Page 19 of Beautiful Savage
I stop. Don't pull away. My discipline breaks at her touch.
The paint is still wet on her hand. She doesn't let go. She looks at me, really looks, dark eyes wide and unblinking.
She speaks. Her voice is low, even, but it cuts more than any weapon I've ever faced.
"Why do you look through me like I'm not even here?"
Fuck. My cock strains against my jeans, and I shift my weight, jaw tight. Her sharp tone only makes it worse.
A pause. Her grip tightens on my forearm, paint still wet between her fingers. Then harder:
"Why won't you fucking touch me?"
Jesus, woman. The word fuck in her mouth does something to me I can't afford. My cock jumps, and I have to look away from her face to keep from closing the distance between us. I want to bury myself inside her pussy until neither of us can think straight. I want to make her say it again.
Another pause. Her breath is hot against my shoulder when she asks the last one, quieter now, almost to herself:
"What is so wrong with you that you can't take what I'm offering?"
My free hand finds the doorframe. I grip it hard enough to feel the wood grain press into my palm. If only she knew. But once I take her, I'll never let her go.
She isn't pleading. Just demanding answers. These are questions she's been holding for days, and now they're out, hanging between us like smoke.
The words choke me, but I force them out anyway—anything to drown out the frantic pounding in my jeans.
"I was dishonorably discharged from the Army nine years ago."
She doesn't flinch. Her fingers dig into my arm, skin slick with sweat, and I hear her inhale sharp. "The discharge cited unprofessional conduct."
Still holding me. Still listening. Her thumb traces tiny spirals on my forearm, and the friction sends shivers straight down to my cock.
Her voice goes dry. "I've never met anyone more professional."
I let out a humorless laugh, stepping closer so her thigh brushes mine. "I'm exactly the man they said I was."
Not for the reasons they thought—yet the verdict feels the same. The same hands that executed countless men for the Delgados hang useless at my sides, trembling with need.
I brace for her recoil, like I've seen a thousand times before. My arm trapped in her grip, my chest ready to cave if she screams or backs away.
Except she doesn't.
Instead, she whispers, "You're not a monster."
That breaks me. My restraint snaps with a violent crack, and I spin her around, pressing her slick, naked back into the rough wood of the apartment door. The world narrows to the curve ofher spine, the slope of her ass, the curve of her pussy pressed against my thigh. She is fucking beautiful, and I ache to bury my cock inside her warm, wet heat.
"A monster takes what he wants," I growl, voice low as sin. I slam my palm hard against her right breast—hard enough to bruise, to make her gasp. Her nipple hardens to a pebble beneath my touch, and I cup, squeeze, fighting the urge to tear it with my teeth. My cock throbs, desperate to ride the slick path between her thighs.
Yet she doesn't pull away. Instead, her grip around my wrist tightens, thumb brushing the coarse scars on my knuckles. She leans in, thigh pressing harder against the pulsing length of my cock, and a low, guttural moan rumbles free from my chest.
Finally, I lift my eyes to her face: no fear, no revulsion—only smoldering intent.
Slowly, she withdraws her painted hand from my forearm. Then, deliberate, she presses her palm flat against my chest—left of center, right over my heart—through the thin cotton of my shirt. Fresh bougainvillea pigment still gleams, wet at the edges, and her hand leaves a smeared print: pink and green handwriting on white fabric.
The heat of her palm scorches through the cloth, straight into my chest. My heart hammers so hard I'm sure she feels it, her palm pulsing against each beat. My breathing goes ragged—no woman has ever chosen to touch me here, unless I'd paid her for it.
She steps back a foot—just enough to keep me dangling between control and chaos. My hand remains on her breast; her hand remains over my heart. Her breath ghosts across my throat as she tilts her head, lips parted, eyes dark with demand. I smell the sharp tang of acrylic paint, the sweetness of her skin, and all at once I want to fuck her senseless against this door, to fill her pussy with my cock until she cries out my name.
We hold that suspended second while the city hums beyond these walls.
