Page 41 of Dangerous King (Savage Kings of New York #2)

"Yes, Piccolina?" Contrary to mine, his voice is steady, velvety, and drenched in danger, and it wraps around me like a promise.

I don't answer right away. I can't. The words are there, lodged in my chest, heavy and hot and aching to be spoken.

So I look at him instead, this man who makes me feel like I exist, like I matter .

Who makes me want things. The moment stretches between us, syrup-slow, thick with meaning. My pulse roars in my ears.

I call myself a little mouse, and that's enough to give me the courage to say part of what I want: "I don't want this night to end."

He cocks his head and studies me. "What are you saying, tesoro?"

He's going to make me say it. I swallow and rub my damp palms together under the table. Fear and thrill war inside me, but I think it's the thrill that's winning, because I hear myself say in a steady—not quite as seductive as I would want it—voice, "I want to stay with you, tonight."

His eyes flash with heat and something else . Possession. Hunger.

I bite my lip, my heart slams against my chest, like it wants to be let out. "I know what I'm saying," I add, softer. "And I… I know I'm not like the women you've had before. But I want this. I want you ."

There's a beat of silence. Then two.

And I realize, even if he turns me away now, I won't take it back.

Because for the first time in my life… I'm choosing something for me .

His eyes go sharp; all the warmth burns into something hotter. He leans forward slowly, takes my hand, and in a low, dangerous voice, demands, "Piccolina," he breathes, "say that again."

I blink. "What?"

His thumb strokes the inside of my wrist, and it's suddenly hard to breathe.

"Say it again. Say you want to stay with me tonight." His eyes flick over my face, down to my lips. "Because if I let myself believe you mean that— there's no going back. I won't pretend I'm not starving for you."

He shifts closer. His voice drops to a near-growl.

"You come with me, and you become mine. Not for a night. Not for a memory. Mine. Is that what you want?"

His question sends a ripple through me—a flood of nerves and heat that pools low and deep.

"I think so," I whisper, my voice barely holding steady.

My eyes drop to where his hand covers mine, his thumb dragging over the inside of my wrist, slow and reverent, like he's memorizing the beat of my pulse. Like he owns it now.

He doesn't speak right away. But he's watching me, hungry, like a predator who has cornered his all-too-willing prey but is still deciding on where to start feasting first.

The silence between us thickens, wraps around my ribs until I can barely breathe. Then, with that same quiet intensity that unravels me thread by thread, he murmurs, "This place has rooms upstairs."

My breath catches hard in my throat. His eyes are pitch-black now, dark enough that I can't tell where the iris ends and the pupil begins. He lifts his other hand to my chin, tipping it up with infuriating gentleness until I'm forced to meet his gaze.

"I need the truth, Piccolina," he says, low and brutal. "Are you saying this because you want me? Or because you think you owe me for being kind?"

"I know what I'm saying," I breathe. "And I know what I want."

He leans in, and his mouth brushes my temple. His breath against my skin is a shiver. "If we go up there," he murmurs, "I won't stop with a kiss. I won't stop until you're writhing under me, shaking, screaming my name. You ready for that?"

A pause. My heart stutters. My body reacts with hot waves spreading through me, intensifying the pulse between my legs. I nod. "Yes."

He stares at me for a beat longer, then pulls back just enough to smirk—slow, male, utterly sure.

"Good." His expression changes. Something raw and unfiltered flashes through those dark eyes, followed by a flood of emotions, desire, restraint, reverence, all of it mixed together in one delicious cocktail that makes me tipsy and dizzy.

He stands, tossing a stack of hundreds onto the table without even glancing at the bill.

He takes my hand and helps me up, keeping his fingers laced with mine, and leads me through a hidden hallway, directed by the hostess—thankfully, a different one—who gestures with a knowing smile.

I don't spare her a glance. My world has narrowed to one man and the thrum of anticipation that has taken over my entire body.

We step into a private elevator. The doors slide shut. It's just us. The air between us fills with electricity. This time, when he looks at me, he's not holding anything back.

"Tell me again, Cat," he rasps, his hand cupping my jaw. "Tell me you want this."

I reach for him, pressing closer. "I want you."

That's all he needs.

His mouth crashes against mine without any hesitation or restraint.

No gentle teasing. His kiss is fire and possession and everything I've been aching for.

His hands are everywhere, cradling my face, splayed on my back, pulling me tight against him.

I gasp into his mouth, and he groans like the sound drives him insane.

The elevator dings softly, but neither of us moves.

Until he finally pulls back, forehead resting against mine. His breath is ragged. "This night belongs to you."

I take him up on it because, at this moment, no matter how hard my heart is pounding, how badly my knees are shaking, wrapped in his arms, I finally belong to myself, too.

The elevator doors never closed, like they're used to guests staying inside for longer than it takes to get out.

Or they're motion-activated—I wouldn't disregard that notion.

The hallway we enter is dim, the lighting soft and golden, as if it were designed to quiet the world outside.

At the end of the corridor, a single door is waiting for us.

He slides a keycard through the lock and opens it for me. I wonder when he got it from the staff, or if this was part of his plan the whole time. Either way, it doesn't matter; I'm here.

The suite is breathtaking, with floor-to-ceiling windows revealing a glowing city skyline, flickering candles already lit on the low table near the fireplace, and a massive bed in the center, draped in dark linens that look impossibly soft. But none of that holds my attention. Only him.

He closes the door behind us, then turns slowly, his jacket already sliding from his broad, muscular shoulders.

His frame is a testament to strength; every inch of him is taut and defined, a stark contrast to my own delicate form.

The tension in the room coils tighter. My heart thrums so loudly I swear he must hear it.

Enrico watches me like I'm the most fragile and precious thing in the world. "You don't even know what you're giving me, Piccolina. But I'll take it, and I swear I'll treat it like the treasure it is."

I take a step forward, reaching for him. "It's yours."

That's all it takes. In a breath, he's in front of me.

His hands, strong and chiseled, cup my face, then slide down my sides, slow and reverent, like he's committing every inch to memory.

His lips find mine again, but this time his kiss is slower, much deeper.

The way he kisses me makes me feel like a goddess.

The straps of my dress slip from my shoulders, and a tremor moves through me from the look in his eyes when the fabric pools at my feet.

His gaze, intense and smoldering, traces over every curve.

I should feel self-conscious, the way I'm standing in nothing but my underwear in front of him, but all I feel is his hot gaze taking me in, burning my skin.

"Beautiful," he murmurs. Slowly, his hand moves to the fastenings of my bra, and my breath hitches when the side of his hand moves over the swell of my breast. He hesitates, then pulls his hand back, tracing his long, strong fingers languidly over the top of my bra, where my flesh spills over.

"So soft," he rasps, sending more shivers of electricity down my spine.

He leans around me. The snap of the fastener is loud in the silence of the room. The only other noise comes from both our deep breaths. He glides the bra off me, stands back, and looks at me with so much passion in his black eyes, I worry I'm going to melt under his gaze.

"You are fucking perfect," his voice is deep, nearly guttural, as if he can hardly believe his eyes.

I pull my lower lip between my teeth while I fidget on my feet.

"No," he demands, "stand still, let me take you in."

My heart is pounding inside my chest, Dio mio, why is this room so hot?

And what is this wetness gathering between my legs?

It only takes me a second to realize that the liquid building in me is arousal, my body's response to him.

This is what it means when the books say her juices flowed .

I've read those words so many times, without ever realizing what they really meant, how, in addition to getting soaked, it means an ache is forming so deep in my core that my toes curl.

Both of his hands move up to cup my breasts, and my breath gets stuck in my throat. His touch is the most incredible feeling I've ever experienced. His fingers rub over one of my nipples, and the stuck breath moves out, accompanied by a deep moan.

He chuckles, "I love how responsive you are."

He leans forward, his mouth only inches from the skin on my throat, while his hands continue to knead my breasts, only stopping to toy with my stiff nipples. One hand lets go, moves down my flank, around the curve of my hip, and then between my legs, pushing them unapologetically apart.

My knees nearly buckle the moment his hand makes contact with my pussy. Memories of the lake come back, and my insides begin to hum with anticipation.

"Are you this wet for me?"

Again, I should be mortified by what he's doing and saying, but I'm not. "Yes," I answer hoarsely.

"Good girl," he praises, and those words rush through me like heated currents, setting all my nerve endings on edge.