Page 76 of Only Mine
I shatter a third time, my nails digging into his shoulders as I sob his name. This orgasm is different, deeper, more consuming, radiating outward until even my fingertips tingle with it.
Saint follows me over the edge with a guttural groan, his hips jerking erratically as he empties himself. I feel each pulse of his release even through the condom, his body shuddering beneath mine as he buries his face in my neck.
We stay tangled together, breathing hard, neither willing to break the spell. His weight against me feels perfect, necessary.
Saint kisses me softly, then pulls out and shifts us until we’re lying down, pulling me against his chest. I can feel his heartbeat, still racing.
I start to pull away, aware that he has to get back to the main house and wanting to make this easy for him, but his arm locks around me, keeping me pressed against him.
“Don’t,” he says roughly. “I’m not—I’m not good at this part.”
“I’m not asking for explanations,” I say softly. “Or declarations. Or anything, really.”
Saint doesn’t answer. His hold tightens instead until my head returns to resting against his chest.
“Five more minutes,” he murmurs into my hair.
I smile against his skin. “Five more minutes.”
Neither of us mentions tomorrow again.
SEVENTEEN
SAINT
Iwake in my own bed, alone, with Wrenley’s tropical perfume still clinging to my skin.
The clock reads 5:47 a.m. I’d slipped out of the guesthouse around midnight, after she’d fallen asleep curled against my chest. Leaving her had felt wrong, but leaving Ivy alone in the main house would have been worse. Then I’d had the absurd thought to lift Wrenley into my arms and carry her back to my bed with me, but thankfully, better judgment reminded me how fucking stupid that was.
Now I lie here, staring at the ceiling, my body aching in ways that confirm last night wasn’t some fever dream. Wrenley beneath me, around me, calling my name like she needed me to breathe.
Fuck. What have I done?
I should regret it. Should be planning damage control. Erin starts tomorrow and I’ve just complicated everything by sleeping with the woman who just wanted a quaint small town to escape to for a while and instead got herself ensnared by the town’s brooding chef.
All I can think about is going back to the guesthouse. Waking her properly. Seeing if she tastes as sweet in the morning light as she did in the dark.
I’m so fucked.
By six, I give up on sleep. Ivy won’t be up for another hour. I pull on sweatpants and a T-shirt, then head to the kitchen. Cooking has always been how I process. My hands know what to do even when my mind is being an idiot.
I’m halfway through mixing batter when I hear the back door open. My heart jump-starts against my ribs.
Wrenley stands in my kitchen doorway, wearing those goddamned hot pink pajama shorts and thin top, her hair a beautiful disaster. The morning light turns her gold at the edges.
“Hi,” she says softly.
“Hi.”
We stare at each other across the space where everything started. Where she wandered in that first night for a simple dinner that changed everything.
“I was just...” She gestures vaguely toward the door she just walked through. “Going to shower and change, then leave, but I saw the light on and didn’t want to go without saying goodbye.”
“Stay.” The request escapes before I can stop it. “For breakfast. I’m making—” I look down at the bowl in my hands, realizing I’ve been operating on autopilot. “French toast, apparently.”
She hesitates in the doorway, arms wrapped around herself. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not?” I set the bowl down, trying to read her face. Last night, she was open and exposed. This morning, she’s all walls.
