25. Saint #2
Her eyes close like she’s bracing for impact. She doesn’t answer, but her wrist flicks just enough to send a fleck of rice over the side of the pan. I say nothing, but let my hand close over hers, guiding her through the motion .
She’s biting her lip now, fighting the urge to fucking climb me.
I want her to beg. I want her to admit that she’s as ruined by this as I am.
My mouth hovers just above her shoulder, not quite touching. “You’re shaking.”
She laughs, but it’s a broken thing. “You’re a sadist.”
“Only with you.” My fingers graze the inside of her elbow, then fall away again.
She stirs, and stirs, and stirs. I add liquid a ladle at a time, and every time I do, I make her wait for it.
Her breathing picks up. She’s so close to coming apart.
The risotto thickens. So does my dick.
Coming up behind her again, I press my hips into her bare ass so she can at last feel how hard she’s made me, giving her just enough friction to make her gasp.
The muscles in her arms go slack for a second, and she almost drops the spoon. I force her to keep going.
She’s trembling now. The straps of her apron are barely holding, and I can see the curve of her breast where the fabric gapes. I resist biting the soft, perfect flesh. With time, I’ll mark her everywhere that’s already been marked, so the next time she looks in the mirror, she’ll only think of me.
“Why aren’t you touching me?” she hisses, not even trying to keep her composure anymore.
“Because you’re not finished,” I say and kiss the back of her neck, tasting salt, heat, and the faintest trace of her perfume.
She whimpers. I know Wrenley hates that she made that sound, but she doesn’t stop. I take the wooden spoon from her hand and toss it in the sink, then spin her to face me.
Wrenley’s breathless. Her pupils swallow the gold.
She’s panting, eyes flicking between my mouth and my eyes. Wrenley Morgan wants to tackle me onto the tile, claw at my shirt, and rip me open, but she’s holding herself together by a frayed thread.
Time to snap it.
I palm her jaw, thumb pressing just hard enough to make her mouth open.
“On your knees, Wrenley.”
She sinks down slowly.
The tile is cold, her knees are bare, and the air is electric. I stand above her, hands steady at my sides, and wait.
Wrenley looks up, eyes wild and wet.
“Now what?” she asks, her voice as fragile as new skin.
I brush a strand of hair from her face.
“You want to touch me?” I ask.
She nods, desperate.
“Not yet.”
I stand and unbutton my shirt, slow enough that her hands twitch toward me before she thinks better of it. I let my fingers run down the line of buttons, then shrug it off. Her gaze follows every move, starved.
“You can look,” I say. “But you don’t get to touch until I say.”
She licks her lips, chest rising and falling so fast I worry she might hyperventilate.
I reach for her chin and tilt her head back. “Open.”
She obeys. I slide two fingers between her lips, not gentle. She moans and bites down, just a little, then sucks. I leave them there, watching her eyes go glassy.
“Good,” I say. “You’re learning.”
I withdraw, tracing her mouth with my wet thumb, and she makes a noise that’s half protest, half plea.
I step out of my pants, kicking off my briefs and allowing my cock to spring free .
Her mouth parts wider, her tongue wetting her lower lip.
“Want it?” I ask, my voice a rasp.
She nods, not taking her eyes off my dick.
I take myself in hand and stroke, slow, letting her see what she’s been yearning for.
“Please,” she whispers. “Please, Saint. Let me take you into my mouth.”
“That’s a start.” I bring the head of my cock to her lips, and she takes it, tongue swirling before I’m even all the way in.
Her eyes flutter shut, and when I push deeper, she moans like it’s relief.
She’s greedy, hungry, and I have to brace a hand on the counter to keep from buckling when she hollows her cheeks and sucks.
I grip her hair, guiding her pace, and she lets me. Christ, she wants me to control it, wants to be used and cherished at the same time. I hold her there, hips rolling, until the heat builds so fast I have to pull back or lose it right then.
She gasps for air, eyes hazy, mouth soaked. “Don’t stop.”
With a pained grunt, I let her take me again, slower this time. I grip the edge of the counter, refusing to touch her, refusing to give her the satisfaction of control. I want to see how far she’ll go before I can’t be the one who holds the power anymore.
Because this girl, this fragile, hopeful, brilliant woman, is determined to tame me.
Her hands slide up my thighs. She pulls me deeper and hums, the vibration short-circuiting my brain. Her eyes never leave mine. She’s daring me to flinch, to look away, to admit that I want her so badly I’d burn down the whole goddamn world just to keep her in this kitchen, on her knees, forever.
She pulls off, dragging her tongue along the underside, then whispers, “How am I doing?”
I can’t answer. I can only watch as she licks me again, slower this time, using her hand to stroke what her mouth can’t reach.
It’s too much. I clench the counter until my knuckles ache, then catch her chin in my hand and pull her off with a wet pop. She grins, flushed and triumphant, licking her lower lip as she kneels at my feet.
“Stand up,” I say.
She rises, the apron gaping at the sides to show every inch of pale skin.
I back her up against the marble island, gripping her waist so hard she gasps.
The knot of the apron is a single tug away from coming loose, but I leave it for now, sliding my hand under the hem to palm her bare ass.
My fingers find the heat between her legs, and she shudders, moaning into my mouth when I kiss her, deep and bruising.
“You’re dripping,” I say, letting my fingers slide through the slick mess she’s made of herself.
“For you,” she says, and the words are a dare.
I hike her onto the counter, shoving aside the risotto and the wine. The apron barely covers her, and I push it up, exposing her thighs, her pussy glistening and swollen.
I spread her legs wide, stepping between them, and slide two fingers inside her.
“You’re going to make a mess on my counter,” I say, working her open with slow, curling strokes.
She tries to grind down on my hand, but I hold her in place, thumb circling her clit in tight circles until she’s gasping, hands splayed behind her on the marble.
“You’re going to make me?—”
I clamp my hand around her thigh and fuck her with my fingers, slow and deep, until her head falls back and she whimpers. The sound is pure, unvarnished need. She grabs my wrist, needing something to anchor her, but I don’t slow .
She shatters, legs trembling around my waist, her whole body arching off the counter as she comes on my hand. Her eyes roll up, her mouth open, and I watch every second of it, greedy for the way her body gives in to me.
While she’s still pulsing around my fingers, I pull her forward, so the apron bunches at her ribs, and bury my cock inside her.
She’s so wet I slide in to the hilt without resistance. Heat, muscle, velvet—she clamps around me, body still quaking from her orgasm. Her eyes flutter, her lips part, and there’s a little catch in her throat as she tries to say my name and fails.
I fuck her slow at first, just to hear her gasp at the stretch, and then pick up the pace.
Her ass scoots on the marble, hands scrambling for purchase on the slick surface. I grab her wrists and pin them behind her, forcing her chest up and her body open, arching her back.
Wrenley wants to move, to take control, but I’m not ready to relinquish it yet.
I keep her pinned, helpless, at my mercy.
Each time I bottom out, she shudders, eyes rolling back, thighs tightening around my waist. I want to make her come again.
I’d love to see how many times I can shatter her before she taps out.
“Fuck,” she gasps, voice gone thin and wild. “You’re … fuck, Saint?—”
“That’s right,” I say, pulling out just enough to make her whimper, then slamming back in, harder. “Say my fucking name.”
I fuck her slow, then hard, then slow again, never letting her settle, never giving her the rhythm she wants. It drives her insane. She’s panting, gasping, a string of curses and pleas leaking out between the shattered moans.
Her heart pounds so hard I can see it through her skin. Her nipples are dark and hard, the edge of the apron barely grazing them. I bend my mouth to one, biting just shy of pain, and she jerks like I’ve electrocuted her.
“Saint, please?—”
“Please what?” I ask, but I don’t stop. I circle her clit with my thumb while my cock stirs her up from the inside. She’s so tight around me I worry I’ll lose it too soon.
“Please, I need?—”
I let go of her wrists just to see what she’ll do. Wrenley doesn’t even try to fight me. Instead, she wraps her arms around my neck and pulls me in, nails clawing, teeth scraping my jaw. She’s feral, all instinct and need.
She claws at my shoulders, nails raking down my arms, dragging me closer. I feel the sting and welcome it, want her to mark me the way I’m marking her. I want her to carry this everywhere, in every step, every breath, every goddamn day she tries to pretend she’s not mine.
“Why—” she gasps. “Why are you?—”
“Because I can.” My lips scrape against her ear. “Because you like it when I make you wait.”
I kiss her hard. Then I grab her ass, lifting her so I can fuck her at the perfect angle, the head of my cock stroking just right, over and over.
Wrenley comes apart in seconds, clinging to me, her body shuddering so violently I have to hold her up. Her nails rake my back, and she clamps her legs around me and rides my cock. I let her have it, let her fuck herself sick, and it’s almost enough to break my composure.
I’d love it if I could last longer and draw this out, but she’s too tight, too hot, and her moans are like a goddamn metronome counting down to my surrender.
I let myself come, holding her through the aftershocks, biting her shoulder as I spill inside her, filling her until it leaks down her thighs and onto the marble.
I don’t pull out, not yet. I want her to feel me, want her to remember this every time she sits down at my counter to eat her morning yogurt.
We stay wound together, sweaty and sticky, her cheek pressed to my chest, my hand wrapped around the back of her neck.
I wait for the world to return to a normal rhythm, for the pounding in my head to subside enough that I can string sentences together.
When I finally look down, she’s got a lazy, blissed-out smile, eyes half lidded and glazed.
She swallows, then says, “You didn’t even let me try the risotto.”
For the first time in a long while, I respond with a full laugh.