Page 103 of Only Mine
I want to deny it, but he’s right. I’m not fine. I’m a shape made of terror and adrenaline and leftover want, stitched together by the barest thread of self-control. I’m also starving for him, in that way that feels like humiliation and fantasy all at once.
Saint’s hand comes up, slow and careful. I flinch before I can stop myself.
Not because I think he’ll hurt me, but because I’m so desperate that even the anticipation of his touch is enough to make my skin vibrate.
Saint doesn’t make contact, just lets his hand hover near my cheek, patient and devastating.
“Wrenley.”
The way he says my name almost makes me moan.
“You want me to stop, say so now.”
I shake my head because it’s too much. Too much holding back, too much pretending this is anything but theonlything that I want.
He closes the distance, his palm cupping my jaw, thumb tracing the seam of my mouth like he’s memorizing the shape of it.
My lips part on instinct, and he leans in, the heat of his breath fusing with mine.
His kiss is nothing like I expect. There’s no carefulness, no slow build. He kisses like a man who has run out of time, like he’s been dying for this and knows it might be the last.
My hands find his shirt, knotting in the fabric.
His tongue parts my lips with a purpose so unambiguousI whimper. I’ve kissed men before, but never like this, with the sense that I might actually be consumed from the inside out.
Saint’s hand knots in my hair, angling my face, deepening the kiss until I gasp. The sound only fuels him. I feel him everywhere—in the heat of his breath, the grip of his hand on my hip, and the way his thigh wedges between my knees. I am a bonfire, and he’s the wind.
When he finally breaks the kiss, I’m panting. My dress is rucked high on my thighs, my skin fevered.
Saint stares at me, pupils blown wide.
His voice is shredded when he speaks. “Tell me to stop.”
“No,” I say, and it comes out like an order.
He lifts me onto the island in a single motion, knocking aside a bowl of lemons.
Saint’s hands are everywhere at once. My waist, my ass, sliding up my back and down again, like he’s mapping out a territory he already owns but wants to reconquer just for the pleasure of it. His mouth moves from my lips to my jaw, then down my neck, biting hard enough to leave a mark.
I gasp and dig my nails into his biceps, the muscles flexing under my grip.
Saint’s palms slide under the hem of my dress and part my thighs until the only thing separating him from me is the damp cotton of my underwear.
He bites my lip and pulls, just enough to make me gasp. “You want to be in control? Go ahead. Tell me what you want.”
“Touch me,” I say, voice trembling but clear. “Now.”
He grins, wolfish, then obliges.
Saint hooks my panties, yanking them aside, and the brush of cold air makes me realize how soaked I am for him.
He drags two fingers along my slit, and I nearly vault offthe counter at his touch. Then he brings them to his mouth and licks them clean. “You taste like pure sugar.”
Saint knows exactly what I need, how to circle my clit until I’m gasping with his thumb while never breaking eye contact. The heat in his gaze is so ferocious I feel it everywhere, even in the places he’s not touching.
I try to say his name, but it comes out as a breathy whimper. He seems to like that, because his fingers increase their pressure, circling and stroking until my knees clamp his hips and my hands fist his shirt so hard the buttons threaten to pop.
He doesn’t stop. Not when my head falls back, not when I start to beg, and not when I grind my hips against his hand in a way that would have embarrassed me in any other universe. He just keeps working me, pushing me higher until I shatter, my body arching off the island in a silent scream. The tremors go on forever, my only anchor the grip of his arm around my waist.
