What are you so afraid of?
“Saint,” Knight whispered.
Fuck, the sound of his name from Knight’s lips. It should be illegal. “I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?”
He pressed the phone to his chest. “I’m sure.”
A brief hesitation, then, firmly, “As long as I’m here, you know I’ve got you, right? I won’t let anything, or anyone, hurt you. Whether it pertains to your stalker or not. Deal or no deal. Do you understand?”
Saint nodded, throat too thick to speak. He didn’t look at Knight, afraid of what he’d do if he did.
But just like that, he’d made his decision.
SIX
Knight stared with blatant interest and arousal as Saint carefully drew a line of black along his second eyelid. His hands had trembled when he’d brought the little bag of makeup out from his drawer, but they were steady now.
After Knight’s reassurance earlier, something in Saint seemed to have shifted. He’d taken a shower. Knight had dutifully given him his privacy as he’d gotten changed. When he was allowed to turn back around, he’d practically had to pick his jaw up from the floor.
Saint was wearing a colourful long-sleeved shirt, the bright patterns in shades of blood red and dark orange that brought out the warmth in his brown skin. The sleeves were made of a thin, semi-transparent black mesh, teasing at his lovely brown skin underneath from shoulders to wrists. His leather trousers honestly had no business hugging his thick thighs and the plump curve of his ass like that. He’d also done something to his afro that made the curls pop, making it look even softer and slightly gleaming in the yellow lighting of his room.
Knight’s mouth was literally watering.
When Saint was done with his eyes, he picked up a long tube with a glossy, semi-transparent pink liquid inside. He uncapped it, then swiped the gloss across his full lips.
Knight’s mouth fell open again. Al-fucking-mighty.
Saint gave his nails a cursory glance, biting his lip. He checked his phone, presumably for the time. Then he sighed, a sound of helpless acceptance.
“Do you want to paint them?” Knight asked, his mouth moving before he’d given it permission.
Saint looked up from the small, broken mirror on his little dresser. “What?”
“Your nails,” Knight said. “I can do them for you in a second, if that’s what you want.”
Saint stared at him, his hands clenching slightly, almost protectively. Knight could hear his heart pounding.
“Yes,” he finally said. “All right.”
He stood, and Knight moved as well, meeting him at the foot of the bed. They sat next to each other, twisted around to face each other on the mattress, the sides of their knees touching. The air between them grew overly warm.
Knight started with Saint’s right hand, the one closest to him. His palm was incredibly soft.
He looked up, at the same time that Saint looked at him, and the little skip of his heartbeat was perfectly in sync with Saint’s.
His wings twitched. It took a concentrated effort to keep the left one from reaching out to wrap around him.
“What colour are you thinking?” he asked, his voice an intimate whisper.
“Black is fine,” Saint said gruffly. He cleared his throat, looking down. It was probably the makeup, but his eyelashes looked so long, so pretty.
Knight smoothed his thumb over each fingernail, leaving a smooth, glittery finish behind. He gave the hand a little squeezewhen he was done, rather than press a kiss to his knuckles like he wanted to.
“Oh, wow,” Saint breathed. He hadn’t asked for the glitter, but Knight had wanted to show off. From Saint’s scent and his expression, he’d succeeded.
Saint eagerly gave him his other hand. Knight repeated the procedure. Every second they remained connected—Saint’s soft hand in his, the slight pressure of his right knee against Knight’s left—made Knight feel like his lungs were being syphoned of air. He once again had to strain to keep his wing from wrapping around him, forcing himself to stop thinking about how easy it would be to use it to pull him close until Saint was pressed properly against his side.
