Page 45 of Salvatore

I’m gifted with a breath of a snicker. The slightest hint of his surging arrogance. “I’m curious to see how long that will take.” He reignites the kiss. Faster. Harder.

I’m at a loss over how quickly he unravels me. How efficiently.

Then his thumbs reach the elastic crotch of my underwear, skimming the outline, and the need I feel for him no longer feels like need at all. It’s far too chaotic. Much more than mere desire.

It’s violent desperation.

“Am I worthy yet?” His thumbs weave a torturous trail back and forth at the height of my inner thighs.

I force myself to shake my head, denying us both.

It’s been two minutes. I’m nobody’s ego stroke.

His sinister chuckle peppers my lips. “Do you realize how irresistible you are when stubborn?”

I tighten my grip on his lapels, praying another whimper doesn’t slip free.

“Or how fucking hard it makes me?” He nuzzles my nose, his thumbs continuing to craft that exquisite torment. “Are you sure I’m not worthy yet,bella reina?” His voice is low, a maddening murmur.

Say no, Ivy. For the love of God, say no.

The whimper builds at the back of my throat as he kisses me again. My fingers ache with their painful grip on his clothing.And all the while those thumbs inch me closer to the precipice of hysteria.

I can’t fight it anymore.

I don’t want to.

“You’re worthy,” I whisper, eyes closed, vulnerability exposed.

“What was that?” he taunts. “I didn’t hear you.”

I stiffen, the humiliation excruciating as I pull back to glare at him. “Go to hell.”

He smirks. “Only if I can make a slight detour to heaven first.” He smashes his mouth back on mine as his hands delve farther under my dress, his possessive fingers latching onto the waistband of my panties.

He tugs down the material while I palm his cheeks, our lips remaining fused in a kiss to end all kisses while he strips me of my underwear.

“These are mine now.” He pockets the silken G-string.

“If you need a reminder of the time I slummed it, go for it, sweetie.” I snatch at his shirt, tugging, poking, maneuvering his buttons.

“You think I’m sweet?” His hand slides between my partially spread thighs, his knuckles grazing the counter as he moves and cups my sex.

I gasp, the heel of his palm applying direct pressure to my clit. “The sweetest.”

“Well, I didn’t take you for someone with a sweet tooth, troublemaker, but obviously I was wrong because this pussy is fucking drenched.”

The way he grates those words. Practically growls them.Dear fucking lord.

The men I usually take home aren’t like this. They’re fumblers. Pretenders.

But Salvatore isn’t playing a role. This is all him. The boldness. The self-assurance.

“I wish I could tell you you’re responsible,” I lie, “but my moisture output is entirely due to my imagination. In my head, I’m pretending you’re Michael B. Jordan.” I ignore his scoff of disbelief and undo the last of his shirt buttons, parting the fabric to reveal the injustice of his perfectly sculpted body.

I swallow.

Ache.

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