Page 44 of Pack Me Up
His blush is adorable. “Head up to his room, songbird, before I don’t let you go.”
Fox surprises me by slapping my ass as I go upstairs, giggling.
When I get upstairs, Saint’s signature of leather, pepper, and mahogany hits me square in the chest.
I stand outside the door for a full minute, knuckles poised, not knocking. My pulse is so loud I think maybe he’ll hear it through the wall and come out to scold me for lurking.
I open the door.
He’s inside, back to me, stripping the last traces of plastic wrap from a stack of pillows. The room is dim, just two saltlamps and a string of fairy lights, their warm glow bleeding across the walls in uneven bands. It is an absurd mound of blankets and duvets, all folded and fluffed in a sort of careful mess at the center of the bed.
Saint straightens, turns, and I see him unsure.
“Too much?” he asks, glancing down at the pile, then at me.
“No,” I say, my voice a hush. “It’s perfect.”
He nods, but doesn’t move closer. He stands with his hands at his sides, gaze flicking to my face, then away, as if he’s worried that looking too long will break something delicate.
I step in, let the door shut behind me, and the hush of the house grows deeper. Saint’s scent fills every molecule. I walk toward him, arms crossed tight over my ribs, and stop just at the edge of the mini nest he’s created.
He waits, giving me space, and I feel the weight of that permission. I want to say something like thank you, or I’m scared, or you didn’t have to do all this, but none of it fits. Instead, I kneel on the bed, sinking into the first layer of plush. I instantly feel safe and grounded.
Saint lowers himself to the bed across from me. He’s wearing a black t-shirt and soft-worn shorts.
Saint lets the silence grow, waiting until the air is thick enough to swim in.
He shifts closer, and the change in air pressure is instant. His scent comes in waves, clean and crisp, but layered now with the sharp tang of nerves.
He reaches out, slow and careful, and cups my shoulder in his palm. His thumb drifts to the hollow of my throat, and I feel the heat of his skin, the weight of his want. He doesn’t pull me in; he just holds me there.
I breathe out, shaky. “I thought you’d be… rougher.”
He laughs, a single huff. “I could be. If you wanted that.” His fingers spread, thumb brushing the line of my collarbone. “But I want you to feel safe. That’s the whole point.”
My skin buzzes under his touch, every nerve tuned to the frequency of his hands. He slides closer, kneeling in front of me now, and brings his other hand up to cradle the back of my neck. I feel the callus on his thumb, the rough edge of his nail. He scents me, slow and deliberate, running his nose along my jaw, pausing just beneath my ear.
I lean into him, surrendering inch by inch, letting his heat and his scent and his voice braid together inside me.
Saint’s hands move lower, one resting on my shoulder, the other sliding down my arm to my wrist. He pulls me closer, slow, until our knees touch and our faces are a breath apart.
“Do you want this?” he asks, and I can hear the need in him, tightly leashed but ferocious.
“Yeah,” I say, and it’s the only true thing I know.
He kisses me. It’s nothing like I expected. It’s gentle, at first, just a brush of lips. Then his hand slides into my hair, tilting my head back, and the kiss deepens, goes hot and hungry in a heartbeat. I taste him. It’s pepper and dark sweetness that blooms on my tongue.
I gasp, and he takes advantage, slipping his tongue into my mouth, teeth grazing my lower lip. My hands go to his chest, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt. He’s so solid, so present, that it feels like leaning against a wall that’s learned to breathe.
He pulls back, just an inch, eyes locked on mine. “Tell me if you want to stop.”
“I don’t,” I say, and I mean it.
He kisses me again, harder, and this time his hands map my body with one at my waist and one fisted in my hair. I feel the heat building, the crackle of static under my skin, and I arch into him, greedy for more.
Saint lifts me, effortlessly, and settles me in his lap. I straddle his thighs, knees buried in the nest of blankets, and he groans, the sound vibrating through both of us. His hands drift under my shirt, fingertips tracing my spine, my ribs, then the soft dip of my waist.
I shiver, and he shushes me, mouth at my neck. “You’re perfect,” he murmurs. “You’re so perfect.”
