Good God, my knees feel like they might give out under the weight of that kiss. His lips press against mine with a hunger that leaves me breathless, and for a moment, I lose myself in the sensation. When he pulls back, his eyes searching mine, he adds softly, “I’ll be right back.”
He heads for the bathroom to change clothes, leaving me standing there, dazed and a little dizzy from the kiss. My mind is racing, trying to process what just happened—and what might happen next. Does he expect me to pretend I’m in love with him? Is this all part of some role play he’s initiated, or is there something more happening here? The uncertainty is exhilarating and terrifying all at once. I don’t know how this will play out, but the anticipation is coursing through me.
When Saint emerges from the bathroom, he’s no longer in his uniform. He’s opted for a simple navy T-shirt and jeans. He walks over to the table and casually lays his police uniform and gun on top of it, and the sight of them sends a shiver down my spine. It’s a reminder of the reality he’s left behind, and the role he’s chosen to step into now.
He moves toward me with purpose, his hands finding their way around my waist before effortlessly lifting me onto the island in front of him. The ease with which he moves, the way his body fits so perfectly against mine ... it’s straight out of a book. His lips find my neck, and I close my eyes, letting the sensation of his mouth on my skin wash over me.
He’s making me dizzy.
I lean my head to the side, allowing him more access to my neck, my skin tingling under the slow, deliberate slide of his tongue. I can feel his left hand tracing a path down my thigh, pulling my leg up aroundhis waist as he moves closer, pressing himself against me. It’s a strange mix of control and tenderness, and I can’t help but wonder if this is how he is with his wife.
Is this the way he kisses her, the way he touches her?
I push the thought away, refusing to let it take root. Right now, he’s here. Right now, his mouth is on my neck, and I need to focus on that.
“Tell me something,” he whispers against my skin, his voice sending shivers down my spine.
“Mmhmm,” I mutter, barely able to form a coherent response.
“What kind of guy is Cam?” His question is laced with curiosity, but his lips never stop moving against my skin.
I open my eyes, the reality of the moment sinking in.
If he’s asking about Cam, does that mean he’s kissing me as Saint right now? Is this real, or is this part of the game we’ve been playing?God, I hope it’s real.
“He’s ...” I pause, trying to gather my thoughts as his tongue slides precariously close to my ear. It’s hard to focus with the way he’s making me feel, but I manage to speak. “He’s good, but rough around the edges. He’s controlling. Jealous. Has a temper.”
Saint pulls back just enough to look me in the eye, his expression thoughtful. “He wouldn’t hurt Reya, would he?”
“Never,” I say, my voice soft but certain. “He’s madly in love with her. Tries his best to protect her.”
“Tries?” Saint’s brow furrows, his gaze questioning. “Does that mean he doesn’t always succeed?”
I shake my head, my breath catching in my throat. “Not always.”
He rubs his thumb over my bottom lip, his eyes darkening as he stares at my mouth. I love the way he looks at me in this moment, the intensity of his gaze, the way it makes me feel seen in a way I’ve never felt before. I want to capture this feeling, write it down, describe it in detail, but I’m afraid that if I wait until later, I won’t be able to capturethe fullness of it. The way his eyes make me feel like I’m the only thing that matters.
“Does anything bad happen to Reya in your book?” he asks, his voice low, but full of genuine concern.
“Yes,” I whisper. Normally, I wouldn’t spoil the plot for anyone, but in this moment, I don’t care. Saint isn’t just anyone, and I doubt he’ll ever read my work.
“What happens to her?”
“Well. A lot, actually. She loses her best friend. There’s an attempted kidnapping. A car chase. Someone breaks into her house.”
Saint’s eyes narrow in concern. “Does anyone ever hurt her?”
“Yes,” I admit. “She gets hurt toward the end of the book. The person who breaks into her house ... after he ties her up, she realizes her arm is broken.”
“Does she know who is doing these things to her?”
“She doesn’t.”
“Why do these things keep happening to her?”
“Reya is a lawyer. She has evidence that this character is trying to locate.”
Saint runs the backs of his fingers over my cheek as I speak. He seems so interested in my answers, it makes me wonder if he’s planning to act any of these scenes out.Is that why I’m telling him about it? Because part of me hopes he does? Do I actually want to know what it’s like to be kidnapped? To have a broken arm?
