Page 19 of Saint's Preciosa
His pupils dilate at my words, his breathing becoming more ragged. "Show me," he encourages. “Put your hand on mine, Luna. Show me what you like."
The request is so intimate. The idea makes me feel vulnerable, but I don’t want him to stop and I have a strong desire—no, a need—to do as he says. Hesitantly, I place my hand over his, guiding his fingers to where I need them most, showing him the pressure and rhythm that makes pleasure spiral through me.
"Like this," I whisper, amazed at my own boldness. "Just...oh...there."
He's a quick study, his fingers finding the sensitive bundle of nerves at my center and circling it with perfect pressure. When he slides one thick finger inside me, I gasp at the intrusion, my inner muscles clenching around the digit. It's foreign but not unpleasant, especially when he begins to slide it in and out in a rhythm that has me panting.
"More," I beg, not entirely sure what I'm asking for but knowing I need it desperately.
He obliges, adding a second finger, stretching me in a way that burns slightly before giving way to pleasure so intense I have to bite my lip to keep from crying out. All the while, his thumb continues its circles on my clit, building pressure, a coiling tension I've never felt before.
"You're so tight," he groans, his voice strained. "So wet for me. So beautiful.”
His words, combined with the skilled movements of his hand, push me toward something I can sense but have never reached. I'm climbing, higher and higher, chasing a peak I can almost reach.
"Saint," I gasp, clutching at his shoulders, my nails digging into the leather of his vest. "I can't... I don't..." Fear mingles with pleasure—it's too much, too intense.
"It's okay," he soothes, his lips brushing my temple. "Trust me, preciosa. Let go. I've got you."
That's what does it—those simple words. I've got you. When was the last time I wasn't the one holding everything together?
My tension breaks, ecstasy washing over me in waves so intense my knees would buckle if not for his solid body pinning me to the wall. I cry out, the sound muffled against his shoulder as he continues to works me through my climax, his movements gradually slowing as the aftershocks fade.
"Oh my God," I breathe when I can finally speak again, my body trembling with the aftereffects of pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. "That was..."
“Unbelievable.” His expression is almost reverent as he looks down at me. "You're so fucking beautiful when you come apart, Luna."
I should feel exposed, vulnerable—I'm half-undressed in an alley with a man who just blew up a building. Instead, I feel...cherished. As if this powerful man exists not to harm me but to shield me from a cruel world.
Slowly, he helps me straighten my clothes, his movements careful and tender, a stark contrast to the strength I know he possesses. When I'm decent again, reality comes crashing back, harsh and demanding after the momentary escape. I close my eyes, the weight of my responsibilities settling once again on my shoulders.
"My grandmother," I begin, my voice thick with conflicting emotions. "I need to get home to her.”
“I’ll get you home," he promises. “And I'll help you with whatever you need."
Suspicion creeps back in. What does he want from me in return? I’m too tired to voice all the questions buzzing around in my head so I simply ask, “Why?”
His thumb traces my lower lip, still sensitive from his kisses. “Because you're mine now, preciosa. Mine,” he repeats.
The raw honesty in his voice, the conviction in his eyes—it disarms me completely.
"Okay," I whisper, not quite sure what I’m agreeing to.
Chapter8
Saint
Luna's apartment building is a hovel. Crumbling concrete, graffiti-covered walls, and a stench of garbage and piss hits us the moment we step inside the lobby. The elevator's got an "Out of Order" sign that's collected enough dust to suggest it's been there for months, maybe years.
I insist on walking her to her door—five fucking flights up—and she’s too tired to protest, even though it looks as though she wants to.
Exhaustion is etched into every line of her body. The dim hallway lights cast shadows beneath her eyes.
When we finally reach the fifth floor, she pauses outside a flimsy door that looks like it would give way with one solid kick. Not exactly the fortress of security I want for my woman. I make a mental note to upgrade her locks—and possibly her entire living situation—ASAP
Before she can insert her key, harsh, wet coughing erupts from inside the apartment. It’s alarming—deep and rattling. I’m no doctor, but a cough like that speaks of something serious—fluid in the lungs, maybe. Or infection. Luna's face drains of color, and she fumbles with her keys, panic evident in her shaky movements.
"Abuela?" she calls, pushing the door open.
