Page 81 of The Vagabond

It’s in the way his hand slides over mine beneath the sheets—not demanding, not urgent. Justthere.Steady. Present. Interlaced fingers in the dark like he’s trying to ground us both.

It’s in the way he watches me. Not with hunger or guilt. But withreverence.Like he doesn’t know what he did to deserve being here, but he’ll spend the rest of his life making sure he doesn’t lose it again.

He doesn’t say “I love you.” But he brushes the hair from my face with the gentleness of a man who once lost everything and is terrified of doing it twice.

He doesn’t make promises. But he tugs the blankets up to my chin when I shiver, kisses the corner of my mouth like it’s sacred, and settles in beside me with a kind of stillness I’ve never seen from a man before.

And when I blink up at him in the low light, I see it. Not the agent. Not the weapon. Not the broken man who walked away from me once. I see the truth. That this isn’t just sex. This isn’t just guilt, or obsession, or survival. This is love, spoken in silence. In breath. In the spaces where language fails and touch becomes the only thing that still makes sense. Because the loudest love is sometimes the quietest.

It’s in the way he stays awake to watch over me while my eyes drift closed. The way he traces circles on my spine, like each one is a vow. How his body curls around mine, shield and anchor and apology in one. But most of all, it’s in the way he stays.He stays. And for the first time, I let myself believe that he always will.

33

SAXON

The water is scalding. It hisses around us like it’s trying to drown the sounds we’re making—the panting, the gasps, the low curses dragging from my throat as Maxine folds against me, trembling, bare, soaked.

I’m still not done with her. I will never be done with her.

My hands are on her hips, dragging her to me, lifting her like she weighs nothing. Her back hits the cold tile with a wet slap, and she gasps—more surprise than pain—but she doesn’t pull away.

She knows I need to touch her like this. Take her like this. Like she’s the only thing I’ll ever claim and the only thing that ever matters.

My mouth finds her collarbone first, then her throat, then her jaw. I kiss her like I’m starved and she’s made of something holy. I lick the rain from her lips, the soap from her skin, the sleep from her eyes. I taste every inch of her because I have to. Because every second that passes is wasted if I’m not touching her in some way.

“You can’t keep doing this,” she breathes, trembling as mytongue circles her nipple, my hand sliding between her thighs where it belongs.

“Doing what?” I mutter, voice thick with longing.

“Ravaging me this way. I can barely walk.”

I lift my head and stare at her. Something dark flickers behind her eyes—but I’m darker.

“And I won’t stop until you can’t walk,” I say. No hesitation. No apology. And then I drop to my knees.

The steam curls around us, thick and blinding. Water cascades over my shoulders, slicking my hair back, soaking me to the bone. I press my mouth to her inner thigh and kiss it like I’m kissing the edge of damnation. Because I am.

Because this?She? Is my salvation and my punishment, and I’ll kneel for her every time. I grip her thighs and spread them wide, dragging one over my shoulder. Her breath stutters.

“Saxon—”

Her voice is a whisper. My tongue is the answer. Long, slow licks up her slit, tongue flattening against her clit in measured, merciless drags. I hum against her like she’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted. Because she is.

She gasps. Curses. Her hips rock forward and I let her grind against my face—encourage it. My hands grip her ass, keeping her open for me, anchored, while my fingers slip inside her and curl deep. Just right. Just enough.

“Gonna come like this?” I rasp, voice guttural, mouth pressed right against her. “You wanna fall apart on my tongue while I’m on my knees for you?”

She sobs my name. One hand gripping the tile behind her, the other digging into my hair like she’s trying to anchor herself to me. And I fucking love it.

She unravels like a goddamn prayer. Her thighs tremble. Her hips stutter. Her cunt pulses around my tongue and my fingers, soaking me as she shatters hard and fast against the tile.

I catch her when she nearly slips. Stand. Turn her. Press her chest to the wall, hand splayed between her shoulder blades to hold her in place.

My cock’s already lined up—thick, hard, twitching against her dripping folds.

I drag it through the mess I just made of her and feel her shiver.

“Still hate me?” I breathe, voice wrecked.

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