Page 41 of Wretched Choices

He grabs my hips, helping me up and down, the feeling of his cock inside me so liberating. My pussy clutches him as I slide up and down.

My moans and his grunts fill the small space of the car. The feeling of his skin on mine is euphoric, the pain now covered by pleasure. I find the rhythm and match his.

With his head buried in my neck, he kisses me, marking me. The electric feeling down my spine follows to my core when his finger presses my clit, making me scream his name as I come. Salvatore follows soon after, cursing under his breath.

I bury my head in his neck, his hand tracing my back.

With his cock still inside me, I wait as the adrenaline leaves my body.

It’s then I realize what I’ve done and relief and guilt both flood through me.

“Care to explain what just happened?” Salvatore asks.

I exhale heavily, pressing my face deeper into his neck. I’m not ready for this conversation. “No, not now. Can we talk about it later?”

I can feel his disagreement, but I’m saved by a knock on the window.

“Don’t move,” Salvatore says.

I don’t plan to. I’m too exhausted.

Salvatore wraps his jacket over my body before he slightly opens the window. I can hear a commotion outside, but still, I stay in my place, unable to move.

“We’re fine. We’re going back to the hotel. We can talk later,” he says to whoever is there. The exhaustion overpowers me, and when Salvatore pulls his cock out of me, I wince.

I pull away from Salvatore, his face a mixture of emotions. “The adrenaline is wearing off you. I’ll drive us back to the hotel.” He buttons up his pants and he does up his jacket covering me.

I nod, not having the energy to talk. He opens the door and slips from beneath me, letting me sit on the passenger seat. He buckles my seat belt before closing the door.

As I fall asleep, all I catch from Salvatore is, “You are going to be the death of me.”

I stumble from my disoriented nap just as Salvatore pulls the car into the underground garage.

He opens the door, leaning down to scoop me in his arms.

“No, I can walk. You’re hurt,” I say, pushing him as I get out of the car. He says nothing, just nods firmly. Two more cars pull into the garage, which he ignores. His hand falls on the small of my back, leading me toward the elevator. His body shields me from behind. From the threat, or from the questioning eyes?

Pressing his hand on the screen, the elevator opens and we enter, his body in front of mine now. The door closes and I catch a glimpse of Dante and Gabriel, followed by more men.

When the elevator door opens, he takes my hand and leads me inside our suite. Only then does Salvatore relax. His shoulders fall, relieved. He leads me inside the bedroom and to the en suite bathroom. I look at myself in the mirror, and even covered in his jacket, my front is on display, my torn cream dress barely covering me. I’m covered in Salvatore's blood. It’s even on theside of my face, my makeup smudged, and my hair is all over the place.

Slickness and the slight pain between my legs are the only reminders of what happened between us. The disappointment that I couldn’t keep my promise doesn’t come. It’s almost like I’m someone else, living in some other universe.

The water from the shower catches my attention. I look at Salvatore, who has taken off his shirt. His face looks haunted, but the moment he looks at me, it changes like he’s trying to suppress how he feels.

“Take a shower. I need to take care of my shoulder.”

Shit, I didn’t think. Of course. He was hit, and it hurts.

I take a step toward him. “I’ll do it. Do you have a first aid kit?” He looks at me questioningly. Probably contemplating if he can trust me. “I know what I’m doing. I used to help my father’s soldiers.”

“It’s in that cabinet.” He motions to one near the left side of the basin. I turn around and take it out of the cabinet. Turning around, I find Salvatore already sitting on the closed toilet seat. I take time tending his wound, disinfecting it well.

Salvatore never takes his eyes off me, like he’s studying me. My body heats under his gaze. Strangely, I like it. I shouldn’t, but I do. I like his attention.

He breaks the silence. “You should have told me.”

I look at him, contemplating the look on his face. “Why would I? And when? When you ordered me to choose to marry you, or when you avoided me until the wedding? Or when you were conspiring about how to send my father pictures of us marrying?” Anger fills my chest. How dare he?

---