Page 83 of His Savage Ruin

My throat feels tight. I've been thinking about this since the pool.

"The blindfold." The words come out quieter than I intend. "I want you to use it."

He goes very still. "You said no before."

"I know." I meet his eyes, see the question in them. "But I'm saying yes now. I want to trust you with that."

Understanding dawns in his expression. Something fierce and tender that makes my ribs ache.

"Are you sure?" His hands cup my face, thumbs brushing my cheekbones. "Because once I start, I'm not stopping unless you tell me to."

"I'm sure."

He studies my face for another long moment, searching for doubt. When he finds none, he presses his lips to my forehead. "Wait here."

He crosses to the dresser, pulls open a drawer, returns with black silk. It's soft when he holds it up—expensive fabric that won't scratch or leave marks.

"Turn around."

I obey. My pulse kicks as I hear him move behind me, feel his warmth at my back. The silk settles over my eyes, and then darkness. Complete and absolute. His fingers tie it carefully at the back of my head—not too tight, but secure enough I can't shake it loose.

"Can you see anything?"

"No."

"Good." His lips brush my ear, breath hot against my skin. "Now tell me if anything becomes too much."

His hands slide down my arms, raising goosebumps. Without sight, every touch amplifies. I feel the calluses on his palms, the warmth of his fingers, the deliberate way he traces patterns on my skin.

He unhooks my bra, slides it off my shoulders. Cool air hits my breasts, makes my nipples tighten. Then his mouth is there—hot and wet, sucking one peak while his hand palms the other. I gasp, arch into him, and he makes a sound low in his throat.

"Bed," he murmurs against my skin.

He guides me backward. I feel the mattress hit the back of my knees, and I sit. His hands press gently on my shoulders, and I lie back against sheets that smell like him.

I hear his belt buckle, the rustle of fabric as he strips. Then the mattress dips, and he's there, body covering mine, skin against skin. The weight of him grounds me even as darkness disorients.

His mouth finds mine. Kisses me deep while his hands map my body—breasts, waist, hips. When his fingers hook into my panties and drag them down, I lift my hips to help. And then I'm completely bare beneath him, blindfolded and vulnerable and more turned on than I've ever been.

"You're shaking," he murmurs against my throat.

"I'm nervous."

"Don't be." His teeth graze my collarbone. "I'm going to take care of you."

He takes his time kissing down my body—throat, collarbone, between my breasts. His tongue circles one nipple, then the other, until I'm squirming beneath him. Lower—across my ribs, my stomach, following the path of an old bruise that's long since faded.

When he reaches my thighs, he spreads them wide. I feel exposed, vulnerable, but before I can overthink it, his mouth is on me.

The sensation makes me cry out. Without sight, every stroke of his tongue feels magnified, overwhelming. He licks slowly, thoroughly, like he's savoring me. When he sucks my clit into his mouth, my hips buck off the bed.

"Matteo—"

"Shh." His hands pin my hips down, hold me in place while he devours me. "Let me hear you."

He works me with steady precision, alternating between long licks and focused suction that makes my thighs tremble. When he slides two fingers inside, crooking them just right, I feel myself climbing fast toward the edge.

"That's it," he growls against me. "Come for me, Alessia."