Page 49 of Only Mine
Saint doesn’t elaborate, and his unreadable expression doesn’t betray why he couldn’t fall sleep.
I’m trapped. Trapped between the fire and the storm in his eyes.
“I…”
Excuses fail me.
He squeezes my hand still plastered against his chest, where his heart beats faster. “Tell me about the dream, Wrenley.”
Saint’s free hand comes up, his fingers tracing the line of my jaw, then dipping to the hollow of my throat where my pulse hammers a frantic rhythm. “Was I good to you?”
My mind races. The heat from the fire, the heat from his body, the heat from my own blush, it’s all melding into one molten wave of lava.
“You were … present,” I finally say.
“Oh, well that needs correcting.” His thumb brushes against my pulse point again. “When I fuck a woman, I’m not just ‘present.’ I become her everything, and she becomes mine. I devour her.”
I gulp. “Okay, well, you were … you seemed to know what you were doing.”
Saint’s mouth curves. He’s enjoying this. The bastard. He’s enjoying my utter mortification.
“Did I make you come, Wrenley?”
The storm outside answers with a furious gust of wind that rattles the windows, as if scandalized on my behalf.
My mouth opens, but no sound emerges. His fingers slide from my throat, pausing just above the swell of my breast.
“Did I?” he asks again, his voice softer, almost a caress, but no less demanding.
My nipples ache beneath the thin cotton, betraying me. Heleans closer, his breath warm against my ear. “Use your words,chérie.”
“Yes,” I whisper, the admission a surrender. “You did.”
“Good.”
He finally,finallyskims lower, brushing the side of my breast.
A gasp escapes me. “Saint…”
“Tell me more,” he urges, his voice a dark velvet rasp against my skin. “What else did I do in this dream of yours?”
“You … you kissed me.”
He goes still. Raises his head, then angles it so his nose brushes against my cheekbone.
Then his mouth finds mine.
It’s not a gentle exploration like in the dream, but a claiming. Hard, hot, demanding. His tongue sweeps in, tasting of rain and smoke, and I meet him stroke for stroke, a desperate hunger clawing through me as soon as his lips claimed mine.
The storm outside rages, but it’s nothing compared to the hurricane he ignites within me.
My hands fly up, tangling in his damp hair, pulling him closer and arching into him.
His other arm snakes around my waist, crushing me against his hard, wet body. I can feel every ridge, every muscle, until the undeniable evidence of his arousal presses against my stomach.
Saint groans into my mouth, and I can feel it all the way to my bones. One hand leaves my breast, sliding down my back, over my hip, cupping my ass and lifting me, tilting me against him. My legs instinctively wrap around his waist, my soaked shirt riding up, baring me to the air and the heat of his skin.
“Saint,” I heave out when I manage to tear my mouth from his. “This is…”
