Chapter 14 Our Lucky Night
OUR LUCKY NIGHT
ANASTASIA
The devil who satisfied me in the pool has a tongue that should be classified so naughty it deserves its own list. Like everything in life that is too good—carbs, for example—now I’m addicted.
For a week, he’s graced me with his talented tongue so good. He’ll be my downfall. But when I beg every single time to have him inside of me, he leaves, promising I’ll get him soon. He says he’s enjoying the slower pace of our time together.
Guess I should be happy he isn’t treating me like a silly puck bunny. But this is way too slow. I need all of him. Right now.
I can’t function, with fantasies about us playing in my mind nonstop.
As I sit here at work, I turn to the old-fashioned way of writing by hand, pen to paper, to clear my creative mind of any blocks.
The only thing that pours out of me is the start of a sexy Halloween novelette about an angel and a devil at a masked ball.
Far cry from two chaste characters who are only supposed to kiss at the end of a two-hour movie about the Christmas spirit.
I’ve been stuck in the messy middle of this script for days, trying to figure out the conflict.
There’s just something missing and I’ve been too distracted by a blue-eyed man to concentrate.
Speaking of, my phone lights up with a call from Saint, giving my heart a little dance of joy.
“Hey angel girl, just finished practice. I’m going out with the guys to an indoor golf range this afternoon to build a little camaraderie. I’ll bring home dinner. In the mood for Chinese?”
“Only every day of the week.”
“Hm. In the mood for me?” He growls in that sexy tone that vibrates down to my core. I shift in my seat and grin.
A week of nightly sexy times with Saint has left me in a dreamy state.
I haven’t told anyone, especially not Misty, because she’ll tell me how she told me so since I indeed opened up and let a little magic in.
Now Saint and I are the two lovable side characters who just might save each other after all.
“I’m biting my lip because you already know the answer to that,” I tease.
“Careful,” he warns. “I might get hard. It’ll affect my golf swing.”
I giggle. “I like having an effect on you.”
“You know what’ll have the most effect on me? If you wear the black number tonight.”
I moan, thinking of his recent lingerie gift for me, a strappy leather and lace thing that is almost too confusing to figure out where all the straps go.
Every day, it’s something, like donuts delivered to work or flowers he brings home or chocolate hearts waiting on my pillow for me or clothes and shoes and perfume—I told him he doesn’t need to spend so much money on me.
He says it makes him happy and to let him do it.
I think he doesn’t want to admit he has a nasty shopping habit, but I suppose there could be worse vices.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer me naked waiting for you in your bed instead when you get home?” I ask in a coy voice.
“I warned you; get me hard and I’ll be useless this afternoon.”
“I need you, Saint. All of you. Tonight.”
“Fuck, woman. What are you doing to me?”
“Everything I can.”
There’s a quiet moment before he speaks again. “Oh, shit. Mom’s calling. I’ve been ignoring her since Halloween.”
I quickly flip from temptress mode to…supportive-roommate-not-yet-girlfriend-because-we-haven’t-talked-in-depth-about-our-relationship-status mode. “You should take it. Could be important. She might need you, what with all the news surrounding the end of her character on the soap next week.”
“Please don’t tell me you’ll always take her side.”
“No. I’m totally on your side. But that’s why I encourage you to deal with things and not let them eat away inside of you. Things like that can only bring you down, even though I like a brooding playboy type,” I quip and chuckle. But he’s quiet again. Did I push too far and hit a nerve? “Saint?”
“You’re too good for me, you know that, angel?”
“And don’t you ever forget it.”
“I won’t. See you tonight.” He clicks off.
I slump in my chair and turn back to my script, chewing a pen cap. Something is missing in the script and I need to focus and figure it out. I wonder how the call between Saint and his mother is going. No, no, focus.
My brain strays too easily. The entertainment news has been covering the end of Barbara St. James’ illustrious career in the long-running soap opera nonstop. From her early days as a villainess to her role as matriarch of the show, every detail is on display for fans to devour.
“That’s it,” I gasp and bolt straight up in my office chair.
“I need a Barbara in this script.” I’m missing a good villainess to wreak havoc in my character’s lives, but of course by the end of the script, with Christmas magic, she’ll reform and have a heart of gold, saving the entire town and Christmas for everyone.
Dang, Saint really is my muse. And with Barbara as my inspiration, my fingers fly across the keyboard all afternoon.
Saint texts and tells me he’ll be home in half an hour. Wearing only a Pucker’s t-shirt, I go to the bathroom to get ready for the big night. I trim my lady bits, fluff my hair, and add a natural lip glass.
By the time I slowly open his bedroom door and take it all in, the butterflies in my stomach are alive and excited about what’s coming.
Saint has refined minimalistic taste, and this room reflects the rest of the house.
A neatly made bed with a dark gray patterned duvet, crisp white sheets poking out.
Dark wood dresser and nightstands. A focus wall behind the upholstered headboard of geometric patterns all in dark colors.
All of it masculine but not very warm and cozy.
His style is more brooding, a reflection of him.
I feel like I’m entering another of his private sanctuaries, only this one has probably been soiled by other puck bunnies before me. My eyes squeeze shut for a moment, willing away that thought.
I dare take a step in, then another. Everything is in its place, like he’s a neat freak. Not surprising, considering the rest of his house is always neat, too. He pays for a housekeeper once a week, which is handy.
My eyes find two flaws, though, and point out his closet door is slightly ajar, and a bottom dresser drawer is open about an inch.
I go to the closet first and find all his suits neatly arranged on velvet hangers.
My hand reaches out and runs along them, making the garments sway.
When I reach his folded jerseys on a shelf, I long for him to give me one.
I take one out and bring it to my nose, inhaling remnants of his musky scent.
Someday, he could give me one with his name on the back of it. Someday.
Turning away, I shut the closet door and sashay toward the dresser. The drawer is too tempting not to peek in.
Only when I open it, I don’t expect the face of a woman to stare back at me.
I frown. These must be the photos Misty was speaking of.
She’s pretty and plump, standing next to a younger Saint.
She’s not a stick skinny blonde like I’d imagined all his former women to be, but with hair slightly lighter than mine, brown eyes and a nice smile.
It’s almost a relief to know if this is a woman who once meant something to him in some way, that she looked a lot like me.
“Tell me your mysteries, girl,” I implore, like she can hear me.
Saint can’t be more than twenty-one in this photo. No wrinkles around his eyes, fuller cheeks, scruffy hair. He looks happy. How long did it last? I reach out and turn it over with shaking hands. No date on the back.
Underneath of it, though, is a sonogram image of a baby. My heart races like I’ve found the mother load, the source of Saint’s broodiness. I pick up the sonogram and stare at it, every detail committed to memory, especially one. The date—almost ten years ago.
“Wait, I know that date,” I whisper. Then it comes to me. The date of my movie premiere for A Little Luck at Christmas. Strange odds.
Suddenly, I hear Saint enter the front door, whistling a tune. Quickly, I put everything back and close the drawer completely, like a child not wanting to get caught. I whip off my t-shirt and dive under his covers before he appears.
When I asked who hurt him, he’d said, Someday, I promise, I’ll tell you. Thanks to my snooping, my curiosity about the young woman with big brown eyes won’t rest.
Does he think about her when he’s with me?
A noise at the door startles me. There he is, leaning one arm high up on the door frame, so sexy.
“Hi. Naked for me, angel?”
“Come and find out,” I rasp, breathless, my fingers sliding quickly to my clit to play with. I’m not wet yet, distracted by so many other thoughts now.
He smiles wide, then reaches up overhead, removing his shirt on the way to bed. His sexy V and happy trail become fully visible. With his eyes on me, I force myself to relax about everything else. After all, he’s here with me. This is the present, and he’s mine.
The fifty other muscles between his V and his chin beg for a touch as he stops by the side of the bed. I want to run my hands allover them. I chomp down on my bottom lip hard, probably drawing blood.
“Need something, Anastasia?” He yanks the covers off of me and growls in that low, sexy way that I crave. I stop touching myself. “Don’t stop on my account. I like the view.”
I reach down again and make a show of it for him, arching my back and moaning. With eyes laser focused on what I’m doing to myself, he gives me a seductive grin that should be trademarked for sin. The way he worships me sends my entire body humming.
I let out a pained breath. The sheer willpower it’s taken for me to not jump on him every night. I’m shot. No more waiting.
“I do need something. You,” I croak. “Inside of me. Deep and hard. Please.” I’m not sure he hears me at first. He stands there, blinking, the sly grin not leaving.
“For the record, I’ve wanted you and your body from day one.” He undoes his belt and whips it out of the loops with a crack. My breath hitches. “I could have ravaged you a dozen times by now.”
“I wish you would have.”
He kicks off his shoes. Then he tackles the zipper of his jeans. An extremely large bulge comes into view as his jeans fall to the floor.
“The time and space to give this thing between us breathing room has been nice, I admit it. I like it. Now, if I’m not mistaken, you’re lying there looking like you’ll pounce on me if I don’t take care of you real soon.”
“Saint,” I plead and shake my head.
“What, angel? Need me to tell you what I think you really want?”
“Please, since you seem to be so good at articulating what I always want.”
He chuckles and eases the waistband of his boxer briefs down, only the tip of his cock showing. My eyes are a willing follower, unable to stop myself from watching his every move.
“I think you want a night to remember. Only that won’t be enough. You’re going to want more of these nights with me. Because I’m the only man who will ever be able to satisfy your every need.” The cockiness in his tone thrills me.
“I want to see you,” I beg, reaching a hand and hooking under the waistband.
“Go ahead. Strip me.” Granting me full access, his fingers lace behind his head. Suddenly unsure, I pause.
“I don’t even want to know how many women have seen you naked, do I?”
“Same goes for me. You think it doesn’t eat away at me all the stupid boys who did you wrong over the years, when what you really needed was a man like me.
” He earns his overconfidence with that statement.
“Let’s make a pact right now. We acknowledge that dating others has sucked.
But now it’s you and me. No one else matters.
We don’t need to talk numbers or bring them up again.
There’s only you and I here, angel. If you agree, then strip me. ”
No one else matters? I resist the urge to glance at the dresser drawer and bite my tongue from demanding to know more about the mystery woman.
Instead, I gladly reach for his waistband, stripping the boxers away like another one of his layers. What I find there…takes my breath away.
“Of course you would have the perfect cock.” I’m more than pleased with his length and girth. Oh yes, I’ve found my man, and he’s going to make me a lucky woman. He already does, every day, by his actions, his words, his care. Even if he never bought me another material thing.
“Go ahead, touch me. You know you want to.” He laughs like a devil.
I cock my head at him, but yeah, I don’t hesitate and get on my knees and start to play. Only I ignore his cock that’s twitching like it’s the neglected child.
My hands roam his entire body, such a contrast, my softness to the steel ridges of his pecs and abs. Then lower, tickling soft fingers down his V and happy trail, and finally, at long last, I hold the weight of his velvety balls in one hand, and stroke his length with the other.
His breathing shatters. My tongue darts out swirling circles around his magnificent mushroom shaped head. His hand wraps around my ponytail, and he juts his hips slightly into my fist. “Fuck, angel.”
My mouth follows my hand, up and down his length, eager to impress him with my skills. When I hollow my cheeks, both hands pull me off of him and he groans like a man on edge.
“Stop. I want to come when I’m inside of you.”
“Good. Because I’m done playing. Give me all of you, Saint.”
His head bows to me, kisses electrifying, tasting of sweet mint, like he sucked on a mint on his way here.
I like how he takes charge, caring for me, thinking of everything.
He’s more than other women could ever understand, and tonight he’s mine, because I’ve peeled back enough of his layers to find the best version of him.