But I’ve only ever gotten parts of her. Her fear. Her anger. Her reluctant arousal. The drunken desperation on that kitchen counter when I took what I needed more than I gave what she deserved. Never all of her. Never this—her choosing me sober,choosing me with clear eyes and full knowledge of what she’s asking for.
My hands frame her face as I deepen the kiss, tasting her sweetness mixed with desperation and courage. She makes a sound low in her throat, part whimper, part moan, and it shoots straight through me. Her body is warm against mine, soft where I’m hard, and the thin cotton of her bra and panties might as well not exist for all the barrier they provide.
I can feel every curve of her. The swell of her breasts pressed against my chest. The heat radiating from between her legs. The way her heart hammers against her ribs, so fast I can feel it pulsing through her skin.
I break the kiss just long enough to breathe. “Saint.”
“Don’t talk.” Her eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with need and trust. “I don’t want to think. I don’t want to be scared. I just want to feel something good. Something real.”
The honesty in her voice undoes me.
I press her back into the mattress, covering her body with mine. The weight of me settles between her legs, and she gasps at the contact, at feeling me hard and ready through my jeans pressed right against her core. Even through the thin cotton of her panties, I can feel how wet she is.
My hands slide up her sides, thumbs tracing the edge of her ribs. Her skin is impossibly soft, like something precious.
“I’m not stopping.” My voice comes out rough, possessive. “I’m going to take this desire you have and sharpen it until you’re begging for me. Until nothing is left in your head but my name.”
“I already want you.” Her hands fumble at the buttons of my shirt, urgent in her need.
I capture her wrists, pinning them above her head with one hand. The position arches her back and thrusts her breasts uptoward me. “You want me. But I’m going to make you need me. There’s a difference.”
Her breath catches, and her eyes search mine. I see the moment she accepts what’s about to happen. What she’s choosing.
I release her wrists and sit back on my heels, stripping off my shirt in one motion. Her eyes trace the scars across my chest and ribs. Old marks from my father’s lessons.
“These are from him, aren’t they?” Her voice is soft. “From Roman.”
“Yes.”
Her fingers trace one particularly brutal scar along my ribs. The touch is gentle, like she’s trying to heal something broken. “He hurt you.”
“He made me what I am.” The automatic response I’ve given myself for years.
“He hurt you,” she says again, fiercely. Her palm flattens against the scar, warm and gentle. “And you survived it. That’s what made you strong. Not him. You.”
Something in my chest cracks at her words. Hearing her separate my father’s actions from my strength shifts something fundamental in how I see myself.
I don’t have time to examine it. Not when she’s spread out beneath me in nothing but white cotton underwear.
I hook my fingers in the straps of her bra and slowly drag them down her shoulders. She shivers, goose bumps rising across her skin. The bra is simple, plain white cotton that makes her look vulnerable.
“Lift up,” I command.
She obeys without hesitation, arching her back. My fingers find the clasp and unhook it. The bra falls away, and I toss it aside.
Her breasts are perfect. Small and high. Her nipples are peaked and flushed dark pink. Her breathing changes, her chest rising and falling faster as I study her.
“Calder.” My name on her lips is desperate.
I cup her breasts, testing their weight. They’re warm and soft and perfect in my hands. I brush my thumbs across her nipples, and she arches into the contact.
“So responsive,” I murmur, pinching one nipple. Not hard enough to really hurt, but firm enough that she feels it. “Every touch, you react.”
I lower my head and take one nipple into my mouth, sucking hard. She cries out, her hands fisting in my hair. I work her with teeth and tongue, biting down just hard enough to make her gasp, then soothing the sting. The taste of her skin is intoxicating, so clean and sweet with just a hint of salt.
Her back arches, pushing more of her breast into my mouth. I suck harder, feeling her nipple tighten even more against my tongue. My teeth scrape across the sensitive flesh, and she shudders.
When I move to the other breast, she’s panting, her hips already seeking friction. I can feel her grinding against my thigh, desperate for relief. The cotton of her panties is damp against my leg, soaked through.
