Page 31 of Saint's Preciosa
"That's it," he encourages, one hand sliding beneath me to lift my hips at a new angle that has him hitting a spot inside me that makes stars explode behind my eyelids. "Let go, preciosa. Let me feel you come."
His thumb finds my clit, circling in time with his thrusts, and that's all it takes to send me flying over the edge. I cry out his name as pleasure crashes over me in waves, my inner muscles clenching around his length.
"Fuck," he groans, his rhythm faltering as my body milks his cock. "I'm going to?—"
He pulls out at the last moment, his release spilling hot across my stomach as he groans my name like a prayer. The sight of this powerful man coming undone because of me is perhaps the most erotic thing I've ever witnessed.
Afterward, he cleans us both with gentle care before gathering me against his chest, my head resting over his thundering heart. His arms around me feel like the safest place in the world.
“No one else, Luna." he murmurs into my hair. “No one else will ever touch you like that but me.”
Chapter12
Luna
I wake slowly, my body tender in places I never knew could feel so wonderfully sore. I reach out across the rumpled sheets, expecting to find Saint's warm body beside me, but my hand meets only empty space.
Last night replays in my mind—his hands, his mouth, the way he filled me so completely, the tender care he took with me afterward. Heat rises to my cheeks at the memory, but there's something else too—a fullness in my chest that wasn't there before. The realization hits me with startling clarity—I’m in love. I love him.
I've known him less than a week, and yet I've given him everything—my body, my trust, and now my heart. The thought should terrify me, but instead, I feel strangely calm, as if some part of me has always known this was inevitable from the moment our eyes met across that parking lot.
Stretching, I rise from the bed, my muscles protesting pleasantly, and gather fresh clothes. The thought that Abuela and I have officially been evicted from our apartment doesn't panic me as it should. With Saint, I feel anchored regardless of where we are.
After a quick shower, I head to the medical room to check on Abuela, but when I push open the door, I find an empty bed, sheets thrown back, and medical equipment disconnected.
My heart lurches in panic. "Abuela?" I call, checking the small bathroom. Empty.
I rush from the room, nearly colliding with Sophie in the hallway.
"Whoa, what's wrong?" she asks, steadying me with a hand on my arm.
"Abuela's gone," I gasp, trying to keep my voice from trembling.
“Gone?” Sophie's eyes widen. “What do you mean, gone?”
"She's not in her room!”
"Okay, don't panic," Sophie says, her calm demeanor helping to slow my racing heart. "Let's find Angel and the three of us can search the clubhouse. She can't have gone far. We’re still in lockdown.”
We find Angel in her room, looking over some paperwork for her nonprofit. When we explain the situation, she immediately sets her work aside.
"We'll find her," she assures me, dividing the clubhouse into sections for us to search. "Sophie, take the east wing. I'll check the offices and chapel. Luna, you check the kitchen and main areas."
We split up, and I hurry toward the kitchen, trying to imagine what in the world made Abuela leave her room. The thought of her wandering the clubhouse alone, possibly collapsing somewhere, makes my throat tight with fear.
As I approach the kitchen, the familiar scent of chorizo and eggs wafts through the air, accompanied by the sound of laughter and what sounds suspiciously like...scolding in Spanish?
I push open the kitchen door and freeze at the sight before me.
Abuela—my frail, disapproving abuela—stands at the stove wearing an apron over her housecoat, spatula in hand, presiding over a sizzling pan. Around her, a half dozen burly bikers sit at the table, watching her work with expressions of childlike anticipation.
"¡No toques!" she slaps Ghost's hand away from a plate of what appears to be freshly made tortillas with her spatula. "Not yet."
Holy shit. What am I seeing?! She just slapped Ghost—the intimidating president of the Shadow Reapers—with a spatula! And he actually looks chastened as he withdraws his hand and mumbles, "Yes, ma'am.”
The domestic scene is so unexpected, so bizarrely normal, that for a moment I wonder if I'm still in bed dreaming.
"This is amazing," Hawk says around a mouthful of something that looks like a breakfast burrito. "Where'd you learn to cook like this?"
