Page 44 of Dangerous King (Savage Kings of New York #2)

I should feel spent, not… rewired.

She's curled against me, her breath still uneven, her leg draped over mine like she owns me now, and maybe she does.

Maybe she always did. I press my hand to the curve of her lower back, anchoring her close.

The sweat on our skin is cooling, our heartbeats are slowly syncing, and yet everything inside me is wide awake.

No woman has ever made me feel like this.

Not the girls I've fucked at parties. Not the women who were offered to me like business deals. I used to think pleasure was just that, physical, fast, and forgettable.

But Cat? She's not something I'll ever forget.

The way she looked when I first pushed inside her, her wide eyes, uncertain but so brave.

She tried to hide the fact that she was offering her body like a sacrificial lamb, but I saw, and it touched a deep part inside me.

One that has always only been reserved for my family.

I don't think I'll ever forget the way her body opened for me, how she took everything I gave her and asked for more.

The way she clung to me and made those broken, sacred sounds in my ear, like I was the only man who'd ever touched her. Because I am .

Fuck. That truth hits like a punch to the chest.

I am her first.

In every way that matters.

And now, lying here in this bed with her soft, trembling body wrapped around mine, my cock still inside her, I want to be her only .

Possessiveness curls through me like smoke.

I want to brand her. Fuck her again until she's sore and sleepy and completely mine.

I want to chase away every ghost that's ever haunted her.

I want to keep her safe, fed, kissed, loved.

Loved ?

The word tries to root itself in my mind. I shove it aside.

Not yet.

But I do want her in my life. In my home. In my bed . Permanently.

I glance down, see her already slipping into a haze of exhaustion and satisfaction, lashes fluttering against flushed cheeks. So damn beautiful. So damn mine .

My hand moves down to her belly, flat, soft, delicate. The urge that hits me is as primitive as it is fierce. I want to see it rounded. Full. I want to fuck a baby into her. A daughter, maybe, with her eyes. Or a son who looks just like her and drives me insane with worry every day.

I've never seriously thought about children before. It was always… later. Someday. With a woman chosen by my family. A political match. A name, a ring, a cold ceremony.

But now?

I want to see her in white because I want her , not because it makes a good alliance.

I want her in my house because I need her there.

I want to give her everything she was denied.

Safety. Family. A future that's hers to shape, not barely survive.

More than that, I want her barefoot in my kitchen with my baby on her hip and another in her belly. I roll my eyes.

Fuck. I'm not a man who dreams. Not like this. But I can't stop. I'm so far gone for this woman… it should alarm me. But it doesn't.

I nuzzle into her neck, whisper against her skin. "You were made for me, Piccolina. Every inch of you. And if fate has not already decided it, I will."

Her body hums against mine, pliant and glowing. She murmurs my name in her sleepy state, and I swear to God I've never felt more claimed in my life.

With great reluctance, I pull out of her. She needs to be cleaned. She's not used to sex yet; she'll be sore enough as it is. There's no need to add to it. She moans a soft protest, even more when I pick her up and take her into the bathroom, depositing her on the toilet.

"Enrico… what…" Sleepiness leaves her, and she looks at me, shocked.

I hate the thought of my seed pouring down her legs and getting pissed into the toilet, but I'm a selfish man, and the last thing I need is for her to get a bladder infection or anything else.

Of all people, Izzy was the one who taught me that.

I still remember how fucking uncomfortable I was taking her to a doctor—I didn't trust our doc to keep this off the records—to find out that she had a bladder infection after…

having sex. Something else I wish I had never known about my baby sister.

But she was too scared to go to my parents, and I had to honor her trust in me.

We picked up antibiotics, and I lectured her on how lucky she was that a bladder infection was the least of her worries, while she rolled her eyes.

The doctor, assuming that I was her boyfriend— ugh, I still feel like vomiting—had lectured me on how important it was for a woman to release herself as soon as possible after sex. So that's what I'm doing now.

"You should pee," I tell Cat, while warming a hand towel underneath the water.

"I can't pee with you in the same room." She protests.

"Piccolina," I point out, "we just had sex. I very much enjoyed eating your pussy, and I'll do it again and again, so trust me, you going pee in front of me is nothing you need to worry about."

She glares at me, but nature forces its way, and the telltale sound of tinkling fills the room while her face turns beet red.

"I really don't like you right now," she informs me, reaching for the toilet paper.

I keep the chuckle rising up from my belly inside, knowing enough about women not to mess with her right now.

I like her sassy side, though, a side that is coming out more with every passing day as she feels more comfortable around me and my family.

I hate the Giordanos for what they did to her, and I find myself wishing I could kill Giovanni all over again. A first for me. When I kill, it's clean and done with, no need for theatrics, but with Cat… for Cat? I'd flay every single Giordano if I could, and I'd enjoy every second.

I walk toward her, set on cleaning her. "Hell no." She snatches the warm, wet towel from me and does the job herself, all the while muttering in Italian, making my lips curve into a smile. I like women with fire, and it seems my Piccolina has plenty of it.

When she's done, she washes her hands, glaring at me. "I don't know if I should be mad at you or grateful to you for caring for me…"

I turn to the toilet to relieve myself.

"You're not going to… dammit, Enrico!" She stomps from the room, leaving me chuckling and already half hard again, making peeing a bit more challenging. But I can't stop myself from teasing, "Did you just curse?"

The only answer I get is something that sounds like harrumph . I smirk and return to the bedroom, where she lies curled up on the bed.

"Are you sore?" I ask, concerned.

"A little," she admits. The sheet is pulled to the side, enough to expose a bright, red spot in the center where I took her virginity.

Fuck, I shouldn't be turned on and proud.

I should be a lot more concerned about her right now, which I am, but hell, how can a man not be proud of the obvious sight of having claimed his woman for the first time? The only man who will ever claim her.

I return to the bathroom, where I find samples of Motrin and fill a glass of water for her. Careful, I sit down at the edge of the bed beside her. "Here."

Without hesitation or question, she takes the offered pills and water; her trust in me touches another deeply buried part in me. "It'll get better," I promise.

"Yeah," she says softly, a flush creeping up her neck as she drinks down the pills.

A small, dazed smile curves her lips, lips that are still swollen from my kisses.

She looks at me, too tired to be guarded, "I didn't expect it to feel like…

that." She bites her lip, then adds in a whisper, half wonder, half boldness, "I didn't know something could hurt and still feel that good.

" Her gaze holds mine. "But if that was the beginning…

I can't wait to find out what comes next. "

Fuck me. If she weren't tired and sore, I'd be all over her, showing her what comes next .

As it is, though, her head falls back on the pillow, her eyes close, and I sit there, left to stare at the perfection of her beauty.

Her heart-shaped face, the long, black lashes casting small shadows over the thin skin under her eyes.

The full lips, which are even now curved up in a satisfied smile.

A smile, I realize, I brought to her face.

She's so young, nineteen, I remind myself.

I'm thirty-one. A tempting, pushy part inside me tells me that it doesn't matter, that any woman I'd marry would hardly be past twenty, and that the longer I wait, the larger the gap will become.

She has her whole life ahead of her —my dormant conscience decides to make a zombie appearance.

She's already suffered so much; she could live a normal life, have children, a family, with a normal man .

I barely suppress a growl. Fuck a normal man.

The thought of her with someone else makes me…

feral. I could never stand by and watch her marry a normal man.

I can't. I won't. I'm not only too selfish for that, I'm already too possessive and protective of her.

She was taken once; it could happen again.

The only man who can stop that is me. I'm the only man who will be able to protect her.

So then what?

I'll marry her! The answer is crystal clear.

I chuckle at how easy it is. In my world, people marry for various reasons, mostly excluding love or mutual attraction, so the suddenness of my decision won't surprise anybody.

Those in my business don't date for long periods of time, unless they're convinced their partner is not bride material.

Any person we show affection to is in danger, a danger that can only be minimized by giving Cat my name.

From the bathroom, I get a towel to put over the spot on the bed, then I get in and curl Cat into my arms, resting my chin on her head, listening to the soft sounds coming from her, reveling in her body heat.

I close my eyes, inhale the scent of her, and begin planning.

Tomorrow I'll speak with Edoardo. I force my eyes to stay closed at the thought.

It irks me to have to ask the man for anything, but he is our Don.

The Capi dei Capi. Tradition dictates that I ask his blessing, no matter how much it makes me want to put a bullet between his eyes.

To push the rising anger in me down, I take a deep inhale and picture my Piccolina in all white, walking toward me over a bed of flower petals. Shit, now I'm hard again.