The Wild Mustang & The Dancing Fairy (St. Mary’s Rebels 1.5)

At my plea, his gaze falls down to my lips and I think I hear a growl.

I can’t be sure because it’s low and thick and in the next second, I don’t have the mental capacity to think about it anyway.

Because his mouth is on me.

His taste, all spicy and vodka-laced, explodes on my tongue and God, it’s so delicious that I want to keep tasting him.

I want to keep analyzing other nuances of his flavor and his soft, warm mouth but just then, the sky opens up.

With no warning or forecast whatsoever, it starts to rain and we break apart.

Panting, we look at each other and I don’t know what he’s thinking.

I don’t know if he’s mourning the loss of my lips as I’m mourning the loss of his.

But again, he takes away my ability to think when he picks me up.

He lifts me off the ground and because we’ve done this move a thousand times before during my dance practice, I don’t even hesitate to wrap my legs around his slim waist. And as soon as I do that, he puts his big hand on the back of my head and makes me huddle into his chest.

He makes me seek shelter from the rain in his big body.

And all I can do is take it and hug him tightly.

My Roman.

My gorgeous, gorgeous villain.

As he begins to move, I mumble, “My bag.”

I wouldn’t usually care about it, my backpack.

But it has something inside it. For him – not the first aid kit – and I don’t want it to get wet.

Smoothly, while still carrying me in his arms, Reed bends down to pick up my bag. When he has it, I thank him and kiss the pulsing vein on the side of his neck. I hear him inhale sharply as he walks me to the back door of his Mustang.

He opens it and carefully deposits me inside the car, away from the rain, before getting in himself. He throws my backpack on the floor and I don’t even wait for him to shut the door properly before I crawl over and straddle him.

It’s such a bold move but I don’t care.

I don’t really care about anything tonight except being close to him, taking care of him.

Taking all his pain from the fight and his loneliness away.

My hands are on his shoulders, fisting his damp t-shirt, and his find their way back to my waist, clutching onto my wet dress. I stare at the water droplets that sluice down his dark, rain-slick hair to his beautiful face. They stream down his cheeks and the side of his neck, disappearing into the V of his t-shirt.

And God, I was right.

He’s got muscles for days.

I can see them through his t-shirt, the ridges of his ribs and the hills of his chest and the cut planes of his stomach, and I squirm on his lap.

Wait a second. I’m on his lap.

How did I not notice this before?

My spread thighs, even though covered by my wet dress, rub against his damp jeans and oh my God, it’s glorious, the rough fabric and my smooth skin. And so I squirm again but before I can do it one more time, he stops me.

He physically stops me by putting pressure on my waist and pinning me in one spot, commanding, “Hold on to your dress.”

I frown. “What?”

He glances down at the hem of my dress. “Your dress. Hold on to it.”

I pull at his t-shirt. “Why?”

“Just do it. Now,” he says with clenched teeth, his body pulsing with his words.

I immediately let go of his t-shirt and grab the hem of my dress. He doesn’t like how I’ve done it though, so he lets go of my waist and positions my hands.

He carefully puts my hand —both hands — in between my legs and makes me fist the fabric. And he makes me do it so tightly that my knuckles jut out with the force.

When he’s done, he looks up. “Don’t let me push it up your thighs.”

My heart is banging against my chest. “Why not?”

He licks his lips, his hand flexing over mine. “Because I want to.”

“But I –”

“Because I want to push your dress up and look at your panties. Because I know you’re creaming them right now and I want to see. I want to look at that wet spot and picture you creaming every night for me, up in your bedroom. And if I do that, if I imagine you, then I’m going to lose whatever sanity I have left. You got that? So you’re going to protect her.”

“Roman –”

He lets go of my hands and buries his fingers in my wet hair.

He presses his forehead over mine as he says in a guttural voice, “No, listen to me, you’re going to protect her. From me. You’re going to hold onto your dress and you’re going to guard your pussy. You’re not going to let me push your dress up no matter what I do, what I say. You’re not going to let me see her. Tell me you understand.”