Page 126 of Ruthless Vow
He pulls back just enough to look at me. Ragged. His pupils have swallowed the dark of his irises.
“What do you want?”
No one asked me that before him. Not like it mattered.
“You.” The word comes out rougher than I intend. Hungrier. “I want you.”
His grip on my hips tightens, dragging me closer until I feel him hard against my thigh. Thick. Straining against the thin sheet between us.
“Then stop being careful.” His voice drops to a register that vibrates through my sternum, permission wrapped in command. “Get on top of me and take what you need.”
Heat floods low in my belly. A single hard throb that steals the air from my lungs.
I rise onto my knees.
He watches from beneath me, sprawled against the pillows, and the sight of him steals something vital from my chest. Dark hair mussed from sleep. Jaw shadowed with stubble he hasn’t bothered to shave. The hard planes of his chest bare, the sheets twisted low around his hips, the lion tattoo rippling over his pectoral as he draws breath.
Mine. He’s mine.
I pull my shirt over my head. Drop it to the floor.
His focus drags down my body. Slow. Deliberate. Over the swell of my breasts, my hardening nipples, the dip of my waist. I feel it like fire tracing my skin.
“Fuck.” The curse is low, reverent. “Look at you.”
“Looking’s not enough.” I press him back against the pillows. “Stay there, husband. Let me.”
Resistance flickers across his face. The control freak in him wanting to take over. His tendons stand out, flexing against the sheets.
“Stay,” I tell him.
His jaw works. But he doesn’t move. Just watches me with that dark, hungry intensity. Letting me lead.
I lean down and kiss the hollow of his throat. His pulse beats hard, and I taste salt. Clean sweat and warm skin. The scent of him fills my lungs. Cedar soap and underneath it something darker, something that’s just Dante. I breathe him in until I’m dizzy.
He cradles my head. Not pushing. Just holding.
I trail down. The flat planes of his chest. The ridge of his collarbone. I drag my teeth over his nipple and his hips buck off the bed, a rough sound tearing from him.
“Cristo.”
I smile against his skin. Trail lower. The ridges of his ribs, the muscles of his stomach that tense beneath me. The faded bruise on his hip from where he fell when the poison hit.
I kiss the bruise. A promise.
“Cassia.” My name comes out strained, a warning threaded with something desperate.
I keep going. Following the dark trail of hair below his navel. I hook into the waistband of his shorts and tug down.
He lifts his hips to help, and then I see him. His cock, flushed and straining, already leaking at the tip.
I wrap my hand around the base. He hisses through his teeth.
“You don’t have to.”
“Let me.”
I hold his stare and lower my mouth.
