His mouth curls up at the side, a chuckle pushing past his lips.
“The hands that have touched you, have always had blood on them, Indie,” he says softly, like he’s easing the blow whilst my mind pieces together little fractions of our past.
He doesn’t need to worry about any judgement from me. My own are no longer pure, and I glance down to see the invisible ruby liquid pooling from them.
He slants his head, gaze wandering over me, feeling like the intensity is undressing me beneath the towel.
It’s been years since a man ran his eyes over me; the thought of it made me uncomfortable for a while.
No one does it quite like Saint.
Then again, all I’ve ever cared for is everything he does. I’ve never noticed it until now, but this is undeniable.
The movement of his eyes traces every curve that’s underneath the material, and his fists flex as he looks at me beneath hooded eyes.
I reinforce my spine, conjuring up the braveness that’s been waiting for this exact moment.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” I whisper.
He rises from the bed, slowly snaking towards me.
The old me would have trembled. When we first got together, it was fuelled with the fear of the unknown, then it progressed into the adrenaline burst of what he might do.
Now here stands two tortured souls, who despite being separated by time, know each other better than anyone else in the world.
We might have gathered a few hidden secrets, but there’s nothing this man could tell me, do to me, that would ever make me cower from him.
I might be fucking crazy, but he powers a madness in me.
Steady knuckles brush against my cheek, slowly gliding so his grip finds my nape, my pulse deafening me from his touch.
The contact I’ve craved for so long has my eyes fighting to stay open, wanting to lull closed at the sensation.
I want to indulge the moment, let myself feel exactly what it does to me, but I’m not taking a chance on missing a single thing.
When Saint finally speaks, his voice is low, husky, and sends a shiver down my spine.
“Because I really, really want to fucking kiss you.”
The crack that was formed in my heart slowly stitches itself back together.
I suck in a breath, my gaze hungrily searching him.
I love a lot of things about Saint; I could write a list that rivals in length to the societies.
But if you were to hold a gun to my head, I’d tell you his eyes have always been my favourite. They tell a mysterious story, luring you into the point of no return.
“What’s stopping you?” I breathe, my hand slipping from the knot on the towel, feeling the fabric loosen its hold as he steps even further into me.
His jaw flexes, and he closes his eyes, a slight shake of his head.
“Say it…” He drags in a breath. “I need to hear you fucking say it, Indie.”
Realisation washes over me, even after all this time.
He’s still there, just like me.
We’re both still mentally stuck in those swings from six years ago.
