Page 88 of Marrying the Savage

Damir’s face gives away nothing. Nothing at all. That terrifies me more than rage would.

I expect him to move back. I expect him to threaten me. I don’t expect his free hand to close around my waist and turn me fully against the wall.

The breath leaves me in a rush.

His body comes against mine, not crushing, not hurting, but close enough that every part of me becomes brutally aware of every part of him. His thigh presses between the layers of my skirt. His hand stays at my waist, fingers firm through the fabric.

“Sofia,” he says.

My name sounds different now.

Not a warning. Not quite.

Heat opens low in my stomach.

I hate my body. I hate it so much.

“This is not an answer,” I whisper.

“No.”

“Then what is it?”

His gaze moves over my face, slower now. “A reminder.”

“Of what?”

“That if you keep pushing at locked doors, you may not like what opens.”

I should say something clever. Something cutting.

Something Sofia-like.

But his thumb moves once at my waist, and the thought disappears. The room becomes too small. He’s too close. Too warm. Too calm. His bandaged hand remains against the wall beside my head, but the other slides from my waist to my hip, then lower, gathering the fabric of my dress with a patience that makes my mouth go dry.

“Damir,” I say.

His eyes darken. “Tell me to stop.”

My breath catches.

There it is. A door. A real one.

Not locked. Not forced. Offered.

I stare at him, heart hammering against my ribs.

I should tell him to stop.

I should.

Instead, my fingers curl into the front of his shirt. “That is a very unfair thing to say when you already know I’m reckless.”

He chuckles slightly before he kisses me.

It’s not like the church. There is no audience. No blood on stone. No old families watching. No Dmitri bleeding and cursing behind us. Just the study, the sea beyond the windows, the photograph on the desk, and Damir’s mouth taking mine like he has been waiting since breakfast for me to give him a reason.

The kiss starts deep and turns rough almost immediately. My back presses into the wall. His hand tightens on my hip. My fingers climb to his shoulders, then his neck, then into his hair because apparently the part of my brain responsible for dignity has died quietly and left no note.