The Vows We Break - Serena Akeroyd Page 0,54
chest, between my breasts, and he mutters, “I’m a—” He gulps. “I don’t know if I can do this.”
“I’m the Eve to your Adam,” I murmur, repeating what I’d told him last night, tempting him just like she tempted her man. “I was born for this. Born for you.”
Something in my voice, or maybe just the words, has him moving. He doesn’t go far though, thank God. He peers up at me in the early morning light and rasps, “You’re a virgin?”
“I was waiting for you.”
His eyes flare at that. “I swear you’re not real. I’m going to wake up and you’re not here—”
I grab his hand and shove it between my legs. It’s crass and crude, but I whisper, “Do I feel like a dream?”
“You feel like paradise,” he grinds out. I feel sure he’s going to move his hand, but he doesn’t. He just cups me there. Holding me in place.
Then his finger moves, dancing lightly over me, and I moan, unable to contain the sound, unable to contain the desire ramming me between the eyes.
For so long, I wanted this.
For so long, I’ve needed this.
And now he’s here, and I feel like he’s going to give me what I’ve been looking for.
Him.
When he rolls between my legs, I still, not wanting to scare him away. I feel like he’s the one in need of soothing. I’m the virgin, I’m the one who needs to be coddled like a fractious horse refusing to be mounted, but he’s the one who will fly away if I’m not careful.
My words reached him last night—I know they did. But in the cold light of morning, things change.
I know that just like I know I’m his.
His dick pushes against me, the thick weight settling between my spread lips with the thin shield of cotton separating us. I can feel the pressure against my clit, and it makes me want to rock my hips.
We both hiss when he presses harder into me, and he settles most of his body atop mine.
His arms go to either side of my head, and he peers down at me, surrounding me in him.
I’ve never known anything like it. It’s overwhelming, almost scary, but it’s Savio. He might be a killer, but he’s my killer.
My Savio. My sinner. My seeker of redemption.
He seems to pick up on that, because he rumbles, “You’re not scared of me at all, are you?”
I’m not sure why he sounds surprised. “You’re the one who thinks I’m crazy. Maybe you should be thankful for small mercies?”
His eyes narrow. “You’re a cheeky little thing, aren’t you?”
Tongue-in-cheek, I tell him, “In America, we say I’m a smartass.”
“Your ass is something, but I wouldn’t say it’s smart.”
“What is it then?” I pout.
“Biteable.”
I grin at him. “Okay, I can deal with that.”
“I’m not sure I can,” he whispers. His forehead pushes into mine, and his words floor me—he’s vulnerable, and I instantly want to protect him. From himself. “I’m not sure I can do this.”
“I can feel how much you want me.” And the truth of that makes me feel like I’m naked, luxuriating as I lie and writhe upon a silk sheet.
Only, nothing can feel this good.
Nothing.
No one.
“My vows... we’ll be breaking them together.”
I hum. “The vows we break... sounds like the title of a romance novel.”
He cuts me a look. “Let’s add facetious to smartass. I’m being serious.”
“I know you are. And so am I. You wouldn’t break vows for just any woman, would you? You’d break them for the woman who belongs in a romance novel with you.”
He shakes his head. “Crazy.”
“Crazy for you,” I tell him cheerfully, then, when he grunts, and the vibration seems to rattle through my body thanks to his proximity, a breathless moan escapes me. “There’s strength in owning what makes you you.” When he grows tense, I’m not sure why, so I reason that making myself vulnerable to him evens things out. “I-I’m twenty-nine years old, Savio, and I’ve been waiting for you since I was seventeen.
“I’d really, really appreciate it if you made a decision, because if you don’t, then I need to go shower.”
He blinks. “Why?”
“Well, it’s morning. That’s when you shower. But they always have cold showers in the movies, don’t they?”
“I’m a priest. I lived chastely for over a decade. Cold showers don’t work. Trust me.”
His use of the past tense has the hair on the back of my neck standing on edge.
“Did you ever touch yourself?” I ask shyly.
“No. After Algeria, sex wasn’t