Page 50 of Only Mine
I’m unable to name the reckless energy ricocheting between us.
“Inevitable,” he finishes for me.
He holds me by the hip, fingers digging through the thin, damp cotton. His other hand cradles my head, his thumb stroking my cheekbone. Saint leans back just enough to look at me, really look at me.
“Tell me I was gentle in your dream.”
His lips brush mine with each word.
“You were,” I say through hitched breaths.
“That’s good.” His eyes turn hooded. “Because I’m not gentle in real life.”
Saint finds the hem of my nightgown, sliding his hand along the curve of my thigh beneath the fabric and sending a fresh, throbbing ache through me.
I gasp, my hips instinctively arching closer, seeking more of that forbidden contact.
“Saint,” I breathe, my voice shaky, lost.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, his lips against my throat, his stubble a delicious friction against my sensitized skin. His fingers inch higher, exploring, claiming. “Tell me this isn’t what you want.”
But the denial won’t form. All I can do is cling to him. My body is alive with a need so potent, it eclipses everything else.
All the reasons that this could be a terrible idea fade, drowned out by the roaring in my blood and the undeniable truth that I want this.
I want him.
TWELVE
WRENLEY
Saint trails a line of fire down my jaw, my throat.
“You feel good,” he rasps, his lips finding the frantic pulse at the base of my neck. “So fucking good.”
I arch against him, a whimper escaping as he slides higher up my thigh, pushing the soaked cotton of my nightgown with it.
His fingers are rough, firm, branding my skin.
“Oh, god,” I breathe, my head falling back against the warm stone of the mantelpiece.
The fire crackles, the storm rages, but all I feel is him, all I smell is rain and smoke and him. His arousal is a hard, insistent pressure against my core.
“You’re so wet for me,” he murmurs, his lips now at my collarbone, his voice a dark caress. He reaches the apex of my thighs, brushing against the curls there, then dips lower.
I choke on a breath as he finds my clit, swollen and aching.
“Is this what you want?”
He circles it once, twice, the pressure exquisite. My hips buck against his hand.
“Yes,” I manage. “Please.”
“Say my name again.”
His thumb presses down, a direct hit.
“Saint!”
