39. Hendrix #2
“You goin’ commando for me, baby?” The question is instantly followed by his hand snaking between us, tracing along the damp area in question.
“Mhmmmmmm…” He lets out a deep, appreciative sound, which only adds to the ache between my legs.
That, and the fact he’s toying my clit harshly through the thin fabric.
“Saint…” I whine, tilting my hips in encouragement.
He grins. “Yes, baby?”
“I want your cock inside me.”
He rises until our faces ghost each other. “I’ve got a better idea.” Saint licks my parted lips with the tip of his tongue, then removes his hand from my pussy, taking me from aroused to murderous in less than a second.
“What the hell—”
“Come with me.”
“No fucking way, dude.” I laugh, kind of maniacally, if I’m being honest. There’s no chance I’m leaving this bed without us blessing it first.
Apparently, Saint’s not in the business of giving a shit, because he rolls me over, pressing a long, bruising kiss to my lips before hiking us both to our feet.
“And I’m the tease?” I protest like a child as he, shocker, drags me down the steps, all the way over to where bottles of paint are taking over a shelf.
Picking up a bright blue bottle, Saint waves it in front of me. “I know you’re more the drawing type…but…”
Oh, I am so picking up what he’s putting down on the table next to us.
“You wanna paint?” I ask, knowing damn well the answer, it’s just fun to make him work for it.
Saint’s gaze is blazing hot as he lifts me onto the edge of the table, inserting himself between my legs. “Something like that, yeah,” he says, hooking two fingers behind my bra and pulling it off, then tossing it somewhere behind him.
My breasts stand round, nipples perked as he drinks me in, and the primal rumble in his throat has prickles exploding from head to toe.
“Fuck, Jimi. I could stare at your tits until my eyes bleed.”
I chuckle a “Thank you, I think?” but get no further than that before Saint is pushing me back onto the table, taking two fistfuls of them in his hands, and a nipple in his mouth.
“Ah, fuck.” I arch myself into him as he scrapes the sensitive skin through his teeth.
The rumble in his throat turns full on growl when he deepens the assault, massaging, licking, sucking, biting each of my breasts until I’m nothing more than an explosion of nerve endings trying to grind my pussy against any surface of him I can.
Saint’s eagerness picks up as he kisses a trail down my entire body, not bothering to stop as he pulls off my sneakers and pants.
The second his trail of kisses return to my lips, I’m tearing his clothes off with far less sensuality than he did.
Jacket flies, shirt flies, even his sweatpants are shown no remorse as I shimmy them down his legs with my feet, only to get stuck at his ankles.
“Stupid Jordans,” I whine into his mouth, and Saint chuckles, leaving the rest of his undressing to do himself as we continue devouring each other with our tongues.
That is, until Saint’s heading south of the border again.
I grip his hair to stop him, my hips wiggling with the need to feel the initial thrust of his cock.
A guilty pleasure where the thought alone has had me orgasm on my own an unhealthy amount of times.
“No. I need you inside me.”
If Saint wants to argue, it’s not for long because in less than three seconds I’m getting yanked to the edge of the table, his heated gaze hanging over me as he works my pussy with his fingers.
Saint shoves two inside, and instinctively I push against the advance, moaning until fingers get replaced with what I’ve been waiting for.
“Yes,” I whimper. “Now give it to me.”
A devious smirk lifts the corner of Saint’s lips as the head of his cock teases my entrance.
Fucker.
Too sex crazed to give a shit about how desperate I look, I curl my legs around his waist, forcing his cock to bury inside me.
The move works, likely because he allowed it to.
“Ah!” I cry out when Saint fills me completely, and he stays this way until I’m squirming for him.
“More,” I demand, and he slams into me with a grunt.
“Again.”
Another slam, this time hard enough to sting, but the pain only spurs me on even more.
“Yes! Keep going, just like that.”
“Damn it, Jimi.” Saint claws my hips as he attacks my pussy. “I love it when you’re needy for me.”
The sound of wet kisses, moans, and slapping skin is all that passes between us as we writhe and move as a single unit.
Saint, as always, knows exactly when to slow down, pick up speed, and add some finger action to bring me over the edge.
A skill he’s been mastering as if his sole purpose in life is to pleasure me.
“I’m gonna come.” I whimper as he rolls his hips into me.
“My second favorite three words.”
Sweat builds at Saint’s neck as his strokes tighten, tilting his hips just enough to hit my g-spot.
“Right there…” I demand, eyes fluttering closed as I focus on the butterflies dancing inside me.
Saint does not let up, in fact, he continues fucking me this way until sweat beads at his forehead and his grunts turn to ragged breaths.
I scream as the walls of my pussy pulse against his cock, an explosive orgasm following right after. My thighs tremble, fingers digging into Saint’s muscular ass as I ride out the waves of pleasure.
I’m granted no reprieve from Saint as he tightens a fist around my hair, driving into me with so much force I’d be sliding halfway across the table if he wasn’t holding me.
I’m so sensitive it hurts, but it’s so good I’ll never get enough of the beautiful man before me.
Saint’s focus. Determination. The way his body moves, the sounds he makes, the hard plains of his muscles contracting. All to pleasure me.
It’s an astronomical turn on.
My lungs can barely keep up with his movements to allow air to flow through them, to the point where I don’t bother trying to breathe as he finishes destroying my body, and me, for everyone else.
Saint’s cock pulses, and a few strokes later he’s moaning through an orgasm.
“Holy shit.” He collapses onto me, once again restricting oxygen, but I don’t care. Oxygen after hot sex is overrated. His face is buried into my neck as he mutters, “I don’t know how I went a year without fucking you.”
“That’s easy…” I let out a restricted laugh. “By being an asshole.”
It’s a joke, but Saint doesn’t seem to take it that way because he lifts himself to hover over me with a quick push up. “Fuck. Did I hurt you?”
Here we go ’round the panicky bush again.
“Why the heck do you keep worrying about this?”
Especially since I’ve reassured him like a bajillion times.
“I forget I’m heavier than you.”
Bringing Saint closer by the neck, I place a soft kiss on his lips, still trying to keep up the light tempo. “Okay, well, I survived.”
He laughs, but it’s hollow, so I cup the sides of his face, running my thumbs in soft circles around his cheeks.
“Saint, listen. I’ve never once believed you’d ever physically hurt me. Or anyone you care about. It’s time for you to believe it also.”
Am I stupid? Sometimes.
But no longer when it comes to Saint’s anxiety over hurting me.
I realized the moment he admitted what happened with the little girl at his school and tried explaining in depth to him how it wasn’t his fault. What happened that day was a horrific tragedy, but she survived, and Saint has a tremendous amount of self-control when it comes to his loved ones.
You know the expression beating a dead horse?
Well, this is like beating a dead quarterback.
Saint looks away, blinking a few times as he usually does.
I allow him some time to ruminate, but the second I feel the mood shifting downward, I’m full force on redirecting.
“Didn’t you mention something about painting?”
This has a bit of sparkle returning to Saint’s eyes when they’re back on me. “How could I forget?” He grins, reaching for the blue bottle of paint, shifting his weight on one side to twist it open.
That’s when I realize…he’s still inside me.
“Shouldn’t you…” I quirk a brow where we’re still connected. “Do something about this first?”
Saint nonchalantly pours a line of paint down my stomach, making my abdomen dip from the cool sensation. “Jimi, if I had it my way, my Royal Cock would be sewn inside your pussy.” He places the bottle next to him, and a hiss skates past my lips when his finger swirls the color around my skin.
“Asshole. I said you’re not allowed to call it that.”
No response is given, other than attention on my body as he paints it. My belly button, my ribs, my waist, every surface prickles with his soothing motion. Prickles turn to full on sparks when he draws a line over a peaked nipple.
“Mhmmm…” I hum when he dips through the valley of my breasts, and arch my back when he slides over another hard nipple.
It’s been over a year and a million touches since I first met Saint, and yet his fingers on me feel no less like being zapped by a livewire.
Somewhere between my arousal drunk haze, Saint’s managed to start pouring another trail of paint from my neck to my abdomen.
But this time, instead of collecting the blue for lazy swirls, he’s actually painting with purpose. Specifically over the ribs caging my heart.
I watch him intently as he smiles, drawing four small circles next to each other, right under them a sideways oval.
Tilting my head for a better look, I realize it’s…
“My second prized possession,” Saint says, as if hearing my thoughts. “Protecting my first one.”
My heart expands, bursts, and gets put back together all at the same time when Saint gazes up at me, an undeniable emotion sparkling the blue in his irises. I know because it’s the same one I can feel sparkling in my green ones.
Love.
The limitless, insane, unapologetic kind.
In other words…the forever kind.