Page 117 of Marrying the Savage

So do I.

The room is lit by one lamp near the bed and the pale silver wash of moonlight through the windows. The sea moves beyond the glass. Her borrowed things are arranged with reluctant order on a chair. My father’s ring still hangs from her finger on black thread, absurdly large, impossible to miss.

“I promised you,” I say.

Her brows draw together.

Then she remembers. I see the moment. The afternoon returns to her face—the study, my hand under her dress, her back against the wall, her body trembling around my fingers while she tried and failed to keep quiet.

Her cheeks burn hotter.

I step closer. “And I always keep my promises.”

The scathing answer she’s preparing doesn’t come. For once, Sofia says nothing.

That tells me more than words would.

I stop in front of her, close enough to feel the warmth of her breath. Close enough to see the tiny pulse beating at the base of her throat, right where my mark has faded but not disappeared.

“Tell me no,” I say.

Her eyes lift to mine. The silence stretches.

Then she whispers, “No.”

But her hands rise to my shirt when she says it, fingers curling into the fabric, pulling instead of pushing.

I lower my head. “Liar,” I say against her mouth.

Then I kiss her.

She opens for me immediately, no hesitation this time. No moment where her body waits for permission from her mind. Her mouth meets mine with heat and anger and something close to relief, as if she has spent the day telling herself she doesn’t want this and is furious to discover her body kept better records.

Her fingers climb to my shoulders, careful around the injured arm for half a second before she forgets caution and pulls me closer.

The kiss turns rough quickly. It always does with her.

Sofia doesn’t know how to yield gently. She fights even when she wants. She bites my lower lip, then gasps when I answer by taking her jaw in my hand and holding her still while I kiss her deeper.

The sound she makes goes straight to my cock.

I’m already hard. Painfully.

I slide one arm around her waist and lift her. She makes a startled sound against my mouth, legs instinctively wrapping around me. The silk of the dress rides up over her thighs, and the heat of her through the thin fabric nearly pulls a groan out of me.

“Damir,” she breathes.

I carry her to the bed. She holds on to me, one hand at the back of my neck, the other in my hair, and I remember the shower—the thought of her spread out, waiting, wet and furious—and it takes everything in me not to throw her down and bury myself in her in one motion.

No. Not the first time.

Not with her.

I set her on the bed and come over her before she can decide whether to be embarrassed. Her hair spills across the pillows, dark against pale sheets, and the old ivory dress fans around her thighs. For a moment I see the dress as it was years ago, empty in a wardrobe, carrying the dust of a dead woman’s story.

Then Sofia hooks her fingers into my collar and drags me down.

Memory burns away.