I look up to find he's stepped back.
He strips off his shirt and my throat closes. The light pours in through the open windows, highlighting the dips and hollows between that eight pack. My belly quivers and my sex clenches. I'll never get enough of his gorgeous body...or the raging intensity of the feelings he manages to cloak so well with it.
He toes off those ancient cowboy boots, shoves down his pants and his boxers, along with his socks. He straightens and his dick springs out—thick, heavy, the head swollen and weeping with need. I hold out my arms. He sinks down to join me. I wrap my legs around his waist, loving the feel of his hard planes biting into my flesh, his thick thighs a heavy comfort between mine. I trace the planes of his back and his muscles coil—so vital, so real, and all mine. His shoulders blot out the world and his face fills my line of sight. He lowers his head so our noses bump. A giggle tumbles from my lips.
"You're gorgeous, Gigi."
Heat sears my cheeks.
His lips kick up. Then he bends his head and captures my lips with his. His touch sinks all the way to my bones; heat tugs low in my belly and my pussy clenches. I tip up my chin, meeting his tongue with mine. A groan rips from him. He drags his palm down my side, settles it on my hip in a gesture that's possessive and intimate.
His cock nudges my opening. I tilt my hips up. "Please," I mumble in my throat.
He slides his dick into my melting pussy. So good, so full, so heavy, and so right. A groan rips from him, or was that me? He stills as I adjust to his size. I dig my heels into his back, wrap my arms around his breadth, and urge him on. He slides in further, his shoulders bunching, the muscles in his back flexing with tension. He's holding back, not allowing himself to give in completely. A smile curves my lips. I drag my fingers down the length of his spine, tracing each contour, each dip and crevasse. He shivers. Oh, this is different. A rush of power engulfs me. I reach his taut butt, dig my fingertips into the tight flesh. His entire body shudders. "I don't want to hurt you," he whispers against my lips.
"You're hurting me now."
He pulls back, "What?"
I smirk, "Unless you complete what you set out to do."
His lips twist. He eases himself inside of me—gently, slowly, his weight stretching my super-sensitive channel. Every ridge of his shaft slides, chafes against my flesh, sending pulsing, coiling, roiling sensations up my back, toward my extremities. The climax builds almost instantly, swelling from the point where we are joined.
He tilts his hips and his cock dips inside further, until he bottoms out. "You're my other half, Gigi," he whispers. "You're the better half of my conscience, the edge to my sense of humor, the lightbulb in my creativity, you're my heart," he whispers.
I swallow down the lump in my throat. Hell, I'd been wrong. He could simply tell me what was on his mind and I'd come with the intensity of his true self.
"Saint?" I clear my throat.
"Hmm?"
"I love you too, but... Would you please just shut up and fuck me now."
He chuckles, then rocks his pelvis again and again, each thrust sending waves of pleasure shooting out from the contact. The orgasm whips up my spine. I strain up and into him, plastering my breasts against him. He holds my gaze with his, scrutinizes my every response, searches my features with an intensity that pierces my heart. My pussy clamps down on his dick and his cock pulses. The climax swells and pauses, waits. I open my mouth and the cry sticks in my throat. I swallow, moan, plead with him silently.
His gaze intensifies; those blue eyes sparkle, glow with that cold heat that calls to me, beckons to me. "Come," he whispers.
I splinter into little pieces. He closes his mouth over mine—soft, searching—drawing another moan from somewhere deep inside of me that he swallows. Another low groan from him, his shoulders shudder, and he comes, filling all of the empty places inside of me. His muscles bunch, then he flips me over and onto him, without pulling out.
I coil into his broad chest, wrapping my fingers around his biceps, or trying to—considering their width.
He draws his warm palm across my back, from nape to arse and back again. There's a whisper against my hair.
I turn my head, place my chin on his chest, "You're a hidden romantic, Saint Jordan Killian Caldwell."
"I actually did miss one," he drawls.
"What?"
"When we first met, you asked if I’d missed a name." He flexes his shoulders, "Turns out, I did."
"What is it?" I rest my chin on his chest. "No, let me guess."
He raises his eyebrow, "Do I want to know?"
I snicker, "Is it, insensitive wart?"
He smirks.
"Giant squid?"
He chuckles, "It is giant, though I'd rather liken it to an octopus than a squid."
I choke, "You're a mugglepuff, you know that?"
He blinks, "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"You don't?" I sit up.
"Nope."
I gape, "You've never read Harry Potter?"
What does that have to do with anything?" he glowers.
"You hate The Beatles..." I count off on my fingers, "You've never read a Harry Potter novel," I shake my head. "Next you'll tell me you've never seen, When Harry met Sally."
He reddens.
I throw up my hands, "What the hell am I doing with you?"
"Does it help that the missing name is Harry?" he drawls.
I pout, "You're kidding me."
"Believe it," he raises his shoulders, "or not."
I peer into his face, "That's such a typical Saint-Douchebag-Caldwell retort."
"And it turns you on," his lips curl.
"Now hold on a second—"
His phone buzzes.
I freeze.
His jaw tics.
It buzzes again.
"Let it go," I whisper.
He searches my
