23. Wrenley #2
He detours to the VIP table where Ivy sits with Mags, her chin propped on her fists.
She looks up at our entrance, worry creasing her brow. “Miss Wrenley! Are you okay? Did you barf?”
I kneel beside her chair and smooth a hand over her hair, feigning composure. “I’m okay. I just needed a minute.”
Mags eyes all three of us. “Everything all right?”
“Can we get the rest boxed?” Saint asks her. “And dessert, to go.”
She nods, already in motion. “I’ll pack up some of Ivy’s favorites for you, too.”
Saint dips his chin in thanks to Mags, then gently shepherds me toward the back exit, bypassing the main dining room and the sight lines of any remaining guests.
The night air is brutal after the heat of the kitchen, but it wakes me up. My boots scrape the gravel of the lot behind C’est Trois. Saint’s hand never leaves my elbow, guiding with quiet insistence. Ivy skips ahead to the car, reciting her wish list of ice cream toppings.
Saint opens the passenger door for me, waits until I’m settled, then he tucks a blanket from the back seat around my lap.
“It’s clean,” he says, misreading my startled glance. “For emergencies. Ivy runs cold.”
I wish I could say something and explain my gratitude, embarrassment, and confusion at being so completely and forcibly cared for.
The words won’t come, so I just sit there, the blanket tucked around my knees, and watch Saint as he buckles Ivy into her car seat, runs back in to grab our food, then settles into the driver’s side, the engine catching with a deep-throated rumble.
During the drive to Saint’s house, I aim my gaze out the window, watching the town fold up for the night, every porch light a tiny beacon in the dark.
Saint’s hands stay anchored on the steering wheel, but I feel him watching me at every stoplight. I don’t know what he’s waiting for. Maybe for me to break again. Maybe for me to run.
When we pull into his driveway, the headlights sweep over the familiar porch. The same blue ceramic planter, the same scuffed doormat. I half expect to see my suitcase on the stoop, a silent reminder of the boundaries I once set for myself.
The silence in the car is so thick I could eat it. Ivy, who’s usually a fountain of words, has gone quiet in the back seat.
Saint kills the engine. The headlights die, leaving us in the dark, the only light coming from the porch. It’s a blue dusk, the color of Saint’s eyes in a storm.
He gets out without a word, then circles to unbuckle Ivy. I hear the soft click of the harness, her sleepy whine as he lifts her. She wraps her arms around his neck, face buried in his shoulder, and I can’t help but think how safe she must feel there.
Saint waits for me to get out. I do, the blanket slipping from my lap, and he grabs it before it can hit the ground.
He doesn’t hand it back, just drapes it over my shoulders, his hands lingering for a second too long.
The heat of him seeps through the fabric, and I’m suddenly aware that my heart has doubled its pace.
We walk up the steps together, Ivy heavy in his arms, her breathing slow and even. I follow them inside, the door closing softly behind me.
Inside, Saint moves with efficiency. He carries Ivy to her room, tucking her in with a ritual that’s all muscle and gentleness. I hover in the entryway, feeling like a ghost in my own skin, until he reappears and jerks his chin toward the kitchen.
“Sit,” he says, and it’s less a command than a fact of nature.
I obey, sliding onto a barstool at the island while he unpacks the take-out containers.
The kitchen is warm, the overhead light haloing Saint’s head and making him look less like a villain and more like someone who could save you from one.
He lines up the boxes, then glances at me, his gaze so sharp it nearly slices through the air. “You need to eat.”
“I’m not really hungry.”
“Eat anyway.”
He sets a plate in front of me and watches, arms folded across his chest, until I pick up a fork and take a bite.
The food is excellent, but my stomach is a clenched fist. Saint doesn’t eat, just leans against the counter, eyes pinned to my face. I swallow a mouthful of pasta, then push the plate away. “You’re staring. ”
He doesn’t look away. “You’re still shaking.”
“Am not,” I say, but the fork wobbles in my grip. “But I am tired. Is the bed in the guesthouse still available?”
“You’re not staying in the guesthouse.”
“Saint—”
“You’re not. I don’t care if you have a hundred locks and a gun taped under the mattress. I’m not letting you out of my sight until I know you’re safe.”
I want to argue. I want to tell him that nothing short of a meteor strike could keep me from my own bed, that I’m not some damsel for him to rescue. But I remember the way my body folded in on itself in the restaurant bathroom. Remember the taste of panic, the helplessness. And I’m so tired.
“Fine,” I say, pushing the plate away. “I’ll sleep on your couch.”
Saint’s mouth twitches, not quite a smile. “You’ll sleep in my bed.”
“You can’t decide that for me.”
He leans in, hands braced on the edge of the counter. “I can, and I am. You want a vote? Fine. It’s two against one. Ivy would chain you to the bed if I let her.”
I can’t help it. A laugh escapes, fragile but real.
“I’ll take the couch,” he says, but the arrogance in his eyes tells me he’s lying.
The air between us contracts to a single, sparking thread. He moves to the fridge, pulls out a bottle of water, and slides it across the island.
I take a sip, cold water sluicing through the heat in my chest. Saint’s eyes track the movement.
He circles the island, coming to stand directly across from me.
He’s so close. The space between us is measured in heartbeats, not inches. If I leaned forward, my forehead would brush the column of his throat. I want to press my face there, to disappear into the scent of him and let the world fall away.
Instead, I say, “I’m fine.”
Saint’s gaze drags up, pinning me. “You’re not.”
I want to deny it, but he’s right. I’m not fine. I’m a shape made of terror and adrenaline and leftover want, stitched together by the barest thread of self-control. I’m also starving for him, in that way that feels like humiliation and fantasy all at once.
Saint’s hand comes up, slow and careful. I flinch before I can stop myself.
Not because I think he’ll hurt me, but because I’m so desperate that even the anticipation of his touch is enough to make my skin vibrate.
Saint doesn’t make contact, just lets his hand hover near my cheek, patient and devastating.
“Wrenley.”
The way he says my name almost makes me moan.
“You want me to stop, say so now.”
I shake my head because it’s too much. Too much holding back, too much pretending this is anything but the only thing that I want.
He closes the distance, his palm cupping my jaw, thumb tracing the seam of my mouth like he’s memorizing the shape of it.
My lips part on instinct, and he leans in, the heat of his breath fusing with mine.
His kiss is nothing like I expect. There’s no carefulness, no slow build. He kisses like a man who has run out of time, like he’s been dying for this and knows it might be the last.
My hands find his shirt, knotting in the fabric.
His tongue parts my lips with a purpose so unambiguous I whimper. I’ve kissed men before, but never like this, with the sense that I might actually be consumed from the inside out.
Saint’s hand knots in my hair, angling my face, deepening the kiss until I gasp. The sound only fuels him. I feel him everywhere—in the heat of his breath, the grip of his hand on my hip, and the way his thigh wedges between my knees. I am a bonfire, and he’s the wind.
When he finally breaks the kiss, I’m panting. My dress is rucked high on my thighs, my skin fevered.
Saint stares at me, pupils blown wide.
His voice is shredded when he speaks. “Tell me to stop.”
“No,” I say, and it comes out like an order.
He lifts me onto the island in a single motion, knocking aside a bowl of lemons.
Saint’s hands are everywhere at once. My waist, my ass, sliding up my back and down again, like he’s mapping out a territory he already owns but wants to reconquer just for the pleasure of it. His mouth moves from my lips to my jaw, then down my neck, biting hard enough to leave a mark.
I gasp and dig my nails into his biceps, the muscles flexing under my grip.
Saint’s palms slide under the hem of my dress and part my thighs until the only thing separating him from me is the damp cotton of my underwear.
He bites my lip and pulls, just enough to make me gasp. “You want to be in control? Go ahead. Tell me what you want.”
“Touch me,” I say, voice trembling but clear. “Now.”
He grins, wolfish, then obliges.
Saint hooks my panties, yanking them aside, and the brush of cold air makes me realize how soaked I am for him.
He drags two fingers along my slit, and I nearly vault off the counter at his touch. Then he brings them to his mouth and licks them clean. “You taste like pure sugar.”
Saint knows exactly what I need, how to circle my clit until I’m gasping with his thumb while never breaking eye contact. The heat in his gaze is so ferocious I feel it everywhere, even in the places he’s not touching.
I try to say his name, but it comes out as a breathy whimper. He seems to like that, because his fingers increase their pressure, circling and stroking until my knees clamp his hips and my hands fist his shirt so hard the buttons threaten to pop.
He doesn’t stop. Not when my head falls back, not when I start to beg, and not when I grind my hips against his hand in a way that would have embarrassed me in any other universe.
He just keeps working me, pushing me higher until I shatter, my body arching off the island in a silent scream.
The tremors go on forever, my only anchor the grip of his arm around my waist.
He waits for me to come down, then kisses the corner of my mouth.
“That’s one,” he murmurs.