Page 297 of Ruins
But Santo is quicker. His arms lock around me, pulling me back down, his lips chasing mine in an onslaught of kisses—cheeks, jaw, the corner of my mouth—until I’m gasping with laughter, unable to catch my breath.
Then, something shifts. His kisses slow, turning deliberate. His teeth graze my neck, his hands dragging up my thigh, fingers slipping beneath the hem of my dress.
"Santo," I sigh, threading my fingers through his dark hair.
His gray eyes smolder as he gazes up at me—not just with desire, but with something deeper. Something that always tugs at my heart.
"Just one more minute," he whispers against my skin, his lips sending a tremor down my spine.
Then his fingers slip past lace and silk, slipping inside me, parting me with ease. My head tips back as a soft moan escapes me, pleasure sparking through my veins.
"Alright," I breathe, surrendering.
The rest of the world blurs as Santo expertly unravels me with just his touch, his mouth, his whispered devotion. And even as my body hums with pleasure, my thoughts drift—to his promise.
That I will never have to experience what happened again. That he will protect me. Always.
He anchors me with that vow. And now, that same certainty is the fire burning through my veins, pushing me closer, higher, until I can barely breathe.
"I love you, Santo," I murmur against his ear, my heart swelling with something almost too big to hold.
A low growl rumbles from his chest—deep, possessive—before he captures my lips, stealing my breath.
"I love you more, Dea," he murmurs, his hands gliding over my body, leaving fire in their wake.
I whimper at the gentle scrape of his teeth, at the way his fingers trace lazy, devastating curls inside me, pulling pleasure from me like it belongs to him.
The space feels too confined, too warm—I wantmore.
I pull away slightly, breathless, watching the flicker of concern in his eyes, but he doesn’t protest when I stand up and reach out for his hand.
“Let’s take this somewhere more comfortable,” I suggest with a sultry grin.
Santo’s gaze darkens, anticipation sharpening the edges of his features as he rises, his fingers curling possessively around mine as he follows me.
The setting sun filters through the windows, casting him in gold, illuminating the sharp planes of his face, the hunger in his eyes.
By the time we step inside our room, I barely have a moment to turn before he presses me against the wall, his mouth claiming mine, his hands sliding beneath my dress, peeling away the last barriers between us.
His lips taste of mint and coffee, of warmth and home.
His hands deftly unbutton my dress, while mine fumble with his belt. He chuckles, pulling away to help me, his gaze never leaving mine. His touch is like a balm to my soul, erasing the haunting memories of the past and replacing them with joy and pleasure.
We shed our clothes like we’re shedding layers of ourselves, revealing more than just our bodies. We’re unveiling our hearts; all of our fears, hopes, dreams, everything that makes us who we are. And as I collapse onto the bed under Santo’s weight, I know that this is where I belong.
Withhim.
Tohim.
Always.
Santo
She grips the covered canvas like it’s the last thing in the world and she can’t bear to part with it, her knuckles white, she still won’t let me see it, not until we get back to the estate. Lucky as I am that she’s agreed to go back, at least to see Mrs. Keen, she’s insisted we bring the painting she’s been holding as a surprise for me. I suggested she put it in the trunk, but she refused, so now I drive my wife back to our newly renovated home canvas snugly in hand.
Her phone rings and I try to feign confusion as to who could be calling when I already know who it is. She scrambles to hold on to the canvas while she digs her phone out of her purse one handed, she hands it to me to answer.
“Put it on speaker please,” she asks, her hands going right back to the canvas. I answer the phone and put it on speaker.
