt pulses around my fingers, wet and tight, each contraction dragging a low groan from my throat.

I don’t stop. Not immediately.

I slow only when her hands clutch desperately at my shoulders and her knees begin to give. I keep her upright with my body, my arm around her waist, my fingers still buried inside her as the last waves move through her.

She trembles against me, completely undone. Breathing hard. Hot and soft and furious, even now.

I kiss her cheek, then the corner of her mouth, then the mark on her neck. Her skin tastes like heat and salt and something that is entirely Sofia.

When I finally withdraw my fingers, she makes a small, shocked sound. Her face burns red.

I look down at my hand. Then at her. She follows my gaze and looks as if she might murder me to avoid embarrassment.

I lift my fingers to my mouth and taste her.

Her eyes go wide. “Damir.”

The way she says my name now is different, something ruined but still hungry.

I step closer again, trapping her more fully between me and the wall, my cock hard against her belly. She feels it and freezes, breath catching.

“Yes,” I say quietly. “That is what you do to me.”

Her gaze drops for half a second, then returns to mine.

She’s still panting. Still flushed. Her dress is torn open, one breast exposed, nipple wet from my mouth. Her hair is loose around her face, lips swollen, eyes dark and stunned. She looks nothing like the controlled bride from the church.

She looks like my wife.

And I have not even begun with her.

I should let her walk out before I decide that the taste of her on my tongue was not enough. Before I put my hands on her again. Before I forget the photograph on my desk, the blood still drying under my bandage, and every reason Sofia Antonova is dangerous to keep too close.

“Go back to your room, Sofia,” I say.

She laughs once, still breathless, still irritated, and the sound scrapes against what is left of my restraint. “There he is,” she says. “The husband with rules.”

“Yes.”

“And if I don’t?”

My body reacts before my patience does. The image comes too easily: Sofia over my shoulder, her dress torn, her thighs bare against my hands, that sharp mouth of hers still trying to insult me while she trembles from what I just did to her.

I let my eyes darken because hiding it seems pointless now.

“Then I will put you over my shoulder, carry you there myself, and neither of us will reach the hallway with dignity.”