“You stopped talking to me,” I confess, hating the way my voice wobbles a little. “You stopped touching me like you wanted me, and I can’t—”
His mouth moves lower, kissing down my stomach with a kind of desperate focus that makes my breath catch. He wraps his lips around my cock in the next second and takes me deep in one smooth glide, sucking hard enough that my back arches off the bed with a broken moan. His tongue works the underside of my length while his hands pin my hips down, holding me exactly where he wants me.
Saint sets a ruthless rhythm, hollowing his cheeks, swallowing around the head on every downstroke until my thighs start to shake. I cry out, fingers twisting in the sheets, but he doesn’t slow. He pulls off just long enough to flip me onto my stomach, yanks my hips up, and buries his face between my cheeks.
His tongue spears into me and I sob into the pillow as he fucks me with deep, filthy thrusts that make my whole body jolt. He growls against my skin, the vibration rolling straight through me, and then his hand is between my legs again, stroking my cock in time with his tongue.
I come the first time with a shattered cry, painting the sheets while my ass clenches around his tongue. Saint doesn’t stop and keeps licking me through it, until I’m shaking and oversensitive and begging in broken little sounds I barely recognize as mine.
He flips me onto my back again, pushes my knees to my chest, and dives back in. His mouth is everywhere at once, sucking mycock, licking down to my hole, and biting the inside of my thigh hard enough to leave a fresh mark. I come a second time with a hoarse scream, tears slipping from the corners of my eyes.
Saint finally pulls back, his eyes wild. I’m wrecked, my cock spent and twitching against my stomach, but he still looks hungry.
I find the strength to push at his shoulders, rolling him onto his back before he can stop me. He tenses, but I slide down his body, kissing every inch of ink and muscle on the way. I take his cock into my mouth, tasting the salt of him while I slick my fingers. “My turn,” I whisper.
Some part of me just wants to watch Saint fall apart. The other part wants to see how far I can push. When I press the first finger into him, Saint goes rigid. I look up, lips still stretched around him before pulling off enough to speak. “Let me give you that peace you need,” I whisper, voice hoarse. “Let go.”
His jaw clenches. “I don’t let go. That’s not how this works.”
I curl my finger gently, stroking that spot inside him until his breath stutters. “It is with me.”
For one long, terrifying second I think he’ll push me away. Then something in his face cracks. His head falls back against the pillow, eyes squeezing shut, and his thighs part wider.
I work him open carefully, adding a second finger, then a third, all while sucking his cock deeper into my mouth. Saint’s hands fist the sheets, a low broken grunt tearing out of him that I’ve never heard before. When I finally pull off and climb up his body, he’s shaking.
I sink down onto him in one smooth motion. Saint’s eyes fly open, a raw, wrecked sound ripping from his throat as I take him to the hilt. I ride him in the same rhythm, hands braced on his chest, watching every flicker of emotion cross his face. He looks terrified and relieved at the same time, like this is everythinghe’s ever needed and the most dangerous thing that has ever happened to him.
I lean down, kiss him softly, and murmur against his mouth, “I’ve got you.”
He comes with a shattered groan, hips jerking up into me, filling me while his hands grip my waist hard enough to bruise. I follow right after, spilling between us as his cock pulses inside me.
“I don’t have to just be the thing that gives you peace,” I whisper into the dark. “I can also be the place you go to escape.”
Saint doesn’t answer with words, dragging me into a kiss that’s both soft and desperate, making me wonder what it’ll truly take to crack this man open.
Oisín
ThefirsttimeMothtells me I’m going on a logistics run to Rogue territory, I think I’ve misunderstood him. I look from Moth to Saint. “I’m sorry, what?”
“A remaining alliance handoff has to be coordinated on Rogue territory,” Moth says. “Low-level logistics only. Not product. Documentation, payment reconciliation, and route confirmation for the last shared escort schedule. You’re the cleanest person to verify the paperwork because you understand both systems.”
“Cleanest,” Bricks repeats, rubbing a hand over his beard. “That’s one way to describe him.”
Moth glances at him. “Do you have a better term?”
“Prettiest.”
Saint looks up.
Bricks grins, entirely unrepentant. “I withdraw the comment for the sake of peace and my remaining teeth.”
I ignore both of them. Nearly two weeks ago, Saint made it painfully clear that no one got to drag me into runs, meets, warehouse checks, or anything else without going through him. He said it like an order to the club and a promise to me. I believed him because I wanted to, and because Saint is a difficult man to doubt when he decides the world is going to arrange itself around one of his rules. Now he’s silent behind his desk, which means the rule is either bending or breaking, and I can’t tell which one frightens me more.
“Rogue territory,” I say carefully. “With Canon’s people.”
“With Bricks, Demo, and two additional Obsidian members present,” Moth adds.
“That doesn’t make it less Rogue territory.”
