“I knew you would, Saint.”
His finger gently trails down the front of my body, unbothered by the loose shirt I wore to hide myself—a frequent garment in my wardrobe—until he reaches my waist.
“Come inside, Lake.” Lust seeps from each word, overtaking his body as he intently watches me. His gaze is heavy as I walk ahead of him. It’s like a rough caress, eating me alive.
He unlocks the door, doing exactly as he promised earlier, allowing me all the control. Not pushing me to enter the house before I’m ready. Instead, he’s a steady presence behind me—a wall of strength to help me have the things my heart desires.
And what I desire the most right now is him.
I enter the house and turn to watch him lock the door and set the alarm. My feet carry me backwards to the stairs, and slowly, he begins to stalk me, following along at the same speed, never pouncing, only prowling. He’s the predator, and I’m his willing prey.
Turning, I bolt up the stairs to our room. His rapid breathing and booted steps echo as he lets me beat him to the room. I slide down my pants after toeing off my shoes, though I’m too nervous to pull up my shirt. Yes, he’s seen the scars, and by all accounts doesn’t care about them, but with the lights shining brightly, my nerves kick in, and I have trouble being uninhibited.
As Saint enters the room, his boots are gone, his shirt has been shed and tossed aside, and he whips his belt from its loops and unbuckles his dark-wash jeans. My eyes stay glued to the strength I know his fingers possess because he always touches me so gently yet purposefully.
He’s holding back now, however.
“Will you touch me, Saint?” He’s told me I’m in charge, but I don’t know what to do or where to start. I feel silly knowing nothing about being with a man.
He grunts, but nods, and slides his pants down his legs, leaving him in nothing but a tight pair of boxer briefs that do nothing to contain his manhood. Holy crap. “I don’t think you’ll fit,” I whisper as he ambles around the room, turning on a lamp in the corner and shutting off the overhead light.
As he walks to the windows, I admire his musculature and the way he ripples and flexes with every movement of opening the heavy drapes while leaving the lighter sheer curtains closed, allowing moonlight to spill into the room.
“Guess we’ll find out.” His playful smirk surprises me because Saint is always so serious. So deadly. His softer side has only ever surfaced for me, making more appearances lately. Holding out his hand, I instantly take it, and he pulls me closer. “You’re in the shadows now.”
Confused, I ask, “Shadows?”
His hands reach for the hem of my shirt, pulling it up to my belly button, and I hold my breath, waiting for his answer.
“They won’t be as prominent, hidden by the shadows.”
My breath catches, but this moment feels surreal. Saint is not only showing me he understands the insecurities; he’s giving me the chance to release them. To forget they exist by making it easier to accept that they don’t define me. Not wholly.
I give him a short nod, and he pulls the shirt up all the way, my arms following as he removes it from my body, dropping it to the side.
“Gorgeous.” His gaze is sure to roam up and down my frame, never stopping or lingering on any spot for too long. I know he’s likely memorized my entire body. He’s seen, felt, kissed the scars, but he still doesn’t care.
Feeling brave, I reach forward to hook my fingers in his last remaining garment, sliding them past his thighs to fall to his feet before looking down. I take in a sharp breath and squirm as I see how hard he is, how large he is, and he’s slowly leaking tiny pearls of cream that roll down the thick length of his shaft.
Hesitantly, my hand reaches forward to touch him, pausing before my fingers make contact. Saint grips my wrist and guides me the rest of the way forward. Not controlling how or where, just encouraging me to continue.
Sliding the tip of a finger across his slit, he lets out a hiss like he’s in pain. My eyes flick up to see that his are closed, and he’s biting into his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood.
“Saint?”
His lids slide up a small bit to take me in.
“Don’t stop,” he growls, his hand on my hip tightening as he releases my wrist and curls his hand around the back of my neck. “Having your hands on me is a fucking dream come true, sweet haven.” Lifting his other hand, he sifts his fingers through my hair at the scalp and holds me to his chest, breathing heavily as my fingers trace along his hardness. I circle him with both hands, slowly working them up and down his shaft, using his leaking as lubricant. “Tighter,” he encourages, pressing his face into the side of mine and kissing me everywhere he can reach. I do as he asked and get the response, “Fuck, that feels good.”
Squeezing my hands, I feel how his veins pulse under my touch. Throbbing and ready for release, he reaches down to strangle his balls and the base of his shaft while I continue to work him.
“Lake,” he groans as I feel a spurt land on my stomach. “Oh fuck, yeah, hang on.” Mashing our bodies together, Saint makes a mess between us as I continue stroking him until he’s sated.
Finishing on a long moan, he wastes no time picking me up and tossing me into the middle of the bed. Momentarily stealing my breath until he follows and settles between my legs, his face mere inches away from my sex.
“This okay?”
Immediately affirming him, he leans down to lick up my center so tenderly that I cry out, my back bowing off the bed, hands gripping the blankets, and eyes slammed shut tight. The pleasure of Saint touching me, tasting me, is so incredibly overwhelming that I’m buzzing.
