35. Hendrix
Hendrix
A fter the excitement died down on the field, anyone who was anyone dispersed to get ready for the post-win celebration at LACE. Saint went off with his team to the locker rooms, drenched in the Gatorade that was spilled over his and coach Balkan’s heads.
Given he’s a complete control freak over his belongings, Saint wasn’t thrilled, something his coach and entire team seemed to know by how hard they were laughing.
I almost expected him to go half you know who on them at first, maybe get zappy happy on them with Halo. But was pleasantly surprised when the only pain he inflicted was a few kicks in the asses.
That was two hours ago, and most of the time has been spent with me putting on my best face and sexiest outfit to drive my man absolutely insane.
My man.
I can’t believe how natural those two words have been rolling off my tongue, or how content they make me feel.
With twenty minutes left to spare, I’ve got everything cleaned, shaved, bangs swooped, waves loose and falling just under my collarbone.
I tried on a lot of banging outfits before settling on the moody black one I’m running my hands down in the mirror. My favorite pair of dark blue skinny jeans, black mesh top tucked behind them, matching bra. Paired with a black leather, gold emblem Gucci belt and thigh high boots.
Flat ones this time.
My fingers twist the horn by my sternum, which doesn’t quite go with the ensemble, but I promised Carlo I’d never take it off. Something I know pisses off who’ll be bursting in the room any minute, but that sounds like the caveman’s ultimate caveman problem.
Carlo is no longer just a bodyguard to me, he’s the family I never wanted but can’t imagine not having now.
I’ve just finished applying my mauve lipstick when one, two, three gentle knocks come from the door.
“ Signorina… ” Carlo calls from the hall, asking if I’m dressed and if he can come in.
“Yeah, all good!” I shout, still looking myself over in the mirror.
The door opens but doesn’t close.
“Oh, eh .” Carlo looks uncomfortably around the room as I turn to face him, holding out my arms to seek his opinion.
“What? You don’t like it?” I ask, kinda bummed because he’s my honest shopping buddy compared to Archer.
Still unable to make eye contact, he says, “Very beautiful, signorina , but, eh .” He shoots a quick glance at my chest, which is when I’m reminded of the almost clear view of my bra and cleavage pressed against the tight top.
Carlo responds with something I translate to be “it’s not appropriate for me to look at you. ”
A valid, and very modest point.
Similar to one Vic would make if he was a sweet, scary mobster.
With a humored sigh, I turn and make my way to the dresser, where my mini clutch and the lipstick waiting to be stuffed into it is. A few strides back to Carlo, and I hand the bag over for him to store inside his suit pocket. He does so without an ounce of macho man reluctance.
What?
I hate carrying bags when I don’t have to.
Lifting onto my toes, I pop a kiss on his stubbly cheek, then squeeze his chin in an adoring way. “My favorite friendly mobster.”
Carlo ruffles my hair, and I scold him playfully with a nudge to his shoulder.
I’m smoothing the frizz in the mirror as a furious Saint growl rumbles from the doorway. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”
“ Mannaggia …” Carlo mutters his annoyance with an eye roll, then moves out of the way for the storm he knows is coming.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Jimi?” Saint’s jaw is a chiseled glass of fury and lust as he takes in my outfit. By outfit, I mean the boobs I’ve been torturing him with for a year.
I can’t stop my eyes as they gravitate to his body too.
Saint’s hair is styled differently, more wavy than sleek as it parts a bit to the side. The looser strands allow a few hairs to fall against his forehead, giving him a less polished, naturally scuffed look.
Unless formal wear is called for, it’s rare to see Saint outside a sports jersey and hat. He’s still rocking his usual Jordans, white high top 1’s, but this time they’re accompanied by ripped jeans and a cream fitted crew to match the Nike check on his sneakers.
My cheeks heat when I take in every sinful curve of broad muscle defined by the T-Shirt—pecs, biceps, narrow waist, even a hint of his six pack.
All taut and furious with me.
Fuuuuuuck.
No eighteen year old in the world should be allowed to look this damn good without a warning label:
BEWARE: Direct eye contact will result in dropping panties.
But I’m the fucking problem here?
“What? You don’t like it?” I respond to Saint the same way I did Carlo, biting back the joke he has no idea I’m making of it.
Carlo does, though, because he looks ahead and chuckles.
“ I do ,” he grinds out. “And that’s why you’re not fucking wearing it.”
“Oh, but I am.” I boop his nose, loving how worked up he’s getting, that is, until darkness takes over his eyes like a storm cloud.
Shit. Was it the boop?
Too emasculating?
Did I just wake the wrong beast?
“Get out,” Saint orders with a slitted gaze.
It confuses me until his head whips around to Carlo.
“Get the fuck out,” he repeats, a lot colder this time. “And tonight you’re not seen or fucking heard.”
Carlo, not as easily riled by Saint’s cave dweller antics anymore, drifts a questioning side eye to me, and after a moment of studying which man is in front of me, I tell him it’s okay to leave. Saint’s mad, yeah, but he’s still Saint , and his anger is mixed with something all too enticing.
The moment the door is closed, I’m met with a smoldering gaze hot enough to light my damn body on fire. But then again…there’s not much that isn’t hot about how Saint looks tonight.
He steps close enough to tower over me, and I lick my lips, equal parts aroused and terrified when his fingers tangle in my hair.
A wave of pleasure courses between my legs when Saint tilts my head back, perusing my face like a starved lion.
Eyes. Cheeks. Jaw. Saint studies them all in a slow, deliberate, clockwise motion.
“Letterman…” I breathe a needy sigh, right before his lips crash to mine in a violent, demanding, not at all pretty way.
The second my mouth opens for him, Saint groans, moving his tongue with mine in furious swirls and laps.
My own primal instincts take over, and I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him closer.
“You like extorting my weakness, huh, Jimi?” His voice is low, filthy, and dangerous. “Is that it?”
“Maybe a little,” I say breathlessly, as Saint slams me into my small rectangular table.
“Mhmm…” He hoists me on the edge of it, then settles between my legs, grinding his erection against my pussy. The friction from our jeans is intense enough to force a moan out of me.
“You’re a wet fucking dream.” His lips claim me again with a bruising kiss. “But only for me.”
I can smell the message behind the compliment from a mile away, let alone zero millimeters.
Not about to start an argument we both know Saint will lose, I choose to keep the rebuttal to myself, and instead, get my way with a game I know he can’t refuse to play.
With eager fingers, I unclasp his jeans, wasting no time shimmying them down until his long, thick cock springs out.
Dicks were never something I deemed sexy without being pleasured by one, but Saint’s? Fuck. I can get myself off just watching him stroke himself.
The length, veins, girth, smoothness of the tip.
All the components needed to mold any girl’s fantasy dildo.
With zero fucks to give about being sanitary, I spit saliva on my palm, and Saint watches with something dark and carnal as my hand wraps around him.
“Look at me,” I demand, and only when his eyes are boring into mine do my fingers tighten.
“Fuck,” Saint hisses as I slowly glide up and down his shaft. “What am I gonna do with you?”
“What if I told you whatever you want?”
“Whatever?”
“However, a nd wherever…” I pick up the pace, and Saint throws his head back.
“Fuuuuuckkkkk…you’re an evil little temptress, Jimi.”
“So, is that a yes?”
Blue, dangerous hooded eyes meet mine. “What’s the catch?”
With my hand around his cock still pumping, I use my free one to trail a lazy finger down my exposed chest. Then point an eyebrow to drive the intention home.
“No way,” Saint grits out, sounding physically pained. “I’ll end up killing every motherfucker who looks at you.”
“ Wherever ,” I croon, then slide my tongue over my upper lip. “Mouth…pussy.” Straightening my back, I keep my lips a breath from Saint’s, guiding his hand behind me to slap my ass.
A low growl escapes him. “You’re lookin’ to kill me tonight, aren’t you?”
“Of course not, baby.”
I’m looking to win.
The wheels start turning in Saint’s head, with clear signs of a struggle, but when I use my thumb to massage his other one, I know it’s game over.
“Shit…” He squeezes his eyelids shut, jaw clenching a few times before gritting out, “Fine, fucking fine. But if people start getting electrocuted, you have only your tits to blame.”
“Good boy.” I wink. “Now tell me where you want me.”
A slow, smug grin spreads Saint’s lips before he yanks me off the table. His cock bobs mere inches from my abdomen, and when I zero in I spot a bead of precum leaking from his tip.
My adrenaline spikes with anticipation, the throbbing between my legs turning to aches as I envision all the filthy things he may do to me.
When I catch Saint’s eye again, I find all deliberation has been wiped from his face. “On your knees… baby .” The term of endearment comes out as a marking of his word.
A promise he’s about to take me for everything I have to offer.
Well, bring. It. On. Letterman.
The next thing I know Saint’s got two hands on my shoulders, forcing me to my knees in one harsh movement. A sting shoots up and down my legs, adding a sharp twist to the ache growing between them. The mixed sensations are so delicious a hum creeps up and out from my throat.
“You said however ...” Saint reminds me with a squeeze to my chin. “Sure you meant it?”