11. Wrenley #2
Only after he adds more logs and the warm light illuminates him more fully do I truly see him.
Water streams down his bare chest and arms. His briefs are soaked through, molding to his muscled thighs and very toned ass. But setting aside his gorgeous, well-endowed body, I realize he hadn’t bothered with a shirt, pants, or shoes before running outside to find me.
Me.
That naked truth hits me with the force of another thunderclap, but this one resonates deep in my chest, a strange, warm ache .
“You didn’t even grab a shirt,” I whisper.
He hears me over the crackling fire and stops, his hand tangled in the wet hair on his head. Saint looks down, as if just noticing he’s bare-chested and dripping, and every ridge of him under his briefs is on display. “There wasn’t time.”
“You could have been struck by lightning,” I say lamely, because I’m so overwhelmed by the fact that this man ran out in a dangerous storm for me.
Saint lifts his gaze to mine before he looks away, toward the growing blaze. “The main house is renovated, but the guesthouse is old. I didn’t want you trapped in there alone.”
This entire time he hasn’t shivered, hasn’t complained. Hasn’t even paused to consider his own comfort or safety until I was wrapped in thick terrycloth and a growing sense of bewildered gratitude.
“Is Ivy okay?”
“She has a white-noise machine that rivals the sound of a pod of a thousand whales. She’s sleeping through this like a baby.”
He finally turns, grabbing another towel from a linen closet I hadn’t noticed tucked beside the fireplace. He scrubs it roughly over his hair, then his chest and arms, the movements brisk. Water still slicks his skin, gooseflesh rising on his arms despite the growing warmth from the fire.
I’m holding the spare towel I’d grabbed earlier, the one I’d almost offered him. It suddenly feels rough in my shaking hands. “Saint.”
He turns, one eyebrow raised in question.
“You’re going to catch your death.”
I pad closer, into his space. The heat from the fire warms one side of me and the chill from his wet skin cools the other. I lift the towel, my intentions clear.
Saint’s eyes follow the movement, then meet mine again. He doesn’t move to take it, nor does he stop me when I press it against his cheek. My knuckles brush against his temple.
He stills.
I work the towel over to his other cheek, then over his shoulders, absorbing some of the rain, the friction a small, inadequate offering against the cold that must be seeping into his bones.
Using the towel, I skim over the hard planes of his chest, tracing the edge of a chef’s knife tattoo that disappears under his arm. His ink is extra dark in the firelight, intricate and thick.
“You have a lot of tattoos,” I murmur, the towel slowing, my hand lingering perhaps a little too long over a swirl of ink near his hip-bone.
Saint’s chest rises and falls with steady breaths, but his eyes won’t leave my face. “Each one means something.”
“I bet they do.”
My attention drops to the waistband of his soaked briefs, then back up to his eyes.
Big mistake.
“Wrenley.”
My name comes out raspier than usual, more like a warning than a command. His fingers close over my wrist, stopping my downward trajectory. The towel falls, landing softly on the rug between us.
“You’re … still wet,” I say.
What a stupid thing to say out loud. An obvious thing.
“Am I?”
His hand skims from my wrist to cover mine where it rests against his skin.
He’s warm, calloused, engulfing my entire hand and pressing my palm more firmly against him.
The contact is electric, a direct current bypassing all my caution.
Then the memory of my dream, of his hands and mouth on my body, floods back with dizzying accuracy.
“Your shirt is practically see-through,” he counters.
I look down. He’s right. The thin cotton, soaked and clinging, leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. My nipples are hard, dark pebbles against the pale fabric. The curve of my stomach, the swell of my hips, the shadow between my thighs—all on display.
“Oh.” The word is a puff of air.
His thumb strokes the back of my hand, a slow, sensual movement that sends tremors down my spine.
“Are you going to pretend you weren’t about to dry off my dick?”
My eyes snap to his face, wide with mortification and a confusing thrill. “What? I was—I was patting you down with a towel!”
His gaze drops to my mouth, then lower, lingering on the damp fabric clinging to my breasts. “Or were you just curious about what else matches your dream?”
My stomach plummets.
He knows. How can he possibly know?
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Liar.”
He crowds me, backing me toward the hearth until the heat of the fire scorches my calves.
“You screamed my name loud enough for me to hear it from my balcony before the thunder drowned you out.”
“No,” I deny, my voice too high-pitched to contain any truth. “You must’ve heard wrong. A bird, or an owl, or some farm animal nearby. It could be anything—wait, what were you doing on your balcony in your underwear?”
“Couldn’t sleep. ”
Saint doesn’t elaborate, and his unreadable expression doesn’t betray why he couldn’t fall sleep.
I’m trapped. Trapped between the fire and the storm in his eyes.
“I…”
Excuses fail me.
He squeezes my hand still plastered against his chest, where his heart beats faster. “Tell me about the dream, Wrenley.”
Saint’s free hand comes up, his fingers tracing the line of my jaw, then dipping to the hollow of my throat where my pulse hammers a frantic rhythm. “Was I good to you?”
My mind races. The heat from the fire, the heat from his body, the heat from my own blush, it’s all melding into one molten wave of lava.
“You were … present,” I finally say.
“Oh, well that needs correcting.” His thumb brushes against my pulse point again. “When I fuck a woman, I’m not just ‘present.’ I become her everything, and she becomes mine. I devour her.”
I gulp. “Okay, well, you were … you seemed to know what you were doing.”
Saint’s mouth curves. He’s enjoying this. The bastard. He’s enjoying my utter mortification.
“Did I make you come, Wrenley?”
The storm outside answers with a furious gust of wind that rattles the windows, as if scandalized on my behalf.
My mouth opens, but no sound emerges. His fingers slide from my throat, pausing just above the swell of my breast.
“Did I?” he asks again, his voice softer, almost a caress, but no less demanding.
My nipples ache beneath the thin cotton, betraying me. He leans closer, his breath warm against my ear. “Use your words, chérie .”
“Yes,” I whisper, the admission a surrender. “You did.”
“Good.”
He finally, finally skims lower, brushing the side of my breast.
A gasp escapes me. “Saint…”
“Tell me more,” he urges, his voice a dark velvet rasp against my skin. “What else did I do in this dream of yours?”
“You … you kissed me.”
He goes still. Raises his head, then angles it so his nose brushes against my cheekbone.
Then his mouth finds mine.
It’s not a gentle exploration like in the dream, but a claiming. Hard, hot, demanding. His tongue sweeps in, tasting of rain and smoke, and I meet him stroke for stroke, a desperate hunger clawing through me as soon as his lips claimed mine.
The storm outside rages, but it’s nothing compared to the hurricane he ignites within me.
My hands fly up, tangling in his damp hair, pulling him closer and arching into him.
His other arm snakes around my waist, crushing me against his hard, wet body. I can feel every ridge, every muscle, until the undeniable evidence of his arousal presses against my stomach.
Saint groans into my mouth, and I can feel it all the way to my bones.
One hand leaves my breast, sliding down my back, over my hip, cupping my ass and lifting me, tilting me against him.
My legs instinctively wrap around his waist, my soaked shirt riding up, baring me to the air and the heat of his skin.
“Saint,” I heave out when I manage to tear my mouth from his. “This is… ”
I’m unable to name the reckless energy ricocheting between us.
“Inevitable,” he finishes for me.
He holds me by the hip, fingers digging through the thin, damp cotton. His other hand cradles my head, his thumb stroking my cheekbone. Saint leans back just enough to look at me, really look at me.
“Tell me I was gentle in your dream.”
His lips brush mine with each word.
“You were,” I say through hitched breaths.
“That’s good.” His eyes turn hooded. “Because I’m not gentle in real life.”
Saint finds the hem of my nightgown, sliding his hand along the curve of my thigh beneath the fabric and sending a fresh, throbbing ache through me.
I gasp, my hips instinctively arching closer, seeking more of that forbidden contact.
“Saint,” I breathe, my voice shaky, lost.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, his lips against my throat, his stubble a delicious friction against my sensitized skin. His fingers inch higher, exploring, claiming. “Tell me this isn’t what you want.”
But the denial won’t form. All I can do is cling to him. My body is alive with a need so potent, it eclipses everything else.
All the reasons that this could be a terrible idea fade, drowned out by the roaring in my blood and the undeniable truth that I want this.
I want him.