Page 86 of Savage Saint
"You really need to stop carrying me places," I grumble, though there's no real conviction behind my words. My body betrays me, melting against the solid warmth of his torso. "I'm perfectly capable of walking."
His low laugh reverberates between us as he moves toward the bed. "I like it," he says simply, those three words carrying more weight than they should. "I like taking care of you, Butterfly."
The nickname makes something flutter in my chest, something I don't want to examine too closely. He deposits me gently onto the mattress, the soft foam shifting under my weight.Then he straightens, his face unreadable as he turns, taking a step away from the bed as if to leave.
"Please don't go. I need you." The words escape my lips before I can stop them.
His muscles tense as I take his hand. The air around us suddenly charged with something beyond fear or comfort or protection.
I don't overthink it. Years of training kick in, and I pull him onto the bed with a swift move, using his momentum against him. Before he can react, I straddle his hips, feeling his immediate reaction pressing against me. His hands grip my thighs hard enough to bruise, heat burning through the thin fabric between us.
"That was a dirty move, Butterfly. I was only going to get some water." His voice is strained, darker than before.
The nickname hits differently now, making my body tingle in places I'd forgotten existed. Now that he's explained why he calls me that, I can't help but love it.
I hesitate, my thoughts flashing back to all those nameless faces I have killed. I scrunch my eyes shut."I don't want to think about what I am anymore." I just want to feel something good, something that drowns out everything else.
"What do you want to think about?" His voice grows rougher as he hardens underneath me.
"This. Here. Now." I rock against him deliberately, watching his control slip with satisfaction.
Angelo moves too fast for me to counter. Suddenly I'm beneath him, wrists captured above my head in one of his large hands. His eyes burn into mine, searching.
"Trust me?" The question is rough, demanding, loaded with implications.
My pulse races, and for the first time in my life, surrender feels like power. "I do."
A smile spreads across his face, predatory and pleased. "I like those words on your lips, Butterfly." His free hand traces my jawline. "I'm going to take what's mine. Now."
"Yes, please."
His mouth claims every inch of my exposed skin, working his way down my neck to my collarbone. He takes his time, making me arch and squirm beneath him, my body responding to his touch like it was made just for him. The rough pad of his thumb traces the hollow of my throat as his lips follow, hot and demanding against my pulse point. I feel the sharp edge of his teeth, the soothing warmth of his tongue in contrast, and my breath catches audibly in the stillness of the room.
"Angelo," I whisper, the name falling from my lips like a prayer as his calloused hands slide beneath my shirt, leaving trails of fire across my ribs. Each deliberate touch feels like both punishment and reward, his movements methodical yet hungry, as though he's cataloguing every reaction, every shiver, for future reference.
The weight of him presses me deeper into the mattress, a delicious reminder of his strength that sends a fresh wave of heat pooling between my thighs. When he reaches the sensitive spot where my neck meets my shoulder, he lingers there, sucking hard enough to leave a mark, branding me as his. I whimper with need.
"So fucking beautiful when you're desperate," he murmurs against my skin. "Tell me what you want."
"You," I gasp as his teeth graze my nipple through the thin shirt.
"Not specific enough." His hand slides between my thighs, applying just enough pressure to drive me crazy. "Use your words, Butterfly."
I do. I tell him exactly what I want, my voice trembling with need, the words spilling out in a breathless rush against his ear.
"I want your mouth on me," I confess, feeling his approving growl vibrate against my throat. "I want you to taste me until I can't remember my own name."
His eyes darken to molten brown as he slides down my body, his calloused fingers hooking into the waistband of my knickers, dragging them down with agonising slowness.
"Like this?" he asks, his hot breath ghosting over my sensitive flesh before his tongue makes one long, deliberate stroke that has me arching off the mattress.
"God, yes," I gasp, my fingers tangling in his dark hair. "I want your fingers inside me while you—oh!"
He rewards each filthy confession with his wicked mouth and skilled hands, working me expertly until I'm writhing beneath him, desperate and pleading. His tongue traces intricate patterns across my clit, each stroke deliberate and calculated to drive me to the edge of madness. His fingers curl inside me, finding my g spot, making my vision blur and my back arch off the bed.
"Please," I gasp, clutching at his shoulders, my body a live wire of sensation. "I can't—I need—"
"Tell me exactly what you need," he demands, his voice rough with desire as he hovers above me, his eyes burning with intensity. "I want to hear every filthy detail."
