I throw the plate into the trash like it mightjump back out.
Saint laughs. Full, unrestrained, delighted laughter. The sound hits me straight in the chest.
She lifts a fork with a piece of pineapple and holds it up.
“See?” she says sweetly. “Pineapple would never betray me like that.”
She feeds it to me and walks over to the table, watching the dancing, hips swaying slightly to the music.
I grab another beer mostly to wash down the lingering horror and tell myself repeatedly that it wasjusthot dog.
Probably.
I come up behind her and slide a hand around her waist, grounding myself there. I offer her the beer. She takes a sip and smiles back at me, a faint sheen of it still on her lips.
I want to kiss it away.
I lean in.
She pulls back just enough.
“Do you have Skippy hot dog breath?”
I chuckle low and bend close to her ear, my hand drifting down her hip, slow and intentional.
“I’d much rather have the taste of you in my mouth,” I murmur, pressing a kiss to her neck.
She pushes back into me, just slightly.
That’s all it takes.
I’m already hard.
She turns her head, teasing. “Not really sure that’s family-friendly. Might scare the children.”
She kisses me anyway.
My hand keeps moving, sliding along the curve of her hip, hovering dangerously close, my mouth findingthat place on her neck I know by instinct now.
“I think,” I say softly, voice rough, “I should give you a tour of the house.”
Another kiss. Slower.
“A very, very good tour.”
I take another drink, then her hand, giving her a look that promises trouble.
“Come on.”
And she comes with me.
She slows as soon as she’s inside, like the house has weight. Frames line the walls. Birthdays. Holidays. A life documented in proof.
She stops in front of one and stares.
I don’t say anything. I can tell she’s cataloging something she never had. The way her fingers hover instead of touch, like she’s afraid the glass might break if she claims it.
“You were loved,” she says quietly.
