Page 252 of Vicious Saint
I kiss him back even harder. “Me too.”
“So…friends again?”
I snort. “If that’s what you wanna call whatever we were.”
“What if it’s not?”
Warmth smothers every hidden crevice of my chest, the idea of what he’s implying already spiking my heart rate.
It brings me hope, but not certainty.
And Ineedcertainty from him this time.
“Elaborate.”
Saint rears back just enough to pierce me with steady eyes.
“What if we stop fighting the inevitable?”
The inevitable.
How far those words have come from being a threat.
Fuck it. Fucking fuck it.
I did not go through weeks of withdrawal only to deny exactly what we are. There’s no more fight left in me to do it, anyway.
“Then…we stop.”
That boyish smile lights up Saint’s face again, and he’s back to kissing me. Without an ounce of hesitation or regret.
Only surrender.
Things heat up quickly as we switch between open, closed, nipping, sucking lips. And when I do the honors of drawing Saint’s bottom one through my teeth, he groans, thrusting his hips into me.
He does this several times, pushing the bottom of my dress past my underwear, making his jeans, and the erection behind them, scrape the bare skin of my thighs.
A few more to settle between them.
Usually, Saint is a lot more calculated with his movements, knowing precisely where and how to find and do everything to please a woman. It’s been a part of his endless boasting since we first started playing our games.
But right now? I love how desperation is forcing him to let go, to not think or be so perfect. It showcases a hint of innocence behind the charming mad king.
My pussy erupts in hot tingles with each of his thrusts, so delicious I wrap my leg around Saint’s ass to feel more of them.
“I want your cock inside me,” I breathe into his mouth.
There’s a sound of appreciation before he says, “Then we’re not leaving until you come all the fuck over it.”
Without another word, he retreats, leaving me alone with my tingles as he slides off his jacket, holding it out for me to put on.
“I’m not cold.”
“Cold has nothing to do with it.” Saint yanks me to him, granting me a peck to the lips before dressing me.
Regardless of the amount of times Saint’s offered me his jacket in the past, I never dared to accept it—afraid doing so would fuel his incessant need to prove I wanted him. But now that I’m drowning in its size, warmth, and his embodiment, I wish I caved sooner.
On instinct I breathe in the collar, closing my eyes when I’m bombarded by his usual fresh citrusy scent.
