The doorknob twists and I shoot backwards, panicked.
I don’t have time to hide. I don’t have time to do anything as the door swings open and Saint fills the doorway.
22
“What—” he starts, but then he flips on the lights, and his eyes settle on me. He looks momentarily confused. Then, to my horror, he visibly relaxes, and a wicked grin splits his features. “Who’s that casting devious stares in my direction?” he breathes, and I sink down on the edge of his massive bed and scowl.
“Wrong era,” I retort. “You forget the theme of your own birthday party?”
He shuts the door behind him. “I forgot my own fucking name when I saw you brought me gifts of tongue, tits, and pus—”
“God, you’re the worst,” I interrupt despite the clench in my core and the butterflies swarming my stomach.
“Probably but then, you’re the one sneaking around my bedroom. Why are you here?”
Well, hell. How do I get out this situation without looking like a stalker?
“Mallory. Answer me. What are you doing in here?”
I hesitate a moment more, then release a defeated sigh.
“Fine. I was eavesdropping, okay? I didn’t want to run into Laurel and Rosalind, so I came in here to hide, and then I listened to their conversation because they were talking about me. Happy? I’m not here for you.”
I rise from the bed and go to move past him to leave, but he snatches my hand and spins me around, pinning me up against the door.
“What are you doing here,” he emphasizes, “at my party. As I recall, you turned down my invitation.”
His hands are on my waist, holding me in place, and I’m breathless as I stare up at him.
“I-I came with Loni,” I admit softly. “A friend of hers called asking for a ride, and then Liam invited me in because he wanted to talk.”
The same features that were just teasing me harden. “I see. So you came for Liam.”
I shake my head. “No. I came with Loni. I ran into Liam—”
He slaps one hand against the door beside my head, cutting off my words, but I don’t flinch. It strikes me how often we’ve been in this position. Me, pinned against a door. Him, trapping me. Has this become our thing?
I don’t know if that’s sad or just plain hot.
“Are you going to wish me a happy birthday?” he growls, changing the subject.
I sigh. “Happy birthday. Can I go now?”
“Where’s my present?” The hand still on my waist finds the bottom of my shirt and pushes it up to stroke at the skin there.
“You never told me what you wanted.”
Dear baby Jesus, I’m flirting with him. I can’t seem to help myself, but his touch is making me stupid. His touch always makes me stupid.
He leans down to whisper in my ear, “I want you, Mallory. Naked and wet, moaning my name as you come around my cock.”
A gasp escapes my lips. His heat and scent are overwhelming me. He smells like whiskey and pot, but there’s also that delicious smell that’s all him and makes my mouth water.
The realization that he’s not sober, though, is like a bucket of cold water on my libido.
“You’re high,” I reply, pushing him back. “Every time you do this to me, you’re high.”
He hasn’t had sex with me sober since the fall.
I close my eyes and lean my head back against the door as I mumble, “I’m such a fucking idiot.”
I try to turn and shoulder him away so I can open the door, but he presses a hand against my chest to hold me still. He gazes down at me, and he looks so … tired.
So bone-weary, it makes my chest ache.
“It … it helps me sleep a little,” he confesses in a low rumble.
I pause. I remember that he’s an insomniac. It’s a single flaw in the otherwise perfect god that he is, but it helps me know he’s human.
“You…you slept sometimes,” I say in a soft voice, “when you were with me.”
He nods and presses his forehead to mine. “You’re right. I did sleep when I was with you. Another reason to hate you.”
I can tell he’s lying. He’s still trying to keep me at a distance, even though everything about him—the way his eyes have closed as if he’s savoring me, the way he’s slumped into me as though he can’t help himself—is screaming that he’s desperate to keep me close.
The urge to comfort him overwhelms me, and without thinking, I push up onto my toes and seal my mouth against his. He tenses, and I think I’ve caught him off guard. I cup his face in my hands and run my tongue along the line of his lips, pressed tight together. After a few moments more of persistence, he softens around me. He tangles his fingers in my hair and quickly takes over the kiss.
His other hand slides up my shirt and caresses my skin and I grow wet between my thighs. Just like that. He barely has to touch me anymore, and I get soft for him.
He tears his mouth away from mine to growl, “Text whoever you came with and tell them you won’t be leaving with them.”
I hesitate, my mind clearing now that he’s stopped kissing the hell out of me. This is the exact same situation I keep finding myself in, and every time, I say it’s the last time. Every time, he just hurts me again, but I always come crawling back to him.
And that’s the problem, isn’t it? I keep letting him do these things to me.
I stare up at him, unable to speak, my mind racing. But then he cups my cheek so gently, it stuns me. “I won’t hurt you,” he softly promises. “Not again.”
“Bu-but your party…” His house is full of people who hate me and want to see me suffer. How can I make myself vulnerable in a place like this?
“I won’t let anyone at the party hurt you either,” he insists. “Besides, I’m not willing to share you with those fuckers.”
Oddly enough, I believe him, but I’m still frozen and uncertain.
He releases a huff of frustration and slips his hand into my pants pocket to fetch out my phone himself.
“What are you doing?” I protest as he begins typing out a text. I try to snatch it back, but he holds it out of my reach. Once he hits send, he begins to hand it back, but then his expression darkens at something on the screen.
When he shoves the phone back into my hand, I look down to see what’s got him so pissed. There’s a new message from an unknown number asking if I’ll be in my room later.
Fucking Ghost. Nothing from him for weeks, and when he does finally reach out to me, it’s when I’m cornered by a hulking brick wall of jealousy and possessiveness.
“Who else are you opening your legs to, Ellis?” he hisses. “That gangbanger piece of shit?”
“We’ve gone over this, Saint.” I curl my fingers into the front of his shirt. “But if I was? What are you going to do about it?”
When his hand locks around my throat, my eyes flutter shut, and I release a shaky breath. His fingers tighten, and he lowers his lips to my ear.
“I’m going to fuck you so long, so slow, you’ll forget all about him and anyone else you’ve ever imagined being here.” He cups me between my legs with his free hand.