Page 59 of His Savage Ruin
"Please," I whisper, hating how my voice shakes. "I need to see your face."
For a long moment, he's silent. Then he tosses the silk aside, and his hand cups my jaw with surprising gentleness.
"Then look at me," he says quietly. "And know that every second you see me, you'll know you're safe."
Tears sting my eyes before I can stop them. No one has ever?—
His mouth moves lower, kissing down my neck, across my collarbone. When he reaches the scar on my ribs—the one Lorenzo left when he shoved me into the corner of a table—he pauses. His lips brush it, reverent and slow, and something in my chest cracks wide open.
"Perfect," he murmurs against my skin. "Every scar. Every mark."
I try to twist away, shame flooding hot through me. These aren't battle wounds to be proud of—they're evidence of how weak I was, how I couldn't protect myself.
But he holds me still, his mouth moving to the cigarette burn on my hip, the faint line across my shoulder blade where Lorenzo's ring caught me.
"Stop," I whisper, but it comes out broken.
"Never." His lips brush another scar, this one hidden along my inner thigh. "These prove you survived. That you're still here, still fighting."
A sob catches in my throat. I always try to hide these marks, cover them, pretend they don't exist. Having him worship them instead of recoil feels like being turned inside out.
His mouth moves lower, spreading my thighs, and I tense.
"Relax," he murmurs. "Let me take care of you."
Then his tongue finds me, and thought becomes impossible.
The sensation is overwhelming—wet heat and pressure in exactly the right place. My hands fly to his hair, not sure if I'm trying to push him away or pull him closer. He takes his time, licking and sucking with deliberate precision, learning what makes me gasp, what makes my thighs tremble.
When he thrusts his tongue inside me, I cry out, hips bucking against his mouth. It's too much, too intense, and I can feel the pressure building again impossibly fast.
"Matteo—" His name breaks on my lips. "I can't?—"
"Yes, you can." The words vibrate against my sensitive flesh. "Give me another one."
His mouth seals over my clit, sucking hard, and the world shatters. The orgasm tears through me stronger than the first, making my vision white out, my body convulse. I'm dimly aware of screaming his name, of my nails digging into his scalp, but I can't stop, can't control the waves of pleasure that leave me shaking and gasping.
When I finally come back to myself, he's kissing his way back up my body. I taste myself on his lips when he captures my mouth—salt and musk. It should be degrading. Instead, it feels intimate.
He pulls back just enough to unfasten his belt. The clink of metal makes my pulse jump. His cock is thick and hard when he frees it, already glistening at the tip. Even after two orgasms, the sight of him makes heat coil low in my belly again.
He positions himself between my thighs, the head of him pressing against my entrance but not entering. Just there, making me feel the weight of him, the promise of fullness.
"Look at me," he commands softly.
I drag my gaze to his. His eyes hold mine, dark with desire but something else too—something that looks almost like tenderness.
He pushes inside slowly, so slowly I feel every inch of him stretching me. My breath catches. It's too much, the fullness bordering on pain, but I don't want him to stop. My hands grip his shoulders, nails digging in as he sinks deeper, deeper, untilhe's buried completely and I can't breathe, can't think, can only feel.
"Breathe," he murmurs, staying perfectly still.
I drag in air, and my body adjusts around him. The sensation shifts from overwhelming to something else—perfect and complete, like two pieces fitting together.
He pulls back and thrusts again, finding a rhythm that makes my toes curl. Each stroke grinds against something deep inside that sends sparks through my entire nervous system. I arch beneath him, meeting each thrust, chasing the friction that's building toward something explosive.
"That's it," he groans. "Take what you need."
My nails rake down his back, hard enough to leave welts. The violence of it should shock me, but instead it feels right—marking him the way he's marking me, claiming ownership even as he claims me.
