Page 60 of My Fallen Saint

So, no. That’s not a question I ask. I’m not ready to hear his analysis of me. Instead, I study his face as if I’ve been pondering nothing more interesting than gossip about this billionaire philanthropist, and say, “Why Peter? Back when you came to Laguna Cortez, I mean. Why did you end up working for Peter?”

He hesitates, and I think he’s going to blow off my question. But then he settles back, takes a sip of Scotch, and says, “My dad knew him, and when I said I wanted to work before going to college, he called Peter. As far as he knew, Peter was hell-on-wheels in construction and rental management.”

I lean back into the buttery leather and cross my legs, one black Chanel pump dangling from my toe. Since I wasn’t sure about today’s itinerary, I dressed in slacks, a button down, and a tailored jacket. Considering the environment, I’m feeling a bit like a corporate mogul.

“How did they know each other?”

“Some sort of business dealings. I never specifically asked.”

“You told me once you didn’t want to be there.”

“No. I didn’t.” He lets his gaze roam over me, down my chest, over my crossed legs, down to the shoe dangling from my toes. I should tell him to stop. That this falls outside the parameters I’ve set. But I know he’ll deny doing anything. And as for me…

Well, I can’t deny that I like the way my nipples tighten and my pussy clenches. I like that we’re playing at balancing on a tightrope over red hot coals.

Mostly, I like that he makes me feel.

“You were the only thing good about those days,” he continues. He’s lost the clipped, professional tone, and I hear real emotion in his voice. The kind that makes my insides flutter, even though I shouldn’t want them to flutter at all. “That,” he continues, “and learning about the business. The organization. The accounting. Practical skills I still use today. But if it weren’t for you, I would have bolted so much earlier.”

“Devlin,” I begin, but he cuts me off.

“Is that really what you want?”

I frown. “What?”

“To finish what we started.” His voice is low and measured and full of heat.

I have to lick my lips my mouth is so dry, and I squeeze my thighs together as I whisper, “Yes.”

I’m pretty sure the temperature in the cabin has shot up ten degrees, and beads of sweat pop up between my breasts.

“It’s not a good idea.” That’s what his words say. His voice suggests something different.

“No?” I unbuckle my seat belt, not letting myself think about what I’m doing and not caring that the fasten seat belt sign is still on. “I think it’s a stellar idea.” I stand up, then move the short distance to him. And, very deliberately, I straddle him, thanking whoever designed this jet for the wonderful, roomy chairs.

“Ellie.”

I hear the protest in his voice, but he makes no move to shove me off. I close my hands around his neck and slide my hips forward until I’m grinding against his wonderfully hard cock.

“You owe me this,” I say, taking one hand off his neck to grab one of his hands. I press it over my breast, and hold it there, then watch the heat—the need—flood his face.

And, yes, I revel in victory when he tightens his grip, his thumb and forefinger pinching my nipple through the thin silk of my bra.

“You had the chance to fuck me out of your system,” I say. “You knew you were leaving. I was your goodbye fuck. Your goddamn swan song.” My hips are moving, grinding, and I want his fingers on my core. I want him to make me come.

“You got your closure, you bastard. But you left me hanging and lost and alone.”

“Ellie—”

I press my hand to his mouth as I bend forward, my lips brushing his ear as my fingers fumble at his fly. “Alex Leto owes me, but I want Devlin Saint to pay. Fuck me,” I demand. “Goddammit, you owe me that.”

I pull back, expecting to see fury in his eyes. Instead I see heat and desire and a need as greedy as my own, so vibrant it shimmers in the air between us. Our breath mingles, and I brace myself for him to throw me to the ground. To strip me bare and fuck me hard.

Then I feel his hands at my waist and know that this is it.

Except his touch is gentle. And as he shifts me back, all he says is, “No.”

I lash out, landing a hard slap against his left cheek.