Page 143 of Marrying the Savage

“You like this,” he says against my mouth.

“Yes,” I breathe, because I’m too far gone to lie.

His eyes flare. The admission changes him.

He pulls his fingers from me, and I nearly protest until I hear his belt.

My eyes drop. He frees his cock, and my stomach flips. I have already had him inside me. I know what he feels like. I know the stretch, the ache, the deep, overwhelming fullness. Still, seeing him like this makes my mouth go dry.

He is big. Thick and hard in his hand, the head already wet as he strokes himself once, twice, watching my face as if my reaction belongs to him too.

It probably does.

“You’re staring,” he says.

“It’s hard not to. You’re waving it around like a threat.”

His mouth curves. “A threat?”

“A very large one.”

He laughs under his breath, and the sound makes my chest tighten. Then he steps closer, pressing the head of his cock against me, and I gasp. He drags it through my wetness slowly, teasing my clit with the blunt, hot weight of him. My body jerks every time he nudges that sensitive place, and he does it again, because he is merciless.

“Damir.”

“Yes?”

“Stop teasing.”

His eyes lift to mine. “You are sore.”

“I’m aware.”

“I should be careful.”

“You can be careful inside me.”

His expression changes.

The words surprise me too, but I don’t take them back.

His hand tightens on my thigh. “Careful,” he says, voice rough, “is not what you are asking for.”

“No,” I admit.

For one second, there’s only his breathing and mine.

Then he pushes inside me. Slow at first, because despite everything, he is careful. The head of his cock stretches me open, and I grab his shoulders, nails digging into his shirt. The burn is there, deep and sharp for a moment, but so is the pleasure. My body remembers him now, opens for him now, and the realization makes something hot and helpless twist in me.

He fills me inch by inch. I feel every bit of him. Every thick, slow push. Every pause when he lets my body take him. By the time he’s fully inside me, I’m shaking.

He is too. I can feel it in the tension of his arms, the way his jaw locks, the way his forehead lowers briefly to mine.

“You feel too good,” he says.

It’s not smooth. Not controlled. It sounds dragged out of him.

That does something terrible to my heart.