Page 91 of Marrying the Savage

Sofia looks down between us, as if she can’t quite believe this is happening. My hand beneath her dress. Her thighs parted for me. Her body slick and trembling in my study while the dead watch from the walls and secrets sit locked in drawers.

“Look at me,” I tell her.

Her eyes snap back to mine.

I push one finger inside her, and she cries out. The sound is shocked and raw, and it goes through me with vicious satisfaction.

She’s tight. So tight I have to stop for one breath, forcing myself not to take more than she can give. Her body grips my finger like she has been starving for this and hating herself for it. Her nails dig into my shoulder. Her lips tremble.

“Has no one touched you like this?” I ask.

Her face flushes darker. She looks away.

That’s answer enough.

Something possessive and ugly opens in my chest. Dmitri Sokolov was going to put his hands on her. He was going to take this softness, this heat, this first helpless little clench around a man’s fingers, and treat it like something owed to him.

No. Never.

I turn her face back to mine with my mouth, kissing her hard as I begin to move my finger inside her. Slow at first. Deep. Controlled. My thumb returns to her clit, circling in time with each stroke, and she melts against me in pieces.

Her body is honest even when her mouth is not. Every time I curl my finger, her breath breaks. Every time I press her clit, her hips chase my hand. Every time I slow down, she makes a frustrated sound she clearly wishes she could swallow.

I pull back enough to see her face. “Tell me to stop,” I say.

She glares at me, but her eyes are dark and unfocused, her mouth swollen from mine.

“Don’t you dare.”

I slide a second finger inside her, and her back arches off the wall.

“Damir.”

My name comes out wrecked. I shouldn’t enjoy that as much as I do.

I fuck her with my fingers slowly, stretching her, feeling her body struggle and then soften around me. Her cunt is soaked, taking me with wet little sounds that make my control fray. I keep my thumb on her clit, circling, pressing, learning the exact rhythm that makes her thighs shake.

She tries to close her legs. I wedge my knee between them.

“No,” I say.

Her eyes open, furious and dazed. “You are impossible.”

“You married me.”

“Under duress.”

“You invited me.”

“I invited you for my own cause—” She pants.

I curl my fingers inside her. She chokes on whatever she was about to say.

“Then I am exceeding expectations,” I murmur.

She laughs once, breathless and broken, then moans when I press harder against her clit.

The sound does something to me. I want more. I want her louder. I want the whole house to understand that the woman upstairs is not Sergei Antonov’s niece anymore, not Dmitri Sokolov’s bride, not a piece moved between families.