Page 64 of Dangerous King (Savage Kings of New York #2)

"I just needed to kiss you…" His hands move over my flank, his thumbs rubbing against the swell of my breasts, and I moan. "Fuck. Cat. I don't think I can stop." His breathing is labored.

"Then don't," I respond recklessly. I don't want him to stop, even though I know we should.

We are in someone else's house. There is a party going on just a corridor down.

I have no idea how this will work. From the looks of it, we're in some kind of cleaning storage room, the size of a coat closet. And there is no bed.

"We don't have long," he murmurs into my ear. "But I need to mark you, Cat. Need to remind you who you belong to."

His lips are at my throat, biting into the tender flesh teasingly, sending shivers of want down my spine.

"I shouldn't take you here. This is not the place," he tries to talk himself out of what we both know is going to happen; we're both too far gone to stop now.

"Any place is the right place for you and me," I tell him.

That seems to be enough. With a growl, he puts his hands on my hips and spins me around. I feel him hard against me, pressing through layers of satin and lace.

"Yes," I whisper, instinctively knowing that he'll stop if he feels the slightest bit of hesitation or doubt from me.

With a low curse, he puts his hand on my back; my body follows his lead and bends over my hips.

He grabs my arms and brings them up against the wall.

I brace myself against it. Only then does he let go of my wrists, and his hand slides back down and up, bunching the skirt of my gown, baring my thighs.

The cool air kisses my skin just before his warm palm replaces it, slow, possessive.

He moans at the sight of my thong. His hands are on my bare ass, and I shiver at the promise they deliver.

His fingers curl around my panties and tug them down with one hand.

They fall to my ankles. My breath catches.

"Spread your legs." He orders hoarsely by my ear. Fuck, I'm so wet, my juices drip down my thigh. Commanding Enrico is even hotter than the other versions of him.

I obey.

His hand dips between my thighs, stroking once, then twice, until my knees threaten to give out. My head falls down, my updo comes loose, but I don't care; all I care about is the electricity flooding me at his touch.

"You're soaking," he groans.

"For you," I pant, and another growl escapes him.

"Shit, this is not how this is supposed to be," he curses again. "But I fucking need to be inside you."

"I'm rea—dhyy," I squeal because just then his fingers find my clit, and I swear, I'm about to explode like a live grenade.

I hear him unzip behind me, feel the heat of his skin as he leans over me.

"This," he rasps, guiding himself to my entrance, "is not going to be gentle."

"Good," I breathe, heart racing. "I don't want gentle."

And then he pushes in. One long, brutal thrust that punches the air from my lungs and fills me with him, completely, irrevocably. I arch, gasp, and press my palms against the wall ahead of me. "Oh my God?—"

His hand wraps around my throat, not choking, just holding me steady as he drives into me again. Deep. Demanding. Possessive in the way only he can be.

"You are mine." He growls.

Thrust.

"You'll wear my name."

Thrust.

"You'll carry my children."

Thrust.

A sob catches in my throat. Pleasure coils hot and heavy between my legs, building with every ruthless stroke.

"I love you," I gasp, the words slipping free before I can catch them.

He stills.

Just for a moment.

Then his hand tightens on my hip. "Say it again."

"I love you."

He groans, a sound from deep in his chest, like he's been starving, and I just gave him a feast. He pumps into me harder, faster, until the entire world is spinning around me, pushing me to the edge and over it, until I shatter around him, a cry muffled against my own arm.

I feel like I'm going to collapse, but his arm catches me around the waist, holding me until he follows with a curse and a final, brutal thrust, collapsing against me for a moment, both of us gasping for breath in the soft, golden silence.

I'm draped over his arm like a wet rag. It's all that's holding me up.

His head is bent low over my back, and I feel his hot breath on the nape of my neck.

My heart is beating so hard, I'm worried a seam of my dress will rip.

When we finally untangle, he tucks me gently into his arms, brushing my hair off my damp forehead.

"I was going to wait," he murmurs against my skin. "But you wreck me, Cat. Every fucking time."

I smile, curled into him like I was always meant to be there. "I meant it," I whisper. "I love you." I'm not ashamed of saying it, nor of saying it first. I don't even need him to say it back; I just need him to know.

"I love you, too," he says, kissing my temple. "And I'm never letting you go."

He just looks at me, his eyes soft and hungry all at once, like I'm something he's never going to stop craving.

His thumb traces slow, reverent circles over my cheek, and I feel truly seen.

Not as a problem to be solved or a puzzle to be unraveled, but as a person—messy, complicated, unfiltered, and loved.

I close my eyes and let myself believe it, just for this golden moment.

"You know," he murmurs, voice still rough around the edges, "I didn't plan on falling for you like this."

My heart already feels too big for my chest, and when his words hit me, they do it with the force of a tsunami: he loves me.

Everything else—every scar, every shadow, every cruel memory—fades beneath the roar of that truth.

He loves me. Not because he has to. Not because I've been convenient or useful or safe.

But because of me . Because of who I am.

A wild joy flares in my chest so fast and so bright, I think I might start floating away.

I feel it everywhere—tingling in my fingertips, fluttering behind my ribs, soaking my skin in warmth I never thought I'd get to feel.

I want to cry. I want to laugh. I want to scream it to the sky.

He loves me.

Me. The broken girl who never thought she'd be more than background noise in someone else's story.

My skin tingles, my pulse flutters under his fingers.

There's a warm, rising ache in my chest that makes tears burn behind my eyes because it's all too much—in the best way.

I don't just feel loved. I feel chosen. Protected. Kept.

He could have anyone. He's rich. Powerful. Untouchable.

But he picked me .

And that knowledge settles somewhere deep in my bones, anchoring me in ways I've never known before. I press a kiss to the hollow of his throat and whisper, "Good. Because I don't think I could ever let go of you either."

And I mean it with every breath, every heartbeat, every trembling, terrified inch of me.