Page 177 of Salvatore

“Hold tight,” he murmurs.

I obey, mustering the strength to cling to his shoulders.

He lifts me, climbing off the bed and placing me on the mattress.

I wait for him to get a cloth but all he does is gaze down at me, his hungry eyes roaming the length of my body before coming to a stop between my legs.

I struggle not to shy away from the intimate exposure as my cheeks heat, but there’s something about the way he stares, the fascination and awe adding to that heightened sense of power.

He palms my inner thighs, tenderly spreading me wider, increasing my blush.

“I wish I could articulate what it feels like to see my cum seeping out of you.” His touch creeps higher, two fingersstroking through the mess of moisture escaping my body. “But it’s even better knowing it’s inside.”

He corrals the liquid on his fingertips, then slides them back into my pussy. “I don’t want you to lose a drop.”

I moan, my once sated and sore muscles now reawakening with the tease of more.

He returns his gaze to mine, his eyes tracing the rise and fall of my chest as I pant. But the fire has dimmed in his features, the weight of his somber mood creeping back in, reclaiming him as if it never left.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Nothing.” He steps back, the heat of his touch evaporating while he focuses on hiking up his zipper.

“Don’t lie to me.”

He stiffens, his shoulders rigid.

“Tell me, Salvatore.” I rise onto my elbows and close my thighs, trying to beat back the resurgent vulnerability.

He grinds his jaw, a muscle in his neck straining as he swallows. “When I rescued you from Gabriel’s apartment, it was a joke to demand your firstborn. But with the way I want you,mi reina, I’m not sure I’d survive if I found out you were carrying another man’s child. And I sure as hell wouldn’t let him live.”

I blink at him, my lips parting in preparation for what, I’m not sure, because I’m clueless at how to respond.

Not that it matters. He walks for the bathroom, leaving me to lay in the aftermath of his violent admission.

The confession isn’t dreamy.

It’snot.

It’s toxic, and bloodthirsty, and goddamn problematic how easily my insides turn to mush over it.

Fucking hormones.

He returns a moment later, a damp cloth in hand that he offers without a word.

My eyes follow him, studying the quiet precision of his movements, the tension in his shoulders as he strips down to his boxer briefs, then climbs onto the bed behind me and settles close at my back.

Today rattled him, and I don’t know how to comfort him in a way that isn’t self-serving to my own guilt. How can I possibly fix what I’ve done after my mistakes drove him to kill his own mother, while he had to face the prospect of becoming a father, at the same time his siblings were unfairly judging and literally attacking him?

He’s quiet for a long time—seconds, minutes.

Eventually his touch finds my hip, his fingers sweeping a path around the bandages on my injured flank, the silence stretching, the emotional distance between us increasing.

“Should I assume you’re in post-coital bliss?” I whisper. “Or are you laying there questioning whether the baby is yours?”

His barely audible sigh peppers my shoulder before the tingling skin is anointed with a kiss. “I’m not questioning it.”

“So itispost-coital bliss?” I fake a grin. “Who knew a few Kegels was enough to flabbergast such a notorious man?”

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