Page 43 of Mister St. James

So instead I let my hands do the talking, dragging nails down his back until his composure fractures. He breaks the kiss, buries his face in my hair, and for a second just breathes me in.

He walks me backward, hands braced on my shoulders, and the backs of my knees hit the edge of the bed. I fall onto it, not graceful, not coy, just splayed and ready.

He stands over me, shirt half-buttoned, watching my chest rise and fall. “Tell me to stop,” he says. It’s not a question, but a line drawn in the sand.

“If I wanted to stop,” I say, “I wouldn’t be here.”

He’s on me then, not rough, but insistent. His hands slide over my arms, my ribs, the curve of my waist. He kneels on the mattress, trapping me between his legs, and kisses the hollow at the base of my throat. Every nerve lights up. He knows exactly where to go, how to touch, how to wait for my body to ask.

I dig my heels into the sheets, arch into him. He strips his shirt off, then his pants, everything so matter-of-fact it’s like he’s shedding armor, not clothing. I watch the muscles move under his skin, the plane of his stomach, the old scars I’ve always wanted to trace with my tongue. I do, and he shudders, almost enough to make me laugh.

He tugs my underwear down my hips, slow enough to drive me insane, and drops them over the edge of the bed. He kisses my knees, the inside of my thigh, then mouths up my body in a line of heat.

He pauses at my breast, teeth grazing my left nipple, and I yelp, more surprise than pain. “Fuck, Aiden.”

His mouth curves against my skin. “I like when you say my name.”

“You’re so full of shit,” I say, but I’m already lost in the way he’s devouring me, piece by piece. He presses his fingers between my legs, finds me soaking and laughs, low and guttural.

“I barely touched you,” he says.

“You touched enough,” I bite back.

He pushes two fingers inside, slow but firm. His thumb circles, relentless, and I swear I can feel my bones dissolve. He keeps his eyes on mine the whole time, as if he wants to see the exact moment I break.

I claw at his shoulders, drag him down for a kiss, and when I come it’s with a cry that rips out of me and hangs in the air like a broken note.

He slows, then stops, then pulls me against him, my legs wrapped around his waist. We stay like that for a long minute, forehead to forehead, breathing in the same small circle of air.

He kisses my temple, the tip of my nose, the line of my jaw. “You okay?”

I laugh, a ragged sound. “Never better.”

He leans back, stares at me, then says, “I mean it. If you want to stop, ”

I cut him off with a bite to his collarbone. “Shut up and fuck me, Mr. St. James.”

He does. He slides inside me, slow, stretching me out, letting the ache build until I think I’ll crack open. He moves with the patience of a man who could spend all night right here, and maybe he will. Every thrust is a question. Are you still with me? Every answer is yes.

I hook my ankles behind him, grind my hips up to meet each stroke. He buries his face in my hair, murmurs my name like it’s the only word he knows. He fucks me like he’s trying to stake a claim, but the way he holds my hand makes me feel like I’m the only person in the world.

When I come again, it’s softer, almost silent, just a shudder that runs up my spine and out through my fingertips. He follows, the rhythm of his body stuttering as he lets go. For a second, we hang there together, suspended above everything that waits outside this bed.

Then he collapses beside me, arms wrapping me in, and for the first time in weeks, I feel safe.

We don’t talk for a long while. I listen to the city, to our breathing, to the faint whir of the HVAC kicking on. I think I could fall asleep like this, heavy-limbed, wrapped in warmth, nothing urgent left to say.

But he’s not asleep. I know because the blue glow of his phone lights the wall. He’s reading, not scrolling, and the tension in his jaw is back.

I don’t ask right away. I just watch the light reflect in his glasses on the nightstand, the way his thumb never stops moving.

Finally, I say, “What’s wrong?”

He sets the phone face-down, hesitates, then says, “The board’s called an emergency session. Eight a.m. Sharp.”

I prop myself up on my elbow, hair sticking to my cheek. “That bad?”

He nods, but doesn’t look at me. “They’ll want blood. Mine, or…” he stops.