Page 29 of Savage Devotion

A whimper escapes me as his fingers push the fabric aside, stroking through my slickness. "Tell me again, Francesca. Has anyone ever touched you like this before?"

I shake my head, unable to form words as his thumb circles my clit. The sensation is overwhelming, the pleasure building rapidly from his skilled touch.

"Of course not. Because you're mine," he says, satisfaction evident in his voice. "All fucking mine."

He withdraws his hand suddenly, leaving me aching and empty. Rising from the bed, he strips down. His body is a masterpiece of masculine power, olive skin stretched over hard muscle, intricate tattoos mapping territories of pain and strength across his torso.

When he's fully naked, his erection stands proudly against his abdomen, impressive in both length and girth. I swallow hard, fear and desire mingling in equal measure.

"Tonight I won't claim you fully," he says, returning to the bed. "I won't do that until you're ready. But I'll show you pleasures you've never imagined."

His mouth replaces his fingers between my thighs, the first stroke of his tongue against my pussy drawing a shocked cry from my lips.

No one has ever— I never thought—fuck.

The pleasure is indescribable, his skill evident as he tastes me with hungry determination.

My bound hands tangle in his hair, my body arching beneath his mouths assault. It's too much, too intense, too overwhelming. I want to push him away and pull him closer simultaneously, this confused mess a mirror of my feelings toward him.

Hatred and desire. Fear and need. Captivity and freedom.

When orgasm claims me, it's violent and unexpected, washing over me in waves that leave me trembling and incoherent. Dante rises above me, his mouth glistening with evidence of my pleasure, his eyes dark with primal satisfaction.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, untying my hands. "Absolutely fucking beautiful."

He surprises me by gathering me against his chest rather than pursuing his own release, his heart thundering beneath my ear.

For long moments after, we remain like this, my body boneless in the aftermath of pleasure, his arms secure around me.

"Why?" I finally ask, my voice ragged.

"Why what?"

"Why didn't you... finish?"

His laugh rumbles through his chest. "Because tonight wasn't about me taking. It was about you discovering that pleasure and pain aren't as separate as you believe."

I push myself up to look at his face, suddenly noticing his hand against my skin. His glove is gone, the mutilation of his missing finger clearly visible in the dim light.

"Your hand," I say, reaching out before I can stop myself. "Does it still hurt?"

He's surprised at my concern. "Sometimes. A phantom pain. A reminder of my sacrifice."

"Tell me about it," I prompt, now even surprising myself with genuine curiosity for the man I just tried to kill.

He sits up against the headboard, pulling me with him so I rest against his chest. "Well, my father died. Luca became the heir, just like he was always promised. The chosen one. When Vito died and my brother claimed the Ravelli ring for himself, I cut off my own finger… to… to make space for a replica."

The raw vulnerability in his voice catches me off-guard. "You mutilated yourself for a symbol?"

"For power," he corrects, flexing his damaged hand. "The knife I used to cut off my own flesh was the first gift my father ever gave me. I was twelve, and he told me a Ravelli man should always be prepared to spill blood." His laugh holds no humor. "He never specified it should be my own."

The confession creates an unexpected intimacy between us. This man, this monster who claimed me like property, bears wounds that mirror my own.

"My father began grooming me for marriage when I was fourteen," I find myself saying. "My education, my manners, my virginity—all carefully curated assets to be traded for maximum advantage when the time was right."

Dante's fingers rub against my bare shoulder. "He prepared you well. Too well, perhaps. He created a woman perfect for another man's empire."

"Is that what I am to you? A queen?" I can't keep the bitterness from my voice. "Or just another piece on your chessboard in the game against your brother?"

---