Chapter Seventeen
Presley
The pure need I feel for this man right now is strong. I feel every touch, every inch of his body pressed against mine.
I lift up and straddle him, my knees digging into the mattress on either side of his hips as I settle my pussy directly over his thick erection.
My hands rest flat against the broad expanse of his chest, my fingers splayed over his skin, catching the steady beat of his heart. It’s powerful and grounding, and I know without a doubt that I’m not just looking for instant relief. I’m looking for him. The connection we share.
“I want to take this slow,” I whisper, the words vibrating in the small space between us.
“We’re in no rush tonight. It’s just you and me,” he says, voice gravelly.
I lean down to kiss him and slide my tongue into his mouth. He grabs the back of my head, holding me in place, like he wants to keep me there forever.
I move over him, a deliberate, agonizingly shallow tilt of my hips, which draws a low, jagged growl from deep in his throat. I want to feel every shift of muscle beneath me, the way they tighten in response to my body.
His hands come up, but they don’t grab me with frantic energy. Instead, his palms settle on my waist, like he’s using it as an anchor. His fingers dig in just enough to leave a branding of heat on my skin, the calluses a delicious, rough contrast to the slick friction where we’re joined.
I’m completely soaked, and I have no doubt that if I looked, he would have a wet mark on his boxers from me.
I lean forward, letting my hair fall like a curtain around our faces, creating a world that exists for only us.
I break the kiss and rest my forehead against his, breathing him in—his warm skin, the scent of soap, and that intoxicating musky spice that belongs only to him.
The air between our lips is electric, humming with a tension so taut that it feels like it might snap if I move too fast.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs against my lips. His voice has a low vibration that I swear travels straight through my body and right to my pussy.
He reaches up, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw with a reverence that makes my breath hitch.
His hand moves back to the nape of my neck, his fingers tangling in my hair to gently tilt my head back, but only enough to graze his lips against mine, teasing.
It’s not quite a kiss, but something that feels far more intimate.
I can feel the heat radiating from him, a mounting pressure that makes my stomach flip and my thighs ache with sweet need.
“Saint,” I whisper, “I need to feel you inside me.”
“You can have all of me, Presley. Take it all,” he says before plunging his tongue into my mouth, like he can’t get enough of my taste. He sucks, twirls his tongue with mine, and nips my bottom lip.
I sit up and pull my shirt off and toss it to the floor.
“Touch me.” I take his hands and put them on my breasts.
He squeezes me, then cups them in his hands, his thumbs brushing over my nipples. “So perfect.”
I roll off of him just long enough to pull my underwear off, and he removes his boxers as I take off mine.
When I settle back over him, we both groan when his dick slides between my center.
“Fuck, Doc. Grind that pussy on me. I want you soaking my cock until we can’t wait any longer. And then I’m gonna fill you up until you forget your own name.”
His words make me shiver, and I instinctively move my hips back and forth, and every time he reaches my opening, I let it slide in a little more each time. Teasing us both to the point of insanity.
We kiss, we touch, we grind against one another until I just can’t take it anymore. I glide my pussy over his cock, his crown hitting my clit, then move down until he sinks in.
Saint lets me set the pace, and I love the way he feels, stretching me, making me feel so full.
His hands are roaming over my body like he just can’t decide what he wants to touch, and he settles on my hips when he’s completely sheathed inside me.
He holds me still for a minute, thrusting up inside me slowly, once … twice.
“Saint …” I sit up, my palms resting on his chest. “You’re so deep. I can’t …”
“No, baby. I’m just getting started. This pussy is mine till the sun comes up.”
I find a rhythm that’s fluid and constant, a slow-motion slide that allows me to savor the way his breath hitches every time I grind down.
And I feel like I’m hyperaware of everything—the dampness of my palms against his chest, the way the muscles in his arms cord as he holds me steady, and the relentless, searing heat building at the base of my stomach.
This isn’t a race to the finish. It’s a claiming of every nerve ending in my body.
“Tell me,” he rasps, his green eyes dark and dilated, never breaking contact with mine. “Tell me how I feel inside you.”
I roll my hips seeking friction.
“Like I’m melting,” I breathe out, my voice sounding wrecked. “Like you’re the only thing in my world.”
I increase the pressure, arching my back as I find that perfect, devastating point of connection. The friction is sharp and focused, sending sparks through my entire body.
He’s shuddering beneath me, trying to hold on to the last threads of control. His hand on my waist tightens, and I know he’s right there with me.
We don’t need words. Our bodies speaking the words we aren’t brave enough to say.
The buildup is a slow-climbing fever, a heavy ache that demands more, even as I force myself to stay at this pace. But I can’t hold back anymore. And when the wave finally starts to break, it rolls over me, deep and all-consuming.
I keep my eyes locked on his, refusing to miss the way he falls apart under me. It’s the raw, stripped-bare expression on his face that finally claims us both. It’s slow, inevitable, and utterly shattering.
As we come down, everything feels quiet. Like we found a new connection to each other. This wasn’t just fucking.
And as I catch my breath, I lie with my head tucked against his shoulder, my fingers tracing lazy patterns over his damp skin. His arm is wrapped around me, holding me like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Us tucked together like this.
This wasn’t rushed, or forced, or built out of grief or desperation. It just felt right.
I let out a slow breath, then place a kiss on his chest.
“Hey,” I murmur.
His fingers start to stroke my arm. “Hi.”
There’s a softness in his voice I haven’t heard in a while, and it does something to me.
“So we should probably talk about this,” I say.
He huffs a laugh. “Yeah, that sounds like a responsible thing to do.”
I smile against his skin. “Hey, I’m very responsible.”
“And so am I,” he teases. “We’re both the oldest children. I think it was ingrained in us the minute we left the womb.”
I tilt my head just enough to look at him. “You did propose in the middle of us drinking wine after a custody meeting though.”
He grins. “Romantic, right?”
“Totally.”
He shifts slightly to prop himself up on one elbow so he can look at me. “You’re right, though. We should do this properly.”
“Okay … what does that mean to you?”
“First of all,” he continues, “we have to follow the rules of the pact.”
I blink. “Do you remember all of them?”
“Of course I do,” he says. “You think I’d forget the most important legally binding agreement of my life?”
I smirk. “Hardly legally binding.”
“Well, it was definitely emotionally binding.”
I smile because seeing him like this again makes my heart happy.
“Okay,” I say, “Let’s hear it.”
He holds up a finger. “No fuss wedding.”
“Agree,” I say immediately. I know I could have an outrageously expensive wedding that my mother would love to plan, but that’s not really my style.
“Oreo cake. Preferably mint Oreo, but we can do a plain double-stuffed layer for you.”
I smile. “Nonnegotiable.”
“Our song should be played at some point on that day.”
“Is it even a wedding without a Garth Brooks song?”
He points at me. “Exactly.”
When he raises another finger, he has a devilish look on his face. “Orgasms day and night.”
I suck in a breath because even though I just had an orgasm, those words coming out of his mouth … yeah, it wouldn’t take much to get me on my back.
“Right. Day and night,” I choke.
“What?” he says innocently. “It’s the pact, Doc.”
I try to hide my smile. “Uh-huh.”
“I’m just saying”—he lifts his brows—“we made a commitment.”
I shake my head, laughing. “Okay, you win.”
“And,” he continues, “never go to bed angry.”
My smile softens. “Never.”
I shift slightly to prop myself up to face him more fully. “So, we’ll need witnesses.”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Liam and Alie.”
I smile. “Okay, that was my thought too.”
“Do you think they’ll be surprised?” he asks.
I shake my head. “I don’t think so, no. You know I talked to my sister about it already. And I’m sure she talked to Liam. Did you tell him?”
“No, I didn’t talk to him about it. Remy was with us, then parents were staring, so it wasn’t the right time.”
I nod.
“I might not be giving you the wedding of your dreams, but I know it’s important for you to have your sister with you, so it just makes sense for it to be them.”
“Thank you,” I say softly.
He leans down to kiss me gently. And for a minute, we both get lost in the kiss. But before we get too carried away, I pull back.
“Okay, back to our planning,” I continue. “We’ll need a marriage license.”
“Right,” he says. “That’s a real thing.”
“Yes, Saint,” I say dryly. “Very real. Very required.”
He nods. “Okay, we can do that tomorrow.”
“After school drop-off?”
“And daycare,” he says.
I smile. “You mean the nursery?”
“Same thing.”
I lift a shoulder. “Sort of.”
He rolls his eyes. “It’s a place where children go, Pres.”
I laugh.
“Speaking of the kids,” I say.
“Yeah.”
I reach for his hand, lacing our fingers together. “How do you want to tell them?”
He thinks for a second.
“I’m not sure we make it a big thing,” he says slowly. “They’ve just gone through so much.”
I nod.
“I think we just … keep doing what we’re doing,” he continues. “You pretty much live here anyway. They love and trust you.”
“And they’re used to seeing us together,” I add.
“Exactly.”
I squeeze his hand. “So we just tell them we’re married.”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“I mean, it will be the truth.”
“Right, truth.”
There’s something simple about that word.
Not complicating anything. Just letting it be what it is.
“How do you want to handle your parents?” he asks after a moment.
I let out a breath. “Well, my dad already knows the legal aspect since he was there.”
“Right.”
“But this part”—I gesture between our naked bodies—“is a little different.”
“You’re right, it is,” he says with certainty.
“I’m sure my dad has told my mom,” I say. “I really think they’ll be supportive under the circumstances.”
“I know,” he says. “I just want to make sure they know I’m not using you.”
“Using me?” I ask.
He nods. “I’m not using you. I want them to know how much I care about you.”
“Okay,” I pause. “We should talk to them together. I think after the wedding though. I know my mom will want a party, and we agreed on a no-fuss wedding.”
“Absolutely.”
There’s a quiet understanding that this will affect everything. The kids. My family. The team. The organization as a whole. Our future.
But it feels … simple.
“So tomorrow,” I say, I tick things off mentally. “School, nursery, marriage license.”
“Get married?” he adds casually.
I blink at him.
“Saint, there’s a waiting period.”
“There is?”
“Yeah, I think we have to wait, like, twenty-four or forty-eight hours after we get the license.”
“Huh, okay.”
“You just slid that in there like it’s normal, everyday conversation.”
He shrugs. “Feels normal to me.”
And the thing is, he’s not wrong. It does.
I study him for a minute.
“You’re not nervous?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “No.”
“Not even a little?”
“No, why? Are you?”
I think about it.
“No,” I say.
I’m not anxious, panicked, or second-guessing any of it.
Almost like something has clicked into place. Like all the years apart and the challenges of our careers have led us to this point.
“Good.”
I lay back down on his shoulder.
“There is another thing I was thinking about.”
“What’s that?”
“In the last year of my fellowship, you know I started to brainstorm an idea to create a foundation. You know, just planning for the future.”
He strokes my back softly. “Yeah, I remember.”
“I’d like to create a sports program for underprivileged children. I want to give kids a safe place to play and explore different sports and activities.”
“Right, but what does that have to do with us right now?” he asks.
“Well, I plan to use money from my trust fund. But I can’t access the money until I’m thirty-five … or married for at least a year.” I look up at him.
He smiles. “So, we both get something we want then.”
“I guess so, but, Saint”—I rest my chin on my hands, looking at him—“that’s not why I agreed to marry you.”
“I didn’t think it was. I know you’re doing this for me.”
“And the kids. They need you.” I say.
“I need them just as much. I just never knew how much until now.”
I hate the pain losing his sister has caused him and the kids. But I also think it would have been worse if they didn’t have each other.
We lay quietly, wrapped up in each other.
I listen to his heartbeat, and am close to falling asleep, but then he says, “I’m glad it’s you.”
“You are?” I say against his skin.
“Yeah.”
I smile softly. “Me too.”
And that is it—because we both know what the other is saying.
No big declarations or dramatics.
Just the truth.
He kisses my head, and I feel his breathing against my cheek even out as sleep pulls us under.
But one thing hits me just before I’m out.
I’m not lying here panicking about whether or not I’m making a mistake.
I’m not agonizing over every possible outcome.
I’m not trying to talk myself out of it.
I just feel peaceful.
Being wrapped up in him is exactly where I’m supposed to be right now.
His arm tightens around me, even in his sleep, and I know that this doesn’t feel like something that’ll go wrong. It feels like something that’s been right all along.