Page 78 of His Sinner

Her finger traces over the crease between my brows. “What’s wrong?” But before I can answer, she registers our surroundings. “Shit. I’m sorry. We don’t have to be here.”

She doesn’t need to hear my thoughts. She can already read my mind. Knows it just as well as her own. Just as I do hers.

“I’m fine. I’m going to walk out here every day and face my fears.” I smile at her. “Just like you did.”

She wraps her arms around me, squeezing me close. “I hate what he put you through.”

“I’d go through all of it again and worse if it meant keeping you.”

“Saint?” she murmurs.

“Yes, muse?”

“I love you. I’ll never make you question that again.”

I pull back, tilting her chin up to meet her bright blue eyes with a smile. “And I love you. More than anything in this world. So. Shall we break in our new home?”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

BRIAR

Saint was right—our glorious retreat didn’t have to end. Now that I’m his literary agent, we both have book deals. When Saint and I first visited the private cemetery near Nicholson Manor, the kernel of inspiration embedded itself in my brain and wouldn’t go away until I caved and wrote the first draft in a frenzy.

While our individual books are ramping up for publication, we’re co-writing a series of erotic mysteries for fun. When the timing is right, we’ll publish them anonymously in matching masks.

A shipment of S.T. Nicholson’s author copies sits on the table in the middle of the library, waiting to be opened. But Saint is preoccupied with his head between my legs.

When I cry out, thighs trembling around his head, he hoists me in the air and pins me against the bookshelf. Books fall down around us as he thrusts into me over and over, my echoing cries mixing with his groans and the thud of books against the floor.

We’ve finally fucked in every room in Nicholson Manor, but the library is still my favorite.

He pounds my pussy relentlessly until we’re both tumbling over the edge.

“Saint!” I scream, nails digging into his shoulders.

“I fucking love you, muse,” he growls.

I’ll never get tired of hearing those words from his mouth.

I’m breathless when he finally sets me down, heart hammering in my throat. After he recovers, straightening his unbuttoned shirt with a smirk, he turns his attention to the box of author copies.

We both grin as he slices the box open and hands the first copy to me.

The cover of Dressed to Kill is stunning, emblazoned with the words #1 New York Times Bestselling Author.

“Open it,” Saint insists, like it’s a gift.

Because it is. Nearly the greatest gift he’s ever given me, second only to his heart. The book he wrote because of me. About me. For me.

I flip to the dedication page and my heart stops.

To my muse:

I wrote all my books for you, even before I met you. But this one even more so than the rest. Because this is the book in which I ask you to love me forever. To be mine. To say yes.

When I drag my eyes up from the page, vision blurry, he’s kneeling in front of me.

A small box open in his hands and a giant smile across his perfect face.

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