23. Hendrix
Hendrix
T iny rivulets of pleasure flow through me, stirring me awake or deeper into a dream.
“Mhmm...” I reach down, feeling thick strands of Saint’s hair brushing through my fingers.
So soft and real.
With a needy tug, I roll my hips, resulting in a masculine groan so loud my eyelids spring open, finding myself exactly where I fell asleep. Lavell mansion, lights off in my room. But now with Saint’s head between my legs, and the rest of him taking up the lower half of the bed.
“What are you—?”
“Shhhh…”
He does that thing I used to hate but now love, then nibbles a line up my inner thigh.
I whimper when he draws a mouthful of the sensitive skin next to my pubic bone through his teeth.
“B-T-W, love the tattoo,” Saint mumbles, biting me again, but this time chasing the ache with soft kisses.
He slides my underwear to the side, exposing my pussy, then licks a line up the center before forcing his tongue inside my entrance.
My eyes roll when he does it again.
“Stop.”
“No fucking chance,” he says through a heavy breath. “I love eating you while you sleep.”
Somewhere nestled between pleasure and shock, lies explosive recollection.
“Have you done this to me before?!” I whisper way too loud.
“Yup,” Saint returns, unbothered as can be as he rips my underwear in half. “But the last time I made it way past kissing your legs before you woke.”
“What the—” I try to roll over, but he’s quick to sit up and wrench my thighs apart with his palms.
“Don’t bother trying to escape, Jimi. Because I’m fucking you no matter what.”
I wrestle against his hold. “There’s a word for that, you know.”
And Saint better not know it, because he just unlocked a kink of mine I never knew was even possible.
“Should I get you an encyclopedia?” he asks, shoving three fingers inside me with no warning.
I bite my lip as he begins thrusting.
“God, I fucking love watching you unravel.”
“When…did…you?” I ask between ragged breaths.
“The first night you slept in my bed.” Saint watches his fingers as they glide in and out of me. “You were like an angel spilling in your sleep.”
I peer down at his silhouette highlighted from the moonlight of the window. Hair messy. Chest bare with muscles flexing.
I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of seeing him like this.
A haunting shade of beautiful.
Similar to a lunar eclipse.
“How?” I manage to speak past the flutters coursing through me.
“Fuck if I know…I was baffled myself.” Saint blinks up at me, eyelids heavy. “Just not enough to stop.”
There’s something fundamentally wrong with him.
Who am I kidding? Me.
Because the thought of being unconscious as he eats me out is enough to rile an orgasm. To make my legs widen on their own accord to beg for more. Both taking place not even eighteen hours after I promised myself I’d be done with the trysts.
“You’re sick.”
“So you keep telling me, Jimi. But look at you.” He slaps his fingers against my swelling clit, and I arch my back. “So. Fucking. Needy.”
My nails are digging into the mattress as Saint rises to his knees to remove his shorts, making his hard cock spring out to greet me the second they pass his thighs.
Long and thick it bounces until he’s got it fisted in his hand.
“Guess I’m a little needy too.”
I watch Saint stroke himself, swallowing whatever saliva is left in my mouth.
“You gonna keep admiring my hard-on, Jimi? Or do something about it?”
Common sense rears its ugly head, along with the reminder our parents are sleeping somewhere in this house. My aunt. His sister too.
“We can’t, they’ll hear us.”
“Am I supposed to give a fuck?”
“Little bit, Letterman.”
“Does this mean you don’t want me taking your ass tonight?”
Yeah…definitely not the time to sail narrow waters with such a big boat.
“That’s exactly what this means.”
Saint’s smile is as cruel as it is wide. “Then it’s a good thing I still don’t give a fuck.” Before I can react, he yanks me to him by my waist and flips me over. “Sorry, Jimi. No time left for me to wait for your ass to strangle my cock.”
“Wait!” I croak when he settles behind me, absolute panic flooding my system.
Not because I don’t want him to do this, but because I know how much harder it’s going to be to cut ties if I allow him to take another one of my firsts.
Obviously not that one.
But virginity is more than just a torn hymen for me.
It’s first feelings, experiences, even decisions.
And so far I’ve allowed my enemy-turned-frenemy-back-to-enemy-stepbrother to own at least four of them.
Saint grips my neck, his dick nudging my ass as he turns my head to meet his icy glare.
Then, moments later, it melts away.
“Shit.” He rears back, taking in the fear I know is written all over my face, and I take in the conflict striking his.
Once again Saint threatens to do unspeakable things to me but cuts himself off at the moral crossroads he insists are never there.
The saying “be careful what you wish for” has come to mind a lot these past few days—because when I stood in the shower demanding Saint to keep showing me his good side, I never thought he actually would. Or that I’d grow attached to it the way I am.
“I’m giving you one chance to tell me to leave, Hendrix.”
I have no idea why hearing those words have tears welling, or why Saint feels the need to swipe a free one away with his thumb.
This is not supposed to happen.
We are not supposed to happen.
Yet…here I am.
Admiring the monster and the man.
There’s lust, restraint, and an urgency on Saint’s face I can’t quite figure out, but can tell it has nothing to do with back door sex.
Saint must’ve decided for me, because he lets go, and the fear of losing him, the monster, and this moment has me blurting out a frantic, “I don’t want you to leave.”
His jaw tightens.
“I swear.”
Through a long exhale, Saint maneuvers me around to face him, then guides my back onto the bed before climbing on top of me.
“What are you—?”
“Shhhhh…relax, okay?”
Kind of hard to do that when you know your Beetle is about to get rear ended by a mack truck. It’s not like Saint needs the reminder, given I’ve been drawing the line on butt play with his fingers.
…and maybe a little tongue.
But leave it to my awkward nerves to tell him anyway.
“Just a bit nervous.”
“Yeah, well. You should be.”
“Do you always have to be such an arrogant ass?”
“I’m not.” He chuckles, wrapping my legs around his waist one by one. “You’re a virgin. Gonna hurt no matter what.”
Of course Saint’s views on virginity match mine.
Otherwise…how else is the universe going to make ending this harder for me?
Saint instructs me again to relax as he adjusts his cock by my pussy entrance, then uses my wetness to lubricate it. “It’ll hurt less if I get you nice and stimulated everywhere else.”
I nod vigorously, heart racing as he pushes inside.
Saint hisses, filling me to the hilt, stretching me in all the best ways before moving again.
“Fuck. I knew you’d be addicting, Jimi, but not like this.” He kisses me hard and sneaks a hand under my shirt to squeeze my breast. “I don’t know how I’m gonna stop taking you.”
I’ve had the notion of ending things in my head for days now. So to hear Saint speak the same thoughts out loud shouldn’t surprise me—or affect me the way they are.
Definitely shouldn’t cause my heart to twist in my chest.
“Sounds a lot like a goodbye.”
He kisses me again, this time lingering by my lips when we disconnect. “Isn’t that what you want? What you’ve been battling with yourself this whole time?”
His cock surges into my pussy with a roll of his hips, and already my insides are tingling.
“We both know this needs to end.”
“Perhaps you’re right.” His fingers travel downward to play with my pussy—circling, rubbing, pinching until I’m squirming. Then he bites my lips, my neck, my shoulders, all the way down to my nipples through my shirt as he fucks me.
How this guy reads every single one of my cues is not only impressive, but a tough act to follow when this is over.
Over.
A word I loathe more than I did the shushing.
Saint removes himself from me to reach over and slide open my drawer, pulling out a bottle of lube I had no idea was in there and popping it open with his teeth.
“I told you I won’t stop.”
There’s an apology in there somewhere, I can hear it and feel it.
But definitely don’t need it.
Biting my inner cheek so hard I taste copper, I tell him, “I know.”
This time when he kisses me, it’s against my forehead, so tender yet heavy with words unspoken. I love what he’s doing, but not the dread suddenly whirling in my gut.
“Saint, is everything okay? Did something happen?” I question, but he ignores me by dousing two fingers in lube.
I saw him walk into his father’s office earlier, and intended to listen, but my mother pumped the brakes when she caught me with my ear against the door.
“Come chat with the girls,” she said. “I want you and Theory to go over our checklist of things we need for the first day of school.”
Of course I listened, because making a scene would only deter Saint from getting the answers we needed.
But now watching him act as though a proverbial shoe is about to drop, I wish I snooped harder instead of choosing sleep.
Maybe then I’d know why he seems just as wary as I am.
“Saint—”
I’m cut off by my body tensing as two fingers tease the entrance of my ass, pushing in and priming me until my chest and shoulders relax.
“Good girl. Breathe.” With that, he advances to his knuckle, seizing me once again.
My nails are clawing into the mattress when he mutters, “I got you, Jimi. Just stay with me.”
Why?
Why does he have to sound so sincere?
Make me not hate him?
What happened to the ruthless motherfucker who promised inevitable torture?
He’s gone, at least for now, and in his place is a guy I never thought would have me rooting for him.
Rooting for…