Page 105 of Only Mine
He slows, finally, sweat running down his temples, hisbreath carving the space between us. I’m so full I can’t even move. He lets go of my wrists and brings my hands to his face.
“You okay?” he rasps, and the question is so at odds with the way he just annihilated me that I start to laugh, then cry, then laugh again.
“Not done,” I manage, and I mean it. I want more. I want all of him.
Saint hauls me off the wall and into the nearest room. It’s his bedroom, sheets still unmade from this morning, the windows black mirrors. He tosses me onto the mattress and follows, crawling up my body like a predator, his eyes locked on mine. No smile now, just a taut line of restraint about to snap.
He yanks my bra down, not bothering with the clasp, exposing my breasts to the cool air and his hot mouth. He sucks one nipple, then the other, biting hard enough to make me shout while his hand nestles between my thighs, fingers plunging, finding the spot that makes me arch and claw at his shoulders.
Far from done, Saint flips me onto my stomach, and I gasp as he braces my hips, pulling my ass into the air. He drags my ruined panties down and off, then spreads me open, all the way, making a low sound of approval.
He eats me from behind, tongue and teeth and fingers until I’m nearly sobbing for him to fuck me again. Saint licks me through the aftershocks, then thrusts his tongue inside, and when I come again, it’s a silent, body-racking quake that leaves me slack on the sheets.
When he rears up, I feel the head of his cock tease between my folds before he sinks back into me, deeper than before. The force ripples up my spine, and I bite the pillow to keep from screaming. He pistons in and out, his hands tight on myhips, until he holds me there, impaled, while his hand wraps around my throat—not choking, just holding, just making sure I can’t escape the sensation of being completely, totally possessed.
“Can you take more?” he asks, panting.
“Yes,” I gasp, and it’s not even a question.
Saint rides me through it, his grunts getting rougher, his rhythm faltering. He pulls out at the last second and strokes himself once, twice, before coming in hot streaks across my ass and lower back. Weight presses me into the mattress when Saint collapses on top of me, his breath sawing in and out.
There’s a second, maybe two, when the only sound is the thump of his heart against my spine. I stay perfectly still, afraid to ruin the moment.
Pressing his face into my hair, Saint inhales so deep I feel it all the way down my back. His voice, when it comes, is a rumble against my skin.
“You’re safe.”
He says it like a vow. Like he’s reminding the universe.
I nod, though we both know safety is a moving target.
Saint rolls off me, pulling me against him. I think he’s going to say something. That he’ll launch into an apology, or a lecture, or a monologue about how this was a mistake.
But instead, he just asks, “Are you cold?”
I shake my head. “I’m good.”
His heart still races, pounding against my cheek.
After a while, I whisper, “You still smell like basil.”
Saint snorts. “You smell like coconut and sex.”
His hand smooths over my hair, softer than I thought possible from a man with fingers burned from years of kitchen wars.
I keep waiting for the shame to settle in, the old, familiarrecoil in my chest that says,You don’t deserve this. But it doesn’t come. Not even when Saint props himself up, looks down at me with a reverence I’ve never seen from him before, and traces my jaw with a knuckle.
It’s then that I realize how screwed I am. Another, small part of my chest opens, widening the hole in the idea that Saint could just be a friend with benefits. Or a boss with benefits. Or even just a hot guy with benefits.
Because looking at him now, a traitorous voice in my head tells me that he could be different. That he could accept me for all my flaws, and none of it would matter.
Oh yes.
I’m well and truly fucked.
TWENTY-FOUR
WRENLEY
