23. Wrenley #3
He lets me catch my breath for exactly three seconds before hauling me off the island and onto his lap, settling me astride him on the barstool.
Saint’s cock is a steel rod under me, an impossible ridge through his pants, and I grind down without shame. The friction is everything I’ve been craving, and Saint’s growl vibrates up through his chest into mine.
He gathers the skirt of my dress in his fists, yanking it up to my waist. My thighs splay wide around him, shameless and hungry, and I rock against him in a rhythm that’s part need, part challenge. I want to see how long he’ll let me take the lead .
Not long, apparently.
He clamps his hands around my hips, pinning me in place, and bites my shoulder through the fabric of my dress.
“You’re going to make me come in my pants like a fucking teenager,” he rasps.
“Maybe I want you to,” I whisper, reaching between us to palm him through the black fabric.
He’s thick and hot, even restrained, and the knowledge that it’s me doing this to him makes me bold.
I drag my palm up and down his length, slow at first, then harder, until he’s panting into the hollow of my neck.
He lifts his hips to meet my strokes, his teeth scraping my collarbone. “I’m about to lose it.”
“That’s the idea,” I reply.
Saint stands suddenly, lifting me with him. My legs wrap tight around his waist, and I cling to his shoulders as he carries me down the hall. We crash into the wall, and he holds me there, his mouth devouring mine.
He breaks away only long enough to rip the dress over my head, leaving me bare except for my bra and the panties already shoved aside. His eyes blaze as he takes me in, pupils swallowing blue.
He shoves his own pants down with one hand, freeing himself, and the sight of him, thick, flushed, and slick at the tip, makes me bite my lip.
Saint holds me suspended, his cock pressed against my entrance, not sliding in, just there, so close I could sob.
“Tell me to stop,” he says again, voice so guttural I barely recognize it.
My answer is a curse and a plea tangled together. “Just fuck me, Saint.”
He groans like he’s been waiting all his life for that sentence, and then he drives into me in a single, deep stroke that makes my vision go white.
I have never, ever been this full. Saint stretches me to the edge of pain and beyond until it’s just pleasure.
I’m nothing but sensation, an open circuit, every nerve ending exposed and lit.
He fucks me like I’m the only thing keeping him alive. Like if he stops, we’ll both cease to exist. The hallway vibrates with every slam of my back against the drywall. It should hurt, but I want more. I want to be bruised by him, marked by him, ruined for anyone else.
His hands slip under my thighs, hiking my legs higher, opening me even wider, and the new angle makes me see stars.
“Harder,” I gasp, and he laughs, a savage, incredulous sound.
“Careful what you ask for, cherie .”
He pistons into me, brutally, and my head snaps back. The world narrows to his cock fucking me open, the scrape of his stubble on my neck, the burn of his hands on my skin.
“Look at me,” he growls, and I do, and the sight of his face undone, hair wild, eyes black, jaw clenched in savage focus, makes me come again, even harder than the first time.
He fucks me through it, never stopping, finding my wrists and pinning them above my head as I clench and sob and shatter. Every thrust is a dare for me to survive this much intensity.
I want to say his name, but all that comes out is a broken sound that used be be language.
He clamps his mouth over mine, swallowing my cries while my legs are jelly, my arms useless. Saint holds me up, impaling me again and again.
Saint moves his mouth to my ear, breath hot. “You feel that? How tight you are? How fucking perfect?”
He slows, finally, sweat running down his temples, his breath carving the space between us. I’m so full I can’t even move. He lets go of my wrists and brings my hands to his face.
“You okay?” he rasps, and the question is so at odds with the way he just annihilated me that I start to laugh, then cry, then laugh again.
“Not done,” I manage, and I mean it. I want more. I want all of him.
Saint hauls me off the wall and into the nearest room.
It’s his bedroom, sheets still unmade from this morning, the windows black mirrors.
He tosses me onto the mattress and follows, crawling up my body like a predator, his eyes locked on mine.
No smile now, just a taut line of restraint about to snap.
He yanks my bra down, not bothering with the clasp, exposing my breasts to the cool air and his hot mouth.
He sucks one nipple, then the other, biting hard enough to make me shout while his hand nestles between my thighs, fingers plunging, finding the spot that makes me arch and claw at his shoulders.
Far from done, Saint flips me onto my stomach, and I gasp as he braces my hips, pulling my ass into the air. He drags my ruined panties down and off, then spreads me open, all the way, making a low sound of approval.
He eats me from behind, tongue and teeth and fingers until I’m nearly sobbing for him to fuck me again. Saint licks me through the aftershocks, then thrusts his tongue inside, and when I come again, it’s a silent, body-racking quake that leaves me slack on the sheets.
When he rears up, I feel the head of his cock tease between my folds before he sinks back into me, deeper than before.
The force ripples up my spine, and I bite the pillow to keep from screaming.
He pistons in and out, his hands tight on my hips, until he holds me there, impaled, while his hand wraps around my throat—not choking, just holding, just making sure I can’t escape the sensation of being completely, totally possessed.
“Can you take more?” he asks, panting.
“Yes,” I gasp, and it’s not even a question.
Saint rides me through it, his grunts getting rougher, his rhythm faltering.
He pulls out at the last second and strokes himself once, twice, before coming in hot streaks across my ass and lower back.
Weight presses me into the mattress when Saint collapses on top of me, his breath sawing in and out.
There’s a second, maybe two, when the only sound is the thump of his heart against my spine. I stay perfectly still, afraid to ruin the moment.
Pressing his face into my hair, Saint inhales so deep I feel it all the way down my back. His voice, when it comes, is a rumble against my skin.
“You’re safe.”
He says it like a vow. Like he’s reminding the universe.
I nod, though we both know safety is a moving target.
Saint rolls off me, pulling me against him. I think he’s going to say something. That he’ll launch into an apology, or a lecture, or a monologue about how this was a mistake.
But instead, he just asks, “Are you cold?”
I shake my head. “I’m good.”
His heart still races, pounding against my cheek.
After a while, I whisper, “You still smell like basil.”
Saint snorts. “You smell like coconut and sex.”
His hand smooths over my hair, softer than I thought possible from a man with fingers burned from years of kitchen wars.
I keep waiting for the shame to settle in, the old, familiar recoil in my chest that says, You don’t deserve this . But it doesn’t come. Not even when Saint props himself up, looks down at me with a reverence I’ve never seen from him before, and traces my jaw with a knuckle.
It’s then that I realize how screwed I am. Another, small part of my chest opens, widening the hole in the idea that Saint could just be a friend with benefits. Or a boss with benefits. Or even just a hot guy with benefits.
Because looking at him now, a traitorous voice in my head tells me that he could be different. That he could accept me for all my flaws, and none of it would matter.
Oh yes.
I’m well and truly fucked.