Page 253 of Vicious Saint
“Looks good on you…” Saint takes me in, arousal quickly turning into possessiveness.
Not going back there. Nope. Not yet.
Saint’ll have all the time in the world to play charming cavemen, but right now, I want only him.
Guess my thoughts escape me because in a flash I’m being slammed into the tree, watching Saint drop to his knees as he shoves my panties down my legs.
I attempt to help guide them off when getting stuck on my boots, but my hand gets smacked away by a voracious quarterback. I’d laugh about it if cotton and leather didn’t wake up to test my patience.
After a million damn years, they’re off, and I’m given no warning before Saint’s face is diving between my legs.
“Ah!” I cry out when the heat from his tongue coats my pussy, gliding up and down too fast for me to prepare myself. “Shit, shit, shit.”
It’s been a while since I orgasmed, and any girl who’s experienced one knows how much easier, and sometimes quicker, they are to achieve when starving for so long. Or at least that’s the excuse I give myself for already painfully throbbing.
Always the torture professional, Saint works me up, sucking and humming, until I’m a whimpering mess with my leg draped over his shoulder.
“I’ve dreamt about you almost every night since we ended.” He places sloppy kisses up the length of me. “Felt like dyingnot having you around.” A gentle nibble. “Who knows. Maybe I was.”
Saint is so engrossed in what he’s doing, I’m not even sure if he realizes what he’s saying is out loud. Only a complete dumbass would stop his confession, though. And I’m only, like,halfof one.
In between his needy sounds and breaths, Saint continues his external thinking through fingering me, and I try to keep listening through static reactions of my own.
Moans, cries, squirms, pulling his hair.
Begging him to not stop when he crooks two fingers against the roof of my pussy.
Only problem—well, I wouldn’t call it a problem as much as a miscommunication—is that Saint may be confusing the plea with spilling secrets.
“I think a part of me always knew…you know?” He peppers a kiss on my Zinnia tattoo, still working my insides. “Even at the beginning on orientation.”
Always knew what?
Wait. What the heck did I miss?
“Knew wha—?” My inner-outerthought gets smothered by Saint pumping in tandem with the thumb he’s using to circle my clit.
My legs quiver, eyes strain from rolling, and all I can think about is his fingers and the zaps they’re shooting through me.
“So. Close,” I whisper. “Please don’t stop.”
Saint glances up at me, all messy haired and bedroom eyed, grinning devilishly. “Under one condition.”
“No conditions, Letterman.”
He removes his hands from between my thighs, using them to remove my leg from his shoulder and stand.
The audacity of the asshole…placing demands as he edges me.
“One condition, Jimi,” Saint repeats, this time with an earnestness that makes the whole demanding thing that much worse.
“Okay, fine,” I groan. “What’s the condition?”
“Tell me you’re mine.”
His words, albeit Tarzan-like, resonate with me in so many ways.
For the better part of a year, my relationship with Saint has been nothing short of complicated.
