Page 88 of Savior

My entire body feels like I’m standing too close to the sun, and she’s holding the reins. I can’t step back. My arms wrap around her, holding her snugly to me as she continues to writhe across my cock like a ruthless goddess who’s come to win a conquest.

I don’t feel like I’m sinning with her. I only feel fulfilled. Wanton. Hungry for more.

Her ruinous machinations don’t cease as she bites my lower lip and tugs my head back with her hold on my hair.

“We shouldn’t,” I tell her as she bombards me with her tongue once more, slipping it past my lips’ defenses to tease me.

“Who would know?” she asks.

Her question ambles through my brain, bouncing off synapses and neurons, trying to find a logical response. But there isn’t one.

Because she’s right.

Who would know?

“We would,” I finally reply, muttering it between heated kisses that I can’t stop giving her.

“Luca, please,” she begs, and my body surges with awareness that she needs something from me, and I’m denying her.

The way she grinds on me, kisses me, commands me, is bewitching. As if she’s Eve trying to tempt me to become humanity’s downfall beside her. Fuck if I’m not five seconds away from doing so, too.

The ruthless way she kisses me, mixed with the longing in each breath she draws between them, is electrifying my body to the point of madness. She’s the only cure for what ails me.

“Sloane, I can’t…” I plead, and she stops, a flush entering her cheeks deeper with embarrassment.

“I’m sorry. God, I’m sorry. What am I doing?” She moves to get off my lap, and I hold her firm.

Her eyes brim with tears that I’ll never let her shed. “It was both of us,” I tell her.

She’s in silk night shorts, and I know she’s wet before I even slide my hand over the crotch of them.

“Luca,” she breathes, but it’s not a warning. It’s another alluring plead from her kiss-bruised lips as she grasps onto my shoulders.

“I know, my little dove. You ache, don’t you?” I taunt, finding my way beneath the shorts with my hand, my fingers finding her bare beneath them.

At this, my eyes roll back in my head in pure divinity. “Fuck, Sloane.”

A charming little gasp leaves her lips as my fingers slip through her wetness, swirling around her swollen bud a few times before sliding deeper toward her entrance.

“Let Father Russo make you feel better,” I tell her, losing my grip on sanity and leaning into the radiance of how it feels to be near her. To touch her.

“Please,” she begs, and it’s what presses me forward.

I sink two fingers inside her, and she bucks on them, moaning angelically.

She’s fucking exquisite.

The way she glides on my fingers, working her own body toward an orgasm that she so desperately needs.

“God, look at you,” I manage.

I look between us and watch where my fingers disappear in and out of her heat, and the walls of her ripple around me in waves I want to drown in.

Part of me wonders how I made it this long without touching a woman, without giving in to this unforgiving feeling. But I know how I made it this long.

Because I was waiting forher.

It’s sick, the thought.

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