Page 26 of Saint's Preciosa
"Hey," I say softly, "don't let her get to you. She did that purposely to stir up shit.”
"She's very beautiful," Luna whispers, vulnerability evident in her voice.
"No, she's not," I correct firmly. "She's fake. Everything about her is manufactured to attract a certain type of attention." I brush a strand of hair from Luna's face, marveling at the softness of her skin. "You, preciosa, are beautiful.Trulybeautiful."
Her cheeks flush pink, but she looks unconvinced. “She's right, though. I'm not like the women who would normally be hanging around men like you."
"Good," I say simply. "Because if you were, I wouldn't be interested." I press a gentle kiss to her forehead. "Come on. You need rest."
We continue down the hall to my room. It's not much—a large bed, dresser, small bathroom—but it's private, secure, and now that I think of it, about to become my favorite place in the world if Luna’s in it.
When I unlock the door and usher her inside, she stands uncertainly in the center of the room, taking in the sparse furnishings, the neat military corners on the bed, the lack of personal touches.
"Can I..." she hesitates, looking toward the bathroom. "Would it be okay if I took a quick shower?"
"Only if I can join you," I answer honestly, my cock already hardening at the thought of water cascading over her naked body.
Her eyes widen, cheeks flushing deeper. "I—I've never..."
"I know," I say, stepping closer. "Let me wash you, preciosa. Let me take care of you. You've been taking care of everyone else for so long."
Something in her expression shifts, softens, and she nods, a slight movement that makes my heart pound against my ribcage. I've met countless women, but none have ever affected me like this slight, brave woman with her dark eyes and spine of steel.
In the bathroom, I turn on the shower, letting the water heat while I face her again. Her hands are trembling slightly.
“Hey, I’ll stop anytime," I promise. "Just say the word."
She shakes her head. "I don't want you to stop."
Permission granted, I reach for the hem of her shirt, lifting it slowly over her head. Her skin is golden in the dim bathroom light, her breasts small but perfect in a simple cotton bra. I kneel to remove her jeans, sliding them down her legs.
"Beautiful," I murmur, pressing a kiss to her bare stomach, feeling the muscles jump beneath my lips. "So fucking beautiful."
When she's naked before me, I can't help but stare. She's exquisite—all soft curves and smooth skin, unmarked by ink or scars. She's soft in all the ways I'm hard, and the contrast makes a primal protectiveness stir in my chest.
"Your turn," she whispers, surprising me with her boldness.
I strip quickly, efficiently, aware of her eyes on my body—the tattoos that cover my arms and chest, the scars that tell stories of violence and survival. Where her body is a testament to innocence, mine is a roadmap of a life hard-lived.
Under the hot spray of the shower, I take my time with her, washing her hair with gentle hands, massaging her scalp until she sighs with pleasure. I soap every inch of her body, learning her curves, the places that make her gasp when I touch them. By the time I'm finished, she's leaning against me, her body pliant and trusting in a way that humbles me.
I towel her dry with the same care, unable to tear my eyes from her face—the way her lashes rest against her cheeks, the fullness of her lower lip, the slight flush that spreads across her skin under my gaze.
"Bed," I murmur, lifting her easily into my arms. "You need sleep."
"I don't want to sleep yet," she admits, arms winding around my neck as I carry her to the bed.
I lay her down gently against the pillows, my body hovering over hers. "What do you want, preciosa?"
Her eyes meet mine, dark and trusting. "I want…what we did before."
The memory of her coming apart against my hand in that alley sends all my blood rushing south. I dip my head to capture her lips in a kiss that starts gentle but quickly blazes into something more urgent. My hands explore her body, discovering what makes her arch, what makes her moan.
When I slide down her body, settling between her thighs, her eyes widen with understanding and a touch of nerves.
“I need to taste you, sweetheart,” I tell her, my voice rough with desire.
She nods, her lower lip caught between her teeth.
