Page 92 of Savior

Who is this man, and what is the wilderness doing to him?

“Luca, please.” I shake my head at him. My eyes plead with him to walk out of my room and leave this alone.

“I’m growing weary, Sloane. Tired of fighting this savage wanting between us. It’s eating me alive.”

“You have to be strong,” I tell him.

Pot, kettle.

“Do I? Because after you went to bed last night, I wondered if you weren’t right.”

I swallow. What the hell had I said in my aroused stupor that he’s taking as wisdom?

He says, “About how no one has to know what happens while we’re here.”

He leans even closer, and my lids grow heavy under the weight of his teasing presence.

“Well, you shouldn’t listen to me. I was just greedy for you last night,” I admit, trying to keep my wits about me.

But his lips dust over mine, and a mewling whimper makes its way out of my throat, lighting up the space surrounding us with a shade of rouge that’ll likely alert hell to our activities.

“As you are now?” he asks.

I open my eyes to see his pure, voracious appetite dancing in his, and I know it will be hard to get him to rein it in because I don’t want him to.

I want him to splay me on this bed like the last fucking supper and watch as he devours me like a starved man who finally has food in his grasp.

“Well, little dove, are you wet right now? Are you ravenous?” he asks, and his tone has dipped into a tempestuous octave that I can’t fight.

I nod. “So wet. So hungry,” I whisper against his lips.

“This craving for you is insatiable. I fear if I give in, it will only grow,” he admits.

I nod in agreement. “We can’t… You can’t…” My words trail off as he works his hand down the front of my sweatpants.

There she goes. The logical little angel that lives in my brain and tells me what not to do. She’s gone. Left the fucking building at the first scrape of his touch.

However, the manic little bitch in the red leather, dangling her feet over a throne fit for a queen of hell, holding a pitchfork, she’s alive and well and egging me on.

“God, you’re soaked for me,” Luca whispers, slipping his fingers through my pussy lips and over my clit a few times, toying with me.

I can’t find words for how it feels to be touched by him.

To be near him.

This is madness.

I’ve died, and this is my hell.

“Please.” I’m back to begging. So soon, too.

“If I’m going to go to hell anyhow,” he says, removing his hand from my pants and fishing around his pocket for something.

He tugs out his rosary, and I watch as he shoves it down my pants.

The cold beads make me hiss, but then as he rubs them over my clit, back and forth, I arch into his touch, scooting forward, and leaning my weight on my hands as my head lolls back.

“Luca,” I whimper.

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