Page 33 of Saint’s Revenge

I move.

I close the distance between us, always mindful of her injuries, and cup her face in both hands. My thumbs brush across her cheekbones, feeling her skin’s warmth, the realness of her sitting here in front of me.

"I left because I loved you," I say quietly. Rough. "Because if I'd told you I was going, you would have asked me to stay, and I would have stayed. Would have destroyed myself staying in that town watching my brother become a monster. I left to survive, but leaving you behind nearly killed me anyway."

Her eyes fill with tears.

"I've loved you since we were kids sneaking out past curfew," I continue. "Loved you through five years apart. Loved you every time I thought about calling and didn't because it would put you in danger. And I love you now, broken ribs, bruised face, all of it. I love you, Riley. I never stopped."

"Lucas…" Her voice breaks completely.

I lean in slowly. Give her time to pull back if she wants to. She doesn't.

Our lips crash together. It's not hesitant. It's five years of hunger, longing and need compressed into a single moment. She tastes like coffee and something sweeter, and I can't get enough.

Her hands grip my shoulders hard enough to bruise. Good. I want her marks on me. Want proof this is real. I angle my head, deepen the kiss, my tongue sliding against hers.

Five years. Five years of wanting this and being too scared or too far away to make it happen.

She shifts closer, wincing slightly as the movement pulls at her ribs. I break the kiss.

"Should we st-"

"Don't you dare stop." She grabs my face, pulls me back in. "I'm fine. Just don't stop."

My hands find the hem of her oversized t-shirt and slip underneath to touch bare skin. She's warm. Soft. Alive under my fingers.

She arches into the touch, a moan escaping her throat. I explore, tracing the curve of her waist, the softness of her stomach, avoiding the bandages wrapped around her ribs. Her hands aren't idle either. They slide down my chest, over my stomach, making my muscles jump under her touch. Lower to the waistband of my boxers.

"Riley!" My voice is strained. "We should—fuck—"

She palms me through the fabric. I'm already half-hard and getting harder by the second. My hips jerk involuntarily into her touch.

"We should what?" Her voice is breathy. Teasing. "Stop? Are you telling me to stop, Lucas?"

"No." The word comes out strangled. "Definitely not telling you to stop."

She smiles against my mouth. Kisses me again while her hand works me through the thin fabric of my boxers. I'm fully hard now, straining against the material, and her hand feels so goddamn good I can barely think straight.

I need to touch her. Need more than this.

I slide my hands up under her shirt and pull the fabric up and over her head. She raises her arms to help, wincing again but not stopping. The shirt comes off. She's wearing a simple black bra underneath, probably borrowed from one of the other women, but I don't care. She's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen.

The bruising extends from her jaw down her neck and across her chest. Yellow-green now instead of the deep purple it must have been initially. Evidence of what my brother did to her.

Something dark and violent twists in my chest. I push it down. Focus on her instead. On the fact that she's here, she's healing, she's alive.

I press kisses to her collarbone. To the unmarked skin just above the bruising. She tilts her head back, giving me access, her breathing getting faster.

"Lie back," I murmur against her skin. "Let me do the work."

"You sure?"

"Please." I pull back enough to meet her eyes. "Let me take care of you. Let me make you feel good."

She searches my face for a moment. Then nods. I help her lie back against the pillows, and once she's settled, I kiss her again. Deep. Thorough. Pour five years of longing into it.

Then I kiss my way down her neck. Across her collarbone. Down to the swell of her breasts above the bra. My hands slide around her back, finding the clasp.