I lower my brows, "What do you mean?" He runs his fingers though my hair. His fingertips drag across my scalp. Tendrils of heat ripple from the contact. I turn my head and lean into the touch. "You were saying…?" I prompt.
"That making love to you was more significant than I thought it would be. My being your first was a bonus, but even if I hadn’t been, it wouldn’t have mattered… But you were… And it makes me wonder, why the hell you didn’t sleep with anyone before me?"
"Because I was saving myself for the right man…?"
"Who is probably not me."
"My," I blink, "what’s prompting this soul searching?"
"Let’s see... Was it the strawberries dipped in your cum which may have become my favorite food of all time? Or the mind-blowing sex after? Or the fact that you’ve been so receptive, so responsive to my touch?" He trails his hand down my spine.
I shiver.
He pinches my chin, tips my head up, presses his lips to mine and kisses me. Gently. Softly. Slowly. So bloody thoroughly. My heart begins to race all over again. Wetness pools between my legs.
"Being inside you is my favorite place in the entire world." His dick thickens, punctuating his words.
"Saint," I whisper.
"Let me, Gigi." He nibbles on my lower lip, and pushes up and into me. He makes love to me gently, barely a thrust in his every move, he propels his hips up with enough torque for his hardness to chafe the inside of my channel. He brings his other hand between us and cups my breast, the calluses on his fingers setting off pinpricks of pleasure that travel straight to the space between my legs.
He holds my head in place, then places his other big hand on my butt. "Hold on, sweetheart," his whisper curls around me, sinks into my blood, wafts over, encouraging me to give in, sink in, to open myself up completely, irrevocably to him. His gentleness is so firm, yet so demanding, it’s a complete contrast to the sadistic part of him.
Both sides of his personality are the same, yet different. Both authoritative in their own way. He pistons his hips up and down again and again, hitting that space deep inside of me that he seems to always find with such precision—that sends pleasure shooting up my nerve endings to my extremities. My toes curl, I dig my fingers into his hair, and hold onto his shoulders. "Saint… I’m… I’m..."
"Come with me," his voice ripples across my skin and I shatter, my entire body trembling, melting, spiraling down a tunnel at the end of which is him. Only him. His hoarse cry threads through my subconscious mind, and he comes inside of me. Sleep tugs at the edges of my vision. My muscles relax. He pushes my head down into his chest. His heart beat thuds in my ears. Reassuring. Hypnotic.
"Sleep, Gigi, I'll keep you safe. "
33
Victoria
Over the next three weeks Saint is true to his word.
He takes care of my every need. He is attentive to me, from the moment we wake up in the morning, when he insists on ordering and eating breakfast with me, often joining me for a quick shower before he sets off for work. So we haven’t had a honeymoon, not that I expected it, but this is close. He doesn't want me to worry about anything. He insists I stay in, make full use of the hotel’s facilities—the pool, the sauna, the daily appointment with the masseuse, not to mention the access to the best beauticians in the city in the in-house salon.
I can't remember the last time I felt this pampered.
In the evenings, Saint frequently texts me from the office, commanding me to be naked and ready for him, usually arriving within twenty minutes of the message. And then he'll tease me, often spank me up against the post, arousing me before fucking me with that intensity and the hint of cruelty which characterizes his every move. A few times we’ve indulged in more of the games where he tests my taste in alcohol. I admit, I had more luck with that than with the food. What can I say? Clearly, I am a closet alcohol slut.
He's taken me on the bed, of course... And on the table by the window, on the carpet, in the walk-in closet, where we'd ended the night tangled up in clothes—his and mine.
One night, he'd met me in the restaurant downstairs as I had been finishing dinner. He'd had a drink, then waited until I’d finished dessert. After that, he'd been in in such a hurry, he'd hustled me into the ladies' restroom and proceeded to fingerfuck me against the door. The fear of being caught had been enough to make me orgasm within the first five minutes. Then again, when he'd ripped off my panties and stuffed his dick inside of me. And a third time, when he'd thrust into me again and again with such force that my body had bucked into the door, and he'd commanded me to come in that authoritative voice—the one which has me rushing to obey him. I'd slumped against him after that. He'd stuffed my knickers into his pocket, scooped me up and carried me off to his private elevator, and then upstairs to his bed, where he'd proceeded to tie me spread-eagled to the bedposts, and then... Worshipped my body. There is really no other way to describe it.
He had touched every part of me, kissed every nook and cranny, massaged every curve, rubbed my breasts, nibbled on my nipples, my fingers, my toes—all with that same single-minded intensity, as if he had a point to prove... To himself? To me? He had wrung two more orgasms out of me that night...until I had begged him, pleaded with
