Page 58 of Godless Saints

His eyes widened.

“Then you started talking. Laughing at the shopping cart constellation. Coming back to the balcony instead of leaving.”

A bitter sound tore out of me. It still fucking hurt.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about that version of you since.”

Moon’s breath hitched.

“I waited,” he whispered, cracking. “Paced outside that fucking hotel twenty minutes, drunk, like an idiot. Hoping you’d come after me. Hoping I hadn’t imagined how you looked at me.”

I stepped closer, grabbing his jaw, my thumb pressing hard against his bottom lip. “I looked for you. Tore through every guest list, every camera feed, every favor I could call in without telling a soul why. I couldn’t get you out of my head. Still can’t. You’ve been in my blood since that balcony, Moon. I’m addicted. You’re the only thing I’ve ever wanted that wasn’t forced on me.”

“Fuck you,” he breathed. The words cracked, more pain than hate.

I pressed my forehead to his. “I know. I deserve it. I’m still not letting you go.”

Moon’s eyes burned. He fisted my shirt, yanked me down. Mouth crashed into mine, furious, wet, desperate. I kissed him back just as viciously, tongue pushing against his, tasting blood and salt. He bit my lower lip hard enough to draw blood. My cock throbbed against his thigh.

“Moon.”

“No.”

He released my shirt and yanked my hair sharply, forcing my head back. “Don’t say my fucking name like that.”

The pull on my hair hurt. I smiled through it anyway. "Because it sounds like you already know who you belong to.”

He growled and kissed me harder, trying to punish the truth out of both of us. His towel slipped lower. My hand slid under it, gripping bare skin. Moon jerked against me, then shoved harder like he could still fight it. He couldn’t. I’d already felt how hard he was.

“Fuck,” he hissed between kisses, hips rolling once against me. “We can’t do this here.”

I laughed low against his lips. “Here is good to me.”

Moon shoved my chest. Hands pushed. Hips rolled anyway, body already decided. I caught his wrist, held it, and used the other hand to tug the towel open. The fabric fell. Moon was already hard, flushed, leaking at the tip. He made a choked sound and lunged for the towel, frantic, fingers scrambling.

I didn’t let him have it.

I pinned his wrist to the locker, wrapped my hand around his cock. Thumb dragged the slick head. Thighs trembled.

“We can’t—” he started, voice breaking, cheeks burning crimson.

I stroked him once, firm and unhurried. His hips jerked forward before he could stop them, a humiliating little thrust that made fresh shame flash across his face.

Beautiful.

Moon shoved at my chest with his free hand, breathing hard, eyes wild with panic and unwanted heat. He twisted, reaching frantically for the towel.

This time I let him have it.

He snatched it back. Shaky hands tried to cover himself. Cheeks burned crimson. The fabric did almost nothing to hide how hard he still was. I stepped in before he could finish, took the edges of the towel from his hands, and wrapped it around his waist myself, my fingers brushing his skin as I tucked it securely. I looked down at the obvious bulge still pressing against the towel, then back up at his flushed face. Satisfaction curved my mouth.

“Then where, prince?”

Moon’s breath hitched against my lips. Eyes flicked up, raw, helplessly wanting, then away again, like the sight of me burned. I brushed my thumb over his bottom lip. The words came out rough.

“Winter rose garden. Midnight. It’s private.”

His jaw flexed. Grip death-locked on the towel. My eyes dragged down him, flushed, aching, fucking mine.