Page 46 of Broken Saint

My fucking jersey.

Sitting up, I trace my finger across my number printed across her front.

“You bring this with you, Bombshell?” I ask through my heaving breaths.

She stares up at me with her huge, desire-filled eyes, her chest rising and falling erratically with her own increased heart rate.

But much to my disappointment, she shakes her head.

“Letty got it for me.”

“Damn, you know how to hit where it hurts,” I tease. “Seeing you there wearing this...fuck. Hands down the best thing that’s happened to me in a while.”

I don’t give her a chance to respond. Instead, I drop back down and steal her lips once more.

The need to drag her pants off and take this further burns through me, but while the starlit sky might be all romantic and shit, what I said earlier was true. She deserves more. More than a moment of passion where random strangers could stumble past and watch.

Gritting my teeth, I will my body to calm down, to take it slow, to prove to her that I’m not just the playboy she used to know me as.

I can be a gentleman too, these days. Or at least I can try for Ella. Only for Ella.

“Colton,” she gasps, breaking our kiss. “We need—shit,” she curses when I roll my hips against her again.

“When was the last time you got off, Bombshell?” I ask, my voice rough with barely restrained desire.

If it’s possible, her cheeks glow brighter at my question.

“That long, huh?”

My previous need to go and hurt her douchebag of an ex burns through me once more. How dare he have a woman as incredible as Ella and not give her what she needs? She’s a fucking goddess, and clearly, he’s the stupidest motherfucker in the world.

“How about we end that dry spell right here, right now?”

Her eyes dart to our surroundings.

“Colt, we can’t.”

“Why the fuck not? It wouldn’t have stopped you before. Scared of being caught enjoying yourself?”

She stares at me, her need to argue right on the tip of her tongue, but for some reason, she bites it back.

“You want to be that girl again, don’t you?” I ask, going out on a limb based on what she’s said tonight. “You want to be reckless and take life by the balls.”

She doesn’t say anything; she just stares at me with heated eyes and swollen lips.

“Be wild with me, Bombshell. Pretend we’re carefree college kids with nothing and no one to worry about.” It’s a lie. I always had something to worry about. If it weren’t football and the future, then it was Mom and West. I just refused to let anyone else see what my life was really like. I covered it all up with partying and making it look like I was living my best life. I mean, I was. Everything—almost everything—was fucking great. It just wasn’t the whole picture.

“Oh god,” she moans when I roll my hips, letting her feel exactly what being with her still does to me.

I swear, I can’t remember the last time I was this fucking hard.

Just dry humping her out here, I’m at risk of coming in my pants like a kid. And that is not the kind of story I want in the press.

Saints’ star running back too desperate to get into his old hookup’s pants that he blew his load like an eighth grader.

Not the kind of headline or reputation.

“That’s it, baby,” I encourage through gritted teeth. “You’re always so mesmerizing when you come. I need to see it again.”

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