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“Oh, god,” I cry, holding him tightly.
He takes my leg and wraps it around his tapered waist, deepening the angle of his thrusts. I am like an overcooked piece of spaghetti and lose all control of my body. Saint’s hair flicks forward as he lowers his face to mine, kissing me with fire.
He rolls his hips, rubbing over my clit, and I whimper into his mouth. He does this over and over, stimulating every part of me. I like that he’s not gentle. I like that he’s not in control and lost to the emotion. It shows me that he’s feeling everything I’m feeling too.
Lacing my fingers through his hair, I bow off the ground, a vibration cheating me of air. “Holy shit,” I pant, every part of me pulsating.
I am hot, so hot, and when Saint slams into me, once, twice, fingering over my tattoo, growling, “Only us, only this…forever, ?????,” I explode in a beautiful, quivering mess.
My orgasm tackles me hard, and I doubt I’ll come back from this high anytime soon. He continues pumping into me, speaking words in Russian that sound filthy and depraved. It only has me screaming louder as I squeeze my eyes shut.
He pinches my nipple before gripping my waist tight. I open my eyes and witness a sight which has a reckless longing stirring once again. The corded veins in his neck are strained as he tosses his head back, fucking me senseless.
But this is more than that. This is professing to the world that I belong to him, and he belongs to me. This is possession. And obsession. This is love.
I run my trembling fingers over his tattoo; my sinner, my saint.
A rumble erupts from his formidable chest as he attempts to pull out, but I clutch my leg around him, holding him prisoner. He doesn’t stand a chance as he comes inside me with an impassioned moan. His cries are beautiful—they are vulnerable, and they reveal we’ve both been reborn.
Collapsing on top of me, he’s breathless, sticky, and spent. I cradle him to my chest, kissing his damp skin. We stay entwined this way for seconds, minutes, hours. I honestly don’t know because for the first time in my life, I have finally found where I belong.
“Are you okay?” he hoarsely asks into the crook of my neck.
I nod shakily, stroking his hair.
When he meets my satisfied gaze, I gasp because I have never seen his eyes so lucid before. The green almost burns me with their clarity. He reaches over my head, and before I have a chance to ask what he’s doing, he fastens my necklace around me.
The familiar weight comforts me beyond words. But when I remember what he told me, about Oscar using it against him, I wonder if wearing it may be a bad idea. I reach behind me, about to take it off, but he stops me.
“I don’t have to wear it,” I explain, looking up at him as he’s still lying on top of me.
“I know how much it means to you,” he replies, running his thumb across the apple of my cheek.
“You mean more,” I counter without missing a beat.
Saint’s smile is heavy with happiness but also exhaustion. “And that makes me the luckiest son of a bitch alive.” He rolls off me, and before I have a chance to miss his warmth, he drags me into his arms. He gathers the ends of the blanket and wraps us up tight.
“What happens tomorrow?” I whisper, gently toying with the dark strands of hair on his chest. To be able to be with him this way, without fear of getting caught, is foreign, but it’s something I can get used to fast.
He hums, resting his chin atop my head. “We will deal with it tomorrow. Now, we sleep.”
“You’re so bossy,” I quip, grinning.
“Don’t make me spank you,” he sleepily says. I nestle against him, the heat of his body and blanket soon lulling me into a drowsy bubble. Saint’s gentle breathing reveals he’s sound asleep.
My mind fights to stay awake, but eventually, I succumb to the silence. However, I know it won’t be long until my nightmares find me, promising that tomorrow, there is no middle ground. Tomorrow, we throw Alek to the wolves.
God, save my soul.
THE DELICIOUS SCENTof coffee rouses me. But when that fragrance is combined with a far more intoxicating smell, I appreciate the fact that Saint will always be far more potent than any drug. Stretching like a lioness lazing in the sun, I slowly open my eyes against the blinding morning light.
However, when I see Saint sitting beside me topless, his beauty rivals the daylight. “Mornin’.” His husky voice evokes images of us being entwined last night.
My cheeks instantly blister.
He offers me a steaming cup of coffee with a smirk. Clutching the blanket to my very naked chest, I sit upright and accept it. Once I take a sip, the fog from my brain clears, and I wonder what the right protocol is for having the morning-after talk.
But honestly, I don’t know if I want to discuss anything. It happened, and I have no regrets. But when Saint clears his throat and rubs the back of his neck, I pale. Does he regret it?
