Page 107 of Only Mine
He grins, a dangerous tilt. “You want dramatic?” His hands slide under my sweater, bunching it at my ribs. Cold air prickles my stomach, but his palms are furnace-hot, callused from knife work and rougher than they have any right to be.
He’s not gentle. He never is. That’s the point.
Saint palms my breast, thumb circling until my nipple is a hard peak. “Do you like knowing I’m thinking about what you look like naked every fucking second I’m away from you?”
I nod, because language is suddenly very difficult.
He parts my legs with his thigh using a slow, implacable pressure.
“I have ten minutes until the next check-in,” he says, nipping my neck. “So if you’re going to be a brat, you better be fast.”
His hand slips below the waistband of my skirt and my tights. He finds the damp heat between my legs and chokes out a sound I’ve heard countless times, but it never fails to turn me on.
“God, you’re soaked,” he says, pleased, but with an edge that says he’s only going to make it worse. “Were you wet the entire time you walked here?”
“Saint,” I gasp, but that’s all I get before he slides two fingers inside, curling until I see bursts of white behind my eyes. He works me open, his palm grinding upward, and the shelf rattles behind my head when I arch into him.
He keeps my wrists pinned high, thumb stroking theinside of my wrist, a tiny gesture as he fucks his fingers deeper.
“You’re not going to make a sound,” he murmurs, and the command is so cold and so hot at the same time that my mouth snaps shut. “You want Eddie to hear you? The whole fucking line?”
I shake my head, but I’m already close to losing it, my body jerking against his unforgiving strokes.
Saint kisses the corner of my mouth, then slides lower, biting my jaw, my neck, until he finds the spot that makes my toes curl.
“You’re going to come for me,” he says, “and then you’re going to walk out of here and pretend you didn’t almost scream my name and beg for my dick.”
I want to make him work for it, but my body betrays me. I’m already so close, my thighs shaking, my chest heaving, nipples brushing against the rough fabric of his chef’s coat. I try to hold out, but Saint has mapped every inch of me now. He knows exactly how to make me unravel.
He pulls his fingers out and drops to his knees, hiking my skirt higher and pushing my tights and underwear down past my knees.
Saint’s tongue is on me, flat and insistent, licking a stripe up my center that makes my knees buckle. He braces my ass with both hands, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, and fuck if I don’t want the marks later.
I have to bite the crook of my arm to keep from crying out.
His stubble rasps against the inside of my thighs, a raw burn that makes everything sharper. He glances up once, eyes gone midnight, and the look on his face is pure fucking worship, none of the control he wears outside this freezer.
Saint tongues me slow, savoring, until I’m shaking so hard I almost topple the entire rack. He groans when I fist his hair,the vibration traveling straight through my bones. When he slides his fingers back inside, tongue circling my clit, it’s over. My body seizes, every muscle locked, but I’m silent, just the ragged staccato of my breath and the metallic clatter of the shelving as I come on his hand and mouth.
Saint stands, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and kisses me hard, letting me taste myself.
“That’s mybonne fille,” he says.
I sag against the shelf, boneless, as he tugs my panties and tights all the way off. He’s hard, straining against his black chef’s pants, and doesn’t even bother with pretense.
He unzips, pulls himself free, and lifts me by the waist until my ass is wedged on a lower shelf.
I barely manage to brace my feet on a crate before he lines up and pushes inside, no warning, no easing, just a single hard thrust that spears every last thought out of my skull. Saint’s so big and the angle so punishing that it knocks the wind from me, but I want more.
Hands on my hips control the pace. Saint pulls me forward so my forehead rests on his shoulder, and I can smell his skin, the sweat and spice of him, and I want to stay here forever, impaled on his cock, hidden from the world in this cold, fluorescent-lit box.
“Don’t move,” he mutters, but it’s pointless. I’m already locked in place, speared and trembling, my body his to do with as he pleases. He fucks me slow at first, savoring, then faster, rough enough that I have to bite the seam of his coat to keep from wailing. The shelf rattles. A jar of preserved lemons teeters and falls, thumping to the floor.
I giggle, delirious, and he bites my ear hard enough to leave a mark.
“Quiet,” he growls, but he’s smiling, the bastard.
He pulls out, just enough to make me whimper, thenslams back in, filling me to the hilt. Over and over, until the cold is gone and I’m nothing but heat, nothing but slick, desperate need. My second orgasm builds fast, a pulse in my spine, my legs shaking so bad I nearly lose my footing on the crate.
