Page 108 of Only Mine
Every thrust knocks loose the last of my self-control. I come, and it’s volcanic, clamping down on him and squeezing so hard, Saint jerks his hips and hisses a string of curses in French, biting my shoulder to keep his own voice down.
He slams in once, twice, and I feel the hot pulse of him as he finishes, buried to the hilt, his whole body vibrating with the effort to stay silent.
We stay tangled like that, both of us panting clouds into the air.
Then he grins, still breathless, and kisses me, slow and deep.
“You’re trouble,” he murmurs, still inside me, still holding me up like a rag doll.
“You’re the one who pulled me in here,” I say, but my voice is fuzzy, blissed out.
He pulls out gently, tucks himself away, and helps me stand, steadying me when my knees give out.
Saint licks his thumb and wipes a smudge of mascara from under my eye, grinning like an ass.
“You’re a menace,” he says. “You’re going to get me fired from my own restaurant.”
“You’re thebossof your own restaurant,” I retort.
He snorts and tugs my skirt down, but there’s pride in the way he smooths my hair, straightening what he mussed. “Come eat something before you pass out.”
I try to look dignified with my tights balled in his fist and the taste of him still on my tongue.
The kitchen is a loud engine that runs the restaurant, but Saint slices through it with a glance, steering me to the storage closet off the pastry station. He grabs a clean apron, snaps it around my waist with a practiced flick, and after we both wash our hands, he sets a stool in front of the prep table.
“You could just let me go home,” I tease, hopping onto the stool and swinging my legs. There’s a delicious, worked-over ache between my thighs when I sit.
“You’re not going anywhere until you’ve eaten.”
Saint pulls a loaf of sourdough off a rack and sets to slicing it, then grabs a tub of the whipped honey butter Ivy loves. “You didn’t have breakfast, did you?”
I don’t answer because he already knows.
A moment passes where I’m sure he wants to say something real, but he just slides the plate toward me. “Eat.”
“I have a weird request,” I say, picking at the bread to buy time. “But you have to promise not to make fun of me.”
Saint leans in, resting both arms on the stainless prep table, eyebrows raised. “I don’t promise anything. But you have my attention.”
I nibble a corner of sourdough, then roll my eyes at myself. “I want to make a video. Of you making me lunch. No names, no faces. I promise.”
His mouth quirks, equal parts challenge and disbelief. “You want to film me?”
“Just your hands,” I repeat, realizing how weird it sounds when I say it out loud. “People are obsessed with food prep videos. It’s… soothing. And your hands are, um. Photogenic. I’m starting to get more confident posting again, and I’d love to do this.”
Saint glances down at his own knuckles, which are battered and tattooed and currently dusted with flour. “You want my hands to be internet famous.”
“Don’t act like you don’t know you have the hands of a dark kitchen god,” I say, and he laughs, a real one this time, low and warm. “Plus, I want to show people what actual skill looks like. Not those TikTok hacks where someone microwaves a cup of ramen and calls it lunch.”
Saint considers this, then shrugs. “Fine. What are we making?”
“Dealer’s choice,” I say, suddenly nervous. “But it has to look good on camera. And, uh, you have to let me direct you.”
He gives me a look that could curdle milk. “You’re going to direct me in my own kitchen?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be gentle.”
Saint gives a slow, sexy smile. “Set up your shot, then.”
