Page 29 of My Puckin' Luck
Dang, Saint really is my muse. And with Barbara as my inspiration, my fingers fly across the keyboard all afternoon.
Saint texts and tells me he’ll be home in half an hour. Wearing only a Pucker’s t-shirt, I go to the bathroom to get ready for the big night. I trim my lady bits, fluff my hair, and add a natural lip glass.
By the time I slowly open his bedroom door and take it all in, the butterflies in my stomach are alive and excited about what’s coming.
Saint has refined minimalistic taste, and this room reflects the rest of the house. A neatly made bed with a dark gray patterned duvet, crisp white sheets poking out. Dark wood dresser and nightstands. A focus wall behind the upholstered headboard of geometric patterns all in dark colors. All of it masculine but not very warm and cozy. His style is more brooding, a reflection of him.
I feel like I’m entering another of his private sanctuaries, only this one has probably been soiled by other puck bunnies before me. My eyes squeeze shut for a moment, willing away that thought.
I dare take a step in, then another. Everything is in its place, like he’s a neat freak. Not surprising, considering the rest of his house is always neat, too. He pays for a housekeeper once a week, which is handy.
My eyes find two flaws, though, and point out his closet door is slightly ajar, and a bottom dresser drawer is open about an inch.
I go to the closet first and find all his suits neatly arranged on velvet hangers. My hand reaches out and runs along them,making the garments sway. When I reach his folded jerseys on a shelf, I long for him to give me one. I take one out and bring it to my nose, inhaling remnants of his musky scent. Someday, he could give me one with his name on the back of it. Someday.
Turning away, I shut the closet door and sashay toward the dresser. The drawer is too tempting not to peek in.
Only when I open it, I don’t expect the face of a woman to stare back at me. I frown. These must be the photos Misty was speaking of. She’s pretty and plump, standing next to a younger Saint. She’s not a stick skinny blonde like I’d imagined all his former women to be, but with hair slightly lighter than mine, brown eyes and a nice smile. It’s almost a relief to know if this is a woman who once meant something to him in some way, that she looked a lot like me.
“Tell me your mysteries, girl,” I implore, like she can hear me.
Saint can’t be more than twenty-one in this photo. No wrinkles around his eyes, fuller cheeks, scruffy hair. He looks happy. How long did it last? I reach out and turn it over with shaking hands. No date on the back.
Underneath of it, though, is a sonogram image of a baby. My heart races like I’ve found the mother load, the source of Saint’s broodiness. I pick up the sonogram and stare at it, every detail committed to memory, especially one. The date—almost ten years ago.
“Wait, I know that date,” I whisper. Then it comes to me. The date of my movie premiere forA Little Luck at Christmas.Strange odds.
Suddenly, I hear Saint enter the front door, whistling a tune. Quickly, I put everything back and close the drawer completely, like a child not wanting to get caught. I whip off my t-shirt and dive under his covers before he appears.
When I asked who hurt him, he’d said,Someday, I promise, I’ll tell you.Thanks to my snooping, my curiosity about the young woman with big brown eyes won’t rest.
Does he think about her when he’s with me?
A noise at the door startles me. There he is, leaning one arm high up on the door frame, so sexy.
“Hi. Naked for me, angel?”
“Come and find out,” I rasp, breathless, my fingers sliding quickly to my clit to play with. I’m not wet yet, distracted by so many other thoughts now.
He smiles wide, then reaches up overhead, removing his shirt on the way to bed. His sexy V and happy trail become fully visible. With his eyes on me, I force myself to relax about everything else. After all, he’s here with me. This is the present, and he’s mine.
The fifty other muscles between his V and his chin beg for a touch as he stops by the side of the bed. I want to run my hands allover them. I chomp down on my bottom lip hard, probably drawing blood.
“Need something, Anastasia?” He yanks the covers off of me and growls in that low, sexy way that I crave. I stop touching myself. “Don’t stop on my account. I like the view.”
I reach down again and make a show of it for him, arching my back and moaning. With eyes laser focused on what I’m doing to myself, he gives me a seductive grin that should be trademarked for sin. The way he worships me sends my entire body humming.
I let out a pained breath. The sheer willpower it’s taken for me to not jump on him every night. I’m shot. No more waiting.
“I do need something. You,” I croak. “Inside of me. Deep and hard. Please.” I’m not sure he hears me at first. He stands there, blinking, the sly grin not leaving.
“For the record, I’ve wanted you and your body from day one.” He undoes his belt and whips it out of the loops with acrack. My breath hitches. “I could have ravaged you a dozen times by now.”
“I wish you would have.”
He kicks off his shoes. Then he tackles the zipper of his jeans. An extremely large bulge comes into view as his jeans fall to the floor.
“The time and space to give this thing between us breathing room has been nice, I admit it. I like it. Now, if I’m not mistaken, you’re lying there looking like you’ll pounce on me if I don’t take care of you real soon.”
