“Then tell me to stop.” I lean in, so close that our lips are almost touching. “Tell me you don’t want this.”
We’re playing a dangerous game here, and I’m not sure who is going to win. I know better, know I shouldn’t be pushing her, but I also know that nothing good comes from coddling. Saint’s desperate for control, to feel anything that isn’t fear orhelplessness. I can give that to her. I can make her forget, even if it’s temporarily.
The dam inside her breaks, and she reaches for me, her hands fisting in my shirt. “This doesn’t change anything.”
Oh, sweet girl, still lying to yourself.
“No, you’re right. It changes everything.” I slam my mouth against hers, sealing her lips closed before she can respond. I don’t want to hear about all the ways this is wrong. I want to make her feel it, want to prove to her that she does desire me just as much as I want her.
Saint’s body melts against mine, and she kisses me back with a desperate fury that tastes like rage and whiskey. This kiss is raw and messy, but real. So fucking real.
Her movements are uncoordinated at first, but it doesn’t take long for her to figure out what she’s doing. She bites my lower lip hard enough to sting.
Fuck.That only makes me ache more for her. I growl against her mouth, and she does it again. It’s like she’s trying to hurt me. Trying to make me feel even a fraction of the pain she’s drowning in.
Fine.If she wants to fight, if she wants me to feel her pain, then I will. I’ll drown in it for her. Breaking the kiss, I blaze a trail of fire from down her throat, dragging my teeth over her thundering pulse. A tiny gasp escapes her lips, and she digs her fingers into my shoulders.
“This doesn’t fix anything,” she pants.
“I know.” I bite gently where her neck meets her shoulder, loving the way her body reacts to me. She’s such a fucking liar. A beautiful, rage-filled, sexy liar.
“We shouldn’t—” She starts to say, but stops, tipping her head back to give me better access to her throat.
“Is that what you want? For me to stop?” I ask, lifting away from her body.
“No!” she growls and pulls at my shirt with increasing urgency until I help her get it off.
“That’s what I thought.”
“Shut up! Kiss me. Do something else with your mouth besides talk.”
I choke on a bubble of laughter. “Oh, I plan on doing all kinds of things to you. With my lips, tongue, fingers, and cock. I’m going to mark you and claim every inch of you.”
“Saying and doing are two different things,” she fires back, as her palms splay across my muscled chest, her fingers tracing scars she can’t quite see fully in the dim lighting. Another man might be insecure about their scars, but I’m not. How could I be when her touch feels this good?
“I can’t be the only one getting naked here,” I whisper against her lips.
She freezes, and right when I think maybe this is when she decides to stop, she reaches for the hem of her sweater and rips it off over her head in one quick motion, then tosses it to the floor. My heartbeat spikes when I get a good look at her. It’s not like she’s wearing anything fancy. Just a simple cotton bra, but it’s not about the clothing. It’s about her. Her delicate pink nipples poking through the sheer fabric are enough to kill a man. If I don’t get to taste her soon, I’m going to explode. I reach behind her and unhook the bra.
She shoves the straps down, and it falls to the floor, leaving her completely exposed. Vulnerable.Mine.
“Bedroom,” I manage.
“No. Here.” She tugs at my belt. “Now.”
“So bossy,” I tease and take her by the hips.
I gently lift her onto the counter and wedge myself between her legs. The position puts us at eye level, her thighs bracketing my hips.
Fuck.I’m reminded how much smaller she is than I am. How fragile and perfect she is.
Saint gets my belt undone and pops the button on my jeans, then shoves them off my hips. My vision blurs, and I suck a pained breath through my teeth when her hands wrap around my cock.Holy shit.
She squeezes the length, and I choke on air.
“Fuck.”
“You’re so thick and long.” Her voice is a whisper against my skin, smug, soft, and devastating. She strokes me slowly, like she’s memorizing every inch of me with her hands, mapping the shape of what she does to me.
