These Thorn Kisses (St. Mary’s Rebels 3)

His eyes are shooting fire at me, all heated and enflamed and blue as he asks roughly, “What things?”

I go back to massaging his thighs, which flex again. “Things that you want. Things that you said the other day, at the bar. You said that the woman that you fuck…” I pause here — I have to — because his nostrils flare at my F word. “You said that she gets on her knees. For you. Whenever you want. And I… I want to do that. I want to be that girl. For you. Whose entire world revolves around you. Whose center of gravity is you.”

“Me.”

I nod, my heart pounding in my chest. “Yes.”

He studies my face for a few beats. The rose on my shoulders, my four-chain necklace. My Rapunzel hair that I know he was touching back there.

Before looking back into my eyes and rasping, “So this is gratitude then.”

No.

It’s love.

But it’s okay if he thinks that. I don’t need him to know the truth.

I just need him to let me love him like a woman. Even though I’m a teenage girl.

“Yes,” I whisper the lie.

“So you want to thank me,” he rumbles, his eyes going back and forth between mine.

“Yes.”

“On your knees.”

My breath comes out hiccup-y. “Yes. Or on my back.”

His nostrils flare with a large breath. “Or on your back.”

“Like you said.”

“Like I fucking said,” he repeats my words and I nod. “Is that why you wanted to draw me in my house? In my bedroom. So you could thank me like I fucking said.”

“Yes.”

His jaw starts ticking as he glances down for a second before asking, “And this dress. You wear this rosy pink dress for me too?”

“Yes. For you.”

“So you’ve set the stage,” he clips, his jaw pulsing. “Brought me to my bedroom; waved your ripe and milky and jiggling tits in a skimpy fucking dress under my nose; gone down on your knees in front of me. And you’ve done all this so you could thank me like I motherfucking said. Am I getting this right?”

My breasts — milky and ripe and jiggling — heave at his words.

They shudder and become even more ripe.

And he notices that, his eyes going down.

“Yes,” I whisper.

At this, he glances up. “Do you remember what else I said?”

“What?”

He finally leans closer to me.

So close that I have to make space for his body. I have to bow my spine and arch my neck as he comes at me.

And I do it all happily.

I happily let him hang over me like a dark, masculine threat.

“I said that when a girl,” he says, “is at my feet, she knows to open her pink mouth, doesn’t she?”

My mouth tingles at his graphic words and I nod, my hands clutching his thighs. “Yes.”

“Are you going to open your pink mouth for me, Bronwyn?”

“Yes. I will.”

“Yeah? Your pink and shameless mouth, isn’t it?” His eyes drop to my lips for a moment. “That was the name of the lipstick you wore that night, yeah?”

I dig my nails on his smooth jaw. “Yes. Pink and Shameless.”

“Your second favorite.”

I bite my lip at his memory. At how well he remembers what I said to him.

How well he remembers that night, even.

“It is.”

“What about this one?” He motions with his jaw. “Is this your favorite then?”

“Uh-huh.” I nod. “Pinky Winky Promises.”

His cheekbones go even tighter. “Pinky Winky Promises.”

“Yes.”

It’s a dusky, more rosy sort of pink that goes with my dress.

And it is my favorite.

“So is your mouth pinky promising me,” he says, his jaw moving tightly, his thighs still flexing, “that it will give me a good ride? That it will give me the ride of my fucking life?”

“Yes,” I answer eagerly. “It is. I pinky promise.”

He shudders at my enthusiastic reply.

He shudders and breathes a long, long breath.

And then he does something that I’ve been waiting for ever since I met him.

Ever since he stepped into my life wearing that suit and silver watch and with his gorgeous hair.

He unfurls his fists that were planted on the arms of his chair and brings his hands forward. And then he touches me.

He actually, legit touches me with them.

Not just my hair like in his dining room, but me.

He not only touches me, he grabs me.

He buries his fingers in my hair and fists them again. Only this time instead of air, he’s clutching my hair and pulling at it so my neck is even more taut and bent.

And that’s only one hand.

His other goes around my neck. It goes on my four-chain necklace. Which he picks up from my chest noisily, before he clutches it in his fist too.

And once he has me in his hands, all tightly and domineeringly, I smile.

I put my hands on his taut biceps as my body goes liquid and soft. And I can’t help but feel like I’m finally complete.