Page 48 of Only Mine
Saint’s eyes follow the movement, then meet mine again.He doesn’t move to take it, nor does he stop me when I press it against his cheek. My knuckles brush against his temple.
He stills.
I work the towel over to his other cheek, then over his shoulders, absorbing some of the rain, the friction a small, inadequate offering against the cold that must be seeping into his bones.
Using the towel, I skim over the hard planes of his chest, tracing the edge of a chef’s knife tattoo that disappears under his arm. His ink is extra dark in the firelight, intricate and thick.
“You have a lot of tattoos,” I murmur, the towel slowing, my hand lingering perhaps a little too long over a swirl of ink near his hip-bone.
Saint’s chest rises and falls with steady breaths, but his eyes won’t leave my face. “Each one means something.”
“I bet they do.”
My attention drops to the waistband of his soaked briefs, then back up to his eyes.
Big mistake.
“Wrenley.”
My name comes out raspier than usual, more like a warning than a command. His fingers close over my wrist, stopping my downward trajectory. The towel falls, landing softly on the rug between us.
“You’re … still wet,” I say.
What a stupid thing to say out loud. An obvious thing.
“Am I?”
His hand skims from my wrist to cover mine where it rests against his skin. He’s warm, calloused, engulfing my entire hand and pressing my palm more firmly against him. The contact is electric, a direct current bypassing all mycaution. Then the memory of my dream, of his hands and mouth on my body, floods back with dizzying accuracy.
“Your shirt is practically see-through,” he counters.
I look down. He’s right. The thin cotton, soaked and clinging, leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. My nipples are hard, dark pebbles against the pale fabric. The curve of my stomach, the swell of my hips, the shadow between my thighs—all on display.
“Oh.” The word is a puff of air.
His thumb strokes the back of my hand, a slow, sensual movement that sends tremors down my spine.
“Are you going to pretend you weren’t about to dry off my dick?”
My eyes snap to his face, wide with mortification and a confusing thrill. “What? I was—I was patting you down with a towel!”
His gaze drops to my mouth, then lower, lingering on the damp fabric clinging to my breasts. “Or were you just curious about what else matches your dream?”
My stomach plummets.
He knows. How can he possibly know?
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Liar.”
He crowds me, backing me toward the hearth until the heat of the fire scorches my calves.
“You screamed my name loud enough for me to hear it from my balcony before the thunder drowned you out.”
“No,” I deny, my voice too high-pitched to contain any truth. “You must’ve heard wrong. A bird, or an owl, or some farm animal nearby. It could be anything—wait, what were you doing on your balcony in your underwear?”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
