Page 92 of Marrying the Savage

Mine.

My wife.

I lower my head and kiss her throat, right over the mark I left. She shudders. I drag my mouth lower, over the pulse hammering beneath her skin, down to the neckline of her dress.

The fabric is in my way. I have very little patience left for things in my way.

I grip the top of her dress and pull, and the seam gives with a soft, satisfying tear.

Sofia gasps. “Damir.”

“I will buy you another.”

“That is not the point.”

“No,” I agree, tearing it lower, exposing the pale curve of her breast above her bra. “This is.”

Her chest rises and falls rapidly. She should be furious. She is furious. But her nipples are already tight beneath the thin fabric, her body arching toward me even as her mouth prepares some sharp, useless protest.

I push the bra cup down and take her nipple into my mouth.

She cries out properly this time. The sound fills the study.

I groan against her skin, my fingers still moving inside her, my thumb still working her clit. Her nipple is hard against my tongue, sweet and sensitive, and when I suck harder, her cunt clenches around my fingers so tightly my vision nearly darkens.

“Christ,” I breathe.

Her hands fly into my hair, but not to push me away. On the contrary…

I bite her nipple lightly, just enough to make her jerk, then soothe it with my tongue. Her whole body shakes. She’s panting now, flushed and open and completely undone, her head tipped back against the wall while I take her breast with my mouth and keep fucking her with my fingers.

“Please,” she whispers.

The word is so soft I almost miss it.

I lift my head. “What was that?”

Her eyes open, and the look she gives me could start a war. “I said please, you smug bastard.”

A real laugh almost leaves me. Instead, I kiss her, swallowing the rest of her anger as I drive my fingers deeper and press my thumb harder against her swollen clit.

Her body tightens instantly. I feel it coming before she does. The tremor in her thighs. The way her breath shortens. The helpless little lift of her hips against my hand. The tightening around my fingers, wet and rhythmic, as if her body is trying to pull me deeper and keep me there.

“You are close,” I say against her mouth.

“No, I’m⁠—”

“Yes.”

“I don’t⁠—”

“You do.”

I curl my fingers again, hitting the spot that makes her go suddenly silent. Her eyes widen, then roll half-closed.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, baby,” I murmur against her. “Fucking come for me.”

She grips my shirt with both hands.