24. Wrenley
TWENTY-FOUR
WRENLEY
T hree weeks later, I’m professionally lying to myself.
“Just dropping off a book I saw at Cornerstone that I think Ivy will love,” I tell my reflection, applying lipstick I definitely don’t need for a book run.
The same excuse I used yesterday for the apple crumble Noa makes that Saint loves. And Tuesday’s urgent need to return Ivy’s hair ribbon she left at my apartment when she was playing with Ralph.
I’ve propped my phone against the bathroom mirror, recording as I blend concealer over the beard burn Saint left on my neck last night. In his kitchen. Against the Sub-Zero fridge. While Ivy napped upstairs, he whispered filthy promises about what he’d do if we had more time.
“Morning routine in small-town life,” I narrate cheerfully, angling my body to hide the evidence. “Sometimes using a bunch of products to create a ‘natural’ look is just necessary, you know what I mean? God forbid a girl wants to be in her unfiltered filter era.”
The comments are already flooding in .
Girl, WHERE have you been hiding?
That glow, though!
Small town agrees with you, bestie!
Twenty-seven thousand views in six hours. My follower count is climbing steadily back toward two million. Brands are sliding into my DMs with partnership offers I can finally stomach again.
I’m almost back to who I was. Almost.
Except the Wrenley from before didn’t know what Saint’s hands felt like twisted in her hair. Didn’t time her entire day around stolen moments in walk-in coolers and hidden corners. Didn’t lie awake replaying the sound he makes when he comes, low and hot against my throat.
“It was so great spending time with you guys this morning. Now I’m off to run errands,” I tell my audience, shutting off the camera.
Another lie. I’m off to accidentally run into Saint during the Friday lunch prep lull, when Erin takes Ivy to her music class and we have exactly forty-three minutes to pretend we’re not completely fucked.
My phone buzzes. Brenda.
These numbers are insane! Whatever you’re doing, keep at it. Also cleared my schedule next week. Surprise visit! Can’t wait to see this cute town you’re hiding in.
My stomach drops. Brenda. Here. Where I’ve been carefully cropping Saint out of frame while wearing his shirt. Where the entire town has started referring to me as “Saint’s girl” when they think I’m not listening.
At least the attacker situation was resolved.
Turned out to be some sick trolls who’d found police records from the original case, not him.
He’s still locked up. Noa had her lawyer best friend trace the IP addresses, and it turned out to be just some bored teenagers in Denmark getting their kicks from scaring me.
“Pathetic little shits,” Saint had muttered when we found out, but the relief in his eyes was unmistakable.
Now our only danger is self-inflicted. This thing between us that neither of us will name but can’t seem to stop.
This is fine. Everything is fine.
I grab Ivy’s book—my flimsy excuse—and head out into the October morning, pretending I’m not counting the minutes until I see him again.
The restaurant is a blast furnace of noise and motion, but Saint’s kitchen exists in its own climate, hyper-focused and hot. I slip through the back, past the dish pit, ignoring the line cook’s knowing smirk.
Saint’s at the pass, orchestrating with his usual economy of motion, but I can tell he’s noticed me before I even clear the walk-in. There’s a shift in his stance, a barely perceptible roll of his tattooed forearm as he wipes down a plate edge, and then he’s nodding at Eddie to cover the line.
He stalks toward me, apron low on his hips, and the sheer focus on his face makes my pulse skitter.
I barely have time to brandish the book and say, “I brought the new Bear and Bean—” before he’s in my space, crowding me back into the walk-in, the door hissing shut behind us with a pneumatic exhale.
“You’re late.” He crowds me against a rack of parbaked tart shells. “I don’t tolerate tardiness from anyone.”
“It’s 11:07,” I say, but my voice is already shot.
He kisses me so hard my skull thunks against the metal. Cold air hits my legs as he hikes my skirt up to my hips, pushing his thigh between mine while his tongue fucks my mouth like he owns the air I breathe.
I don’t even get a warning before he breaks the kiss, and Saint pins my wrists above my head, the metal shelf’s edge digging into my spine. “Seven minutes late.”
My body turns traitor so fast that I drop the book. “You’re being dramatic.”
He grins, a dangerous tilt. “You want dramatic?” His hands slide under my sweater, bunching it at my ribs. Cold air prickles my stomach, but his palms are furnace-hot, callused from knife work and rougher than they have any right to be.
He’s not gentle. He never is. That’s the point.
Saint palms my breast, thumb circling until my nipple is a hard peak. “Do you like knowing I’m thinking about what you look like naked every fucking second I’m away from you?”
I nod, because language is suddenly very difficult.
He parts my legs with his thigh using a slow, implacable pressure.
“I have ten minutes until the next check-in,” he says, nipping my neck. “So if you’re going to be a brat, you better be fast.”
His hand slips below the waistband of my skirt and my tights. He finds the damp heat between my legs and chokes out a sound I’ve heard countless times, but it never fails to turn me on.
“God, you’re soaked,” he says, pleased, but with an edge that says he’s only going to make it worse. “Were you wet the entire time you walked here?”
“Saint,” I gasp, but that’s all I get before he slides two fingers inside, curling until I see bursts of white behind my eyes. He works me open, his palm grinding upward, and the shelf rattles behind my head when I arch into him.
He keeps my wrists pinned high, thumb stroking the inside of my wrist, a tiny gesture as he fucks his fingers deeper.
“You’re not going to make a sound,” he murmurs, and the command is so cold and so hot at the same time that my mouth snaps shut. “You want Eddie to hear you? The whole fucking line?”
I shake my head, but I’m already close to losing it, my body jerking against his unforgiving strokes.
Saint kisses the corner of my mouth, then slides lower, biting my jaw, my neck, until he finds the spot that makes my toes curl.
“You’re going to come for me,” he says, “and then you’re going to walk out of here and pretend you didn’t almost scream my name and beg for my dick.”
I want to make him work for it, but my body betrays me. I’m already so close, my thighs shaking, my chest heaving, nipples brushing against the rough fabric of his chef’s coat. I try to hold out, but Saint has mapped every inch of me now. He knows exactly how to make me unravel.
He pulls his fingers out and drops to his knees, hiking my skirt higher and pushing my tights and underwear down past my knees.
Saint’s tongue is on me, flat and insistent, licking a stripe up my center that makes my knees buckle. He braces my ass with both hands, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, and fuck if I don’t want the marks later.
I have to bite the crook of my arm to keep from crying out.
His stubble rasps against the inside of my thighs, a raw burn that makes everything sharper. He glances up once, eyes gone midnight, and the look on his face is pure fucking worship, none of the control he wears outside this freezer.
Saint tongues me slow, savoring, until I’m shaking so hard I almost topple the entire rack.
He groans when I fist his hair, the vibration traveling straight through my bones.
When he slides his fingers back inside, tongue circling my clit, it’s over.
My body seizes, every muscle locked, but I’m silent, just the ragged staccato of my breath and the metallic clatter of the shelving as I come on his hand and mouth.
Saint stands, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and kisses me hard, letting me taste myself.
“That’s my bonne fille ,” he says.
I sag against the shelf, boneless, as he tugs my panties and tights all the way off. He’s hard, straining against his black chef’s pants, and doesn’t even bother with pretense.
He unzips, pulls himself free, and lifts me by the waist until my ass is wedged on a lower shelf.
I barely manage to brace my feet on a crate before he lines up and pushes inside, no warning, no easing, just a single hard thrust that spears every last thought out of my skull. Saint’s so big and the angle so punishing that it knocks the wind from me, but I want more.
Hands on my hips control the pace. Saint pulls me forward so my forehead rests on his shoulder, and I can smell his skin, the sweat and spice of him, and I want to stay here forever, impaled on his cock, hidden from the world in this cold, fluorescent-lit box.
“Don’t move,” he mutters, but it’s pointless.
I’m already locked in place, speared and trembling, my body his to do with as he pleases.
He fucks me slow at first, savoring, then faster, rough enough that I have to bite the seam of his coat to keep from wailing.
The shelf rattles. A jar of preserved lemons teeters and falls, thumping to the floor.
I giggle, delirious, and he bites my ear hard enough to leave a mark.
“Quiet,” he growls, but he’s smiling, the bastard.
He pulls out, just enough to make me whimper, then slams back in, filling me to the hilt.
Over and over, until the cold is gone and I’m nothing but heat, nothing but slick, desperate need.
My second orgasm builds fast, a pulse in my spine, my legs shaking so bad I nearly lose my footing on the crate.
Every thrust knocks loose the last of my self-control. I come, and it’s volcanic, clamping down on him and squeezing so hard, Saint jerks his hips and hisses a string of curses in French, biting my shoulder to keep his own voice down.