Page 68 of Broken Saint

“Oh fuck. Yes. Colton,” she cries when I circle my hips, hitting that spot that makes her sing.

“Fucking missed hearing you scream my name, Bombshell. Never. Going. To. Get. Enough,” I grunt between thrusts.

“Yes. Yes. Yes,” she chants as I drop my hand between us and press my thumb to her clit.

Her hips jump from the counter, her pussy sucking me a little deeper.

“Oh fuck, El. You feel so fucking good.”

Leaning over her, I press her thighs to her chest and steal her lips in a wet and filthy kiss. It’s everything. Every. Fucking. Thing.

“Come for me, Bombshell. Let me feel you strangling my dick.”

“Colton,” she cries as I hit that spot she loves that is guaranteed to make her lose her mind. She might argue with me and say her body has changed, but right now, all I see is Ella.

My Ella.

And I know how to play her body until she’s a trembling, sated mess. And I fucking love it.

“Be a good girl and do as you’re told, baby. Then I’m going to fill you up. You’re going to spend the rest of the day walking around with my cum dripping out of you, remembering every second of this moment. Remembering me.” My heart slams against my ribs at the thought.

“I never forgot,” she cries before her body locks up and she screams out her release as her pussy milks my dick.

“Holy fuck,” I roar, already obsessed with the feeling of coming freely inside her.

Our heaving breaths fill the bathroom, and our sweaty bodies entwine as we come down from our highs.

“I forgot sex could be that good,” Ella confesses quickly in my ear.

“That’s only the beginning, Bombshell. We’ve got so much to rediscover.”

18

ELLA

My body trembles, crushed against the bathroom counter by the Seattle Saint’s number forty-two as we come down from our highs.

The look in his eyes, the expression on his face when I first barged in here was something I’d never seen before, and something I never, ever want to see again. Playful Colt was gone and in his place was a version of him that made my heart race, but not in a good way. He looked broken. Broken in a way I wholeheartedly understand.

It makes my chest ache that he could hurt like I have, that he could suffer in a similar way. If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I never would have believed it.

But what I said, my confession about where my scars came from, the pivotal point in which my life turned to utter shit affected him way more than I ever expected.

Back then, I didn’t want him to know. What good could have come of it? At worst, he wouldn’t have cared. At best—and only in my dreams—he rushed to my side, swept me out of my hospital bed, and told me everything I’d spent the last few years fantasizing about hearing from his lips.

I knew the latter wasn’t realistic. I also knew that Colt deserved to embark on the life he’d always dreamed of. And anyway, it wasn’t like he ever promised me anything.

From day one, he was honest about what he wanted and how his future was going to look. I agreed back then, and I had to stand by that decision. No matter how much it hurt.

After long, blissful minutes, he finally lifts his weight off me.

He gazes down at me with so much awe and adoration in his eyes—at least that’s what I want to believe it is—that it makes my heart race and my stomach knot up.

“Goddamn, Ella,” he groans as if he’s in physical pain. His gaze drops lower as he stands tall, finally slipping from my body.

I cry out, mourning the loss of him, which only makes the growl that rumbles in his throat rougher, deeper.

With his hands on my knees, he spreads me wide, his eyes focused on my pussy.

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