32. Hendrix #6
Tequila and lingering marijuana from his tongue explodes on mine as we link together, the taste bringing forth a sense of bliss and comfort I never knew existed until now.
It’s dizzying. Electrifying. And when Saint’s tongue withdraws from my mouth a whimper follows him right after.
“Shit, Jimi.” He kisses me hard. “I really missed you.”
I kiss him back even harder. “Me too.”
“So…friends again?”
I snort. “If that’s what you wanna call whatever we were.”
“What if it’s not?”
Warmth smothers every hidden crevice of my chest, the idea of what he’s implying already spiking my heart rate.
It brings me hope, but not certainty.
And I need certainty from him this time.
“Elaborate.”
Saint rears back just enough to pierce me with steady eyes.
“What if we stop fighting the inevitable?”
The inevitable .
How far those words have come from being a threat.
Fuck it. Fucking fuck it.
I did not go through weeks of withdrawal only to deny exactly what we are. There’s no more fight left in me to do it, anyway.
“Then…we stop.”
That boyish smile lights up Saint’s face again, and he’s back to kissing me. Without an ounce of hesitation or regret.
Only surrender.
Things heat up quickly as we switch between open, closed, nipping, sucking lips. And when I do the honors of drawing Saint’s bottom one through my teeth, he groans, thrusting his hips into me.
He does this several times, pushing the bottom of my dress past my underwear, making his jeans, and the erection behind them, scrape the bare skin of my thighs.
A few more to settle between them.
Usually, Saint is a lot more calculated with his movements, knowing precisely where and how to find and do everything to please a woman. It’s been a part of his endless boasting since we first started playing our games.
But right now? I love how desperation is forcing him to let go, to not think or be so perfect. It showcases a hint of innocence behind the charming mad king.
My pussy erupts in hot tingles with each of his thrusts, so delicious I wrap my leg around Saint’s ass to feel more of them.
“I want your cock inside me,” I breathe into his mouth.
There’s a sound of appreciation before he says, “Then we’re not leaving until you come all the fuck over it.”
Without another word, he retreats, leaving me alone with my tingles as he slides off his jacket, holding it out for me to put on.
“I’m not cold.”
“Cold has nothing to do with it.” Saint yanks me to him, granting me a peck to the lips before dressing me.
Regardless of the amount of times Saint’s offered me his jacket in the past, I never dared to accept it—afraid doing so would fuel his incessant need to prove I wanted him. But now that I’m drowning in its size, warmth, and his embodiment, I wish I caved sooner.
On instinct I breathe in the collar, closing my eyes when I’m bombarded by his usual fresh citrusy scent.
“Looks good on you…” Saint takes me in, arousal quickly turning into possessiveness.
Not going back there. Nope. Not yet.
Saint’ll have all the time in the world to play charming cavemen, but right now, I want only him.
Guess my thoughts escape me because in a flash I’m being slammed into the tree, watching Saint drop to his knees as he shoves my panties down my legs.
I attempt to help guide them off when getting stuck on my boots, but my hand gets smacked away by a voracious quarterback. I’d laugh about it if cotton and leather didn’t wake up to test my patience.
After a million damn years, they’re off, and I’m given no warning before Saint’s face is diving between my legs.
“Ah!” I cry out when the heat from his tongue coats my pussy, gliding up and down too fast for me to prepare myself. “Shit, shit, shit.”
It’s been a while since I orgasmed, and any girl who’s experienced one knows how much easier, and sometimes quicker, they are to achieve when starving for so long. Or at least that’s the excuse I give myself for already painfully throbbing.
Always the torture professional, Saint works me up, sucking and humming, until I’m a whimpering mess with my leg draped over his shoulder.
“I’ve dreamt about you almost every night since we ended.” He places sloppy kisses up the length of me. “Felt like dying not having you around.” A gentle nibble. “Who knows. Maybe I was.”
Saint is so engrossed in what he’s doing, I’m not even sure if he realizes what he’s saying is out loud. Only a complete dumbass would stop his confession, though. And I’m only, like, half of one.
In between his needy sounds and breaths, Saint continues his external thinking through fingering me, and I try to keep listening through static reactions of my own.
Moans, cries, squirms, pulling his hair.
Begging him to not stop when he crooks two fingers against the roof of my pussy.
Only problem—well, I wouldn’t call it a problem as much as a miscommunication—is that Saint may be confusing the plea with spilling secrets.
“I think a part of me always knew…you know?” He peppers a kiss on my Zinnia tattoo, still working my insides. “Even at the beginning on orientation.”
Always knew what?
Wait. What the heck did I miss?
“Knew wha—?” My inner- outer thought gets smothered by Saint pumping in tandem with the thumb he’s using to circle my clit.
My legs quiver, eyes strain from rolling, and all I can think about is his fingers and the zaps they’re shooting through me.
“So. Close,” I whisper. “Please don’t stop.”
Saint glances up at me, all messy haired and bedroom eyed, grinning devilishly. “Under one condition.”
“No conditions, Letterman.”
He removes his hands from between my thighs, using them to remove my leg from his shoulder and stand.
The audacity of the asshole…placing demands as he edges me.
“One condition, Jimi,” Saint repeats, this time with an earnestness that makes the whole demanding thing that much worse.
“Okay, fine,” I groan. “What’s the condition?”
“Tell me you’re mine.”
His words, albeit Tarzan-like, resonate with me in so many ways.
For the better part of a year, my relationship with Saint has been nothing short of complicated.
He was an itch I couldn’t scratch.
A thorn in my side I couldn’t get out.
A petty jerk I couldn’t escape.
But watching him in this moment, being as fierce with his vulnerability as he’s been with his madness, has my stubborn heart beating a brand new rhythm.
One that no longer resents Saint for showing me all sides of his fucked up coins, but appreciates that most of them were used to protect me, not hurt me. Something I couldn’t see then but feel in my bones now.
Which has me thinking back on the past, wondering:
Couldn’t see, or wouldn’t see?
The truth in the answer comes in the form of a moot point.
Because regardless of what I felt then, the idea of coming, going, or being anywhere without Saint is no longer one I want to entertain.
So in a way, I guess that makes me his already.