Saint said nothing. He didn’t need to. The fear in his gaze was gone, but the truth remained. The violent desire me and Alexei shared—he didn’t want that. He needed something else.
Something he thought I didn’t have.
Show him he’s wrong.
I cast a glance around his makeshift bedroom. Two cabinets were built into the panelled wood walls. Hazarding a guess, I stretched my bad arm as far as it would reach and opened one. A pile of knives greeted me, big and small. A CD case for a band I’d never heard of—Smuggler’s Beat. A bag of weed and a packet of Rizla.
Right at the back was a bottle of lube.
Claiming it, I shut the cupboard. Saint hadn’t moved and his gaze was a mess of emotions I didn’t like. Because he still couldn’t comprehend what I was saying.Because he doesn’t know. He’s never seen it.
I dropped the lube on the bed and kissed him, as if I could banish the tension taking him hostage with my rough mouth. As if he didn’t deserve better.
He kissed me back but kept his hands to himself, his shoulders rigid, a light tremor rocking him that I might’ve missed if it wasn’t so alien in a man who kept so much locked in.
“Saint.” I murmured his name between kisses. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
I didn’t mean sex. I meant everything. But he didn’t hear me. Something had gripped him that he couldn’t let go.
The lube was by his head. I reached for it, still kissing him, and popped the cap, pouring some—too much, actually—onto my hand.
He broke away from my mouth, staring at it, and then at me, and I stared right back, daring him to speak before my hand descended between us.
I found his dick.
He jumped, eyes widening again as I slicked him up, then wiped my hand on my discarded T-shirt. “I don’t—”
I cut him off with a kiss and gripped his wrists, pinning them over his head, using my bodyweight to restrain him. In my weakened state, he could’ve easily broken free, but he didn’t. He watched with wide eyes as I split my legs open and straddled him, his breath so fast and erratic I couldn’t tell if it was panic or pleasure.
He’ll figure it out.
He had to, because what I was about to do was going to fry my synapses, and despite the anxiety pumping through me, I couldn’t fucking wait.
I didn’t wait. I lowered my hips and took him inside me, bearing down on him with a slow, tight slide that made my eyes water. “Jesusfuck.”
“Wha—” Saint bucked beneath me, then caught himself as the movement made me wince. “What are you doing?”
I growled and released his wrists, bringing my forearm to his chest, still holding him in place. “I’m showing you what I want. That I wantyouin any way I can have you. Can’t you see? It doesn’t have to be how you think.”
“You don’t know what I think.”
“Because you never fucking tell me.”
Using his inked chest for balance, I ground down on him hard, the size of him taking my breath away. My thighs gripping him so tight it was a wonder any blood reached his legs.
Saint made a strangled sound and fell back on the bed. He stopped fighting me and his gaze found my rigid cock, fascination lighting his face, as if he couldn’t believe I got off on fucking him like this.
“Touch me,” I whispered.
He shook his head. “Not yet.”
Yet. I took heart in the tiny word and leaned down, breath rushing from my lungs as the angle change scorched me from the inside out. I reclaimed his mouth, bearing down as I kissed him as gently as I could make myself. Shockwaves battered me. I groaned against his lips, then rose up, bracing myself on his chest again.
I rode him the way I knew he’d fuck me. Hard. Slow. Deep and raw. All the while watching him, tracking the threads of his composure as they slipped away, razing him of his ability to lay passive beneath me.
Saint gasped, arching and driving deeper into me. Then he flipped, and I found myself on my back before I could blink.
He eyed my injured shoulder. “Don’t let me hurt you.”