Page 45 of Pack Me Up
He kisses down the line of my throat, teeth grazing my pulse. I tilt my head back, giving him access, and he takes it, biting just hard enough to leave a mark but not break skin.
My own hands are clumsy and frantic. I grab at his shirt, tugging it up, and he helps me, peeling it off and tossing it to the side. His chest is broad, marked with old scars, and every line of muscle is taut with restraint.
I run my hands over him, memorizing the map. He shudders at my touch, and I realize he’s just as wired as I am.
He pulls my shirt off, slow, and stares at me like he’s never seen anything so bright. His fingers skim the curve of my shoulder, the line of my collarbone, the swell of my breast. He’s not rough, but there’s a possessiveness in every touch, a claim written in heat and pressure.
He lays me back into the bed, following me down, and the world narrows to Saint’s scent, his voice, his hands and mouth, and the promise of more.
He kisses down my body while rolling my leggings down, slow, pausing to bite at my ribs, my hipbone, the inside of my thigh. He works my body with patience, with reverence, as if he wants to memorize every sound I make.
I let him. I let him do whatever he wants.
He crawls back up, face flushed, and kisses me again, softer this time. “You okay?” he asks, searching my eyes for doubt.
“Yeah,” I say, and mean it. “Don’t stop.”
His hand slides between my legs, and I arch, gasping. He’s gentle, but he doesn’t hesitate as he slowly rubs a circle around my clit, making my legs wrap tighter around him.
His fingers work me, slow at first, then building, relentless as a tide.
Saint slips one finger then another in me, pumping them in and out. His fingers are so thick it’s a stretch, and I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to have his cock inside me.
He works me perfectly, brushing against every nerve ending I have until I’m shaking in his arms. He curls his fingers up, pressing against that sweet spot deep inside me, and I can’t stop from screaming his name.
I come undone for him, shuddering and slick with my scent flooding the room.
He holds me through it, murmuring into my hair, “So good, so good, I’ve got you.”
When I come down, he’s still there, holding me.
He doesn’t push for more. He doesn’t ask. Saint just wraps me in his arms and settles us into the center of the nest, bodies entwined, hearts hammering in sync.
“We have time,” he says, voice gone hoarse. “All the time you want.”
I burrow into him, inhaling his scent, letting it soak into my skin. My body is electrified with nerves firing in random bursts.
We lie there, tangled together, the hush of the house wrapping around us.
I drift, held fast by Saint’s strong arms.
Brittney
DIRTY BETA GOSSIP COLUMN
IS ONE SHOWCASE ENOUGH TO SECURE THE OPENING SPOT ON A WORLD TOUR OR IS THE MENDED HART TOUR OMEGA FAVORITISM?
April 26th
Tommy just left after our practice session, but I remain in the studio room. There was this one cord progression that just wasn’t coming out right, and I needed to practice it.
Hunter slides into the doorway, hair wild, hoodie zipped to his chin, two mugs of something steaming balanced in one hand. He grins, lopsided, and doesn’t bother to knock.
“That sounded great,” he says, taking a loud slurp from his mug. “But you need a break, and I’m here to make sure you take it.”
I stick my tongue out at him and keep playing. He shuffles closer, socked feet barely making a sound, and drops onto the floor with his back to the piano, legs stretched out like a cat in the sun. He sips, then sighs, then grins at me with that too-bright spark in his eyes.
“Do you really think I’ll give up that easily?” he asks, voice pitched low so it can’t be heard from the hall.
