A Lesson in Thorns (Thornchapel #1)(65)

“Do you like working for your uncle?” I ask as we go. I notice we’re both walking slowly, as if we don’t want to part, but neither of us knows how to say he should stay. Because saying it would bring all those little touches to life, it would give them meaning, it would mean risking his refusal of me again.

“I do,” Saint says, and he sounds like he means it. “Augie was too busy to be a real surrogate after Dad died, but he did his best, and even though Mom and Dad never married, Augie still helped out Mom whenever he could. When I came back from Texas this last time, I was finally able to help him in return.”

Seeing my questioning look, he says, “My mother’s father owns a construction company in Dallas, and they do lots of big builds, like hotels and office buildings, things like that. I spent my weekends and summers helping out with the administrative stuff, learning the ropes. So when I came back and saw what a mess Uncle Augie’s books were, I offered to clean them up. Sometimes I’ll help on-site if they’re short, but mostly I’m the money guy. The paper guy.”

I bump his shoulder. “You’re the money guy in a family business. And yet you still feel like you don’t belong here in Thorncombe? Not even with your dad’s family?”

He shrugs, like he’s feeling indifferent about it, but there’s something defensive in the roll of his shoulders. “My mother was Mexican and Texan and Catholic. I spent years back in America, away from my dad’s family. I don’t look like them, I don’t sound like them.” Another brittle shrug. “At best, they see me as exotic. Most of the time, I feel more like an interloper. A cuckoo dropped into their nest.”

Something in my chest twists, a sharp, wringing ache. I stop walking and throw my arms around him, burying my face in his chest, and startled, he catches me up, steadying me and cradling my head against him with a large, warm hand.

“You’ll always belong with me, and everyone else can fuck off if they feel differently.”

“It’s just life, Poe. It’s just how it is.”

“Fuck life,” I mumble into his T-shirt. It’s an old shirt, so worn through that the cotton is impossibly soft, and he smells like a bonfire in the woods, smoky and clean. I nuzzle against his chest again, relishing the feel of his firm chest all warm and strong under the fabric.

“Poe . . .” he says softly.

I angle my head so I can look up at him. He’s staring down at me with that wary fascination again, a small frown paired with a notch between his brows. I slide a hand up the tight lines of his stomach and chest, and then trace that frown with the tip of my finger.

His hand tightens in my hair. “Fuck,” he mutters. “I can’t—we can’t—Poe—”

I answer him by gently pushing my fingertip into his mouth, past the plushness of his lower lip. He catches it in his teeth, flicks at the pad of my finger with his tongue. I let out a helpless noise, and he shudders.

“You belong to him,” he whispers, although it sounds more like he’s trying to remind himself. “You belong to him and I’ve already taken so much from him . . .”

“I’m not his,” I whisper back, fiercely.

And with a low, helpless groan, his mouth crashes into mine.

The piercing digs insistently into my lip, and I lick at it like I’ve been wanting to, I suck at the soft skin around it until Saint is growling against my mouth and yanking me close. A thick erection intrudes against my belly, and some deep-seated, unlearned instinct makes me press harder against it, sends my hand sliding between our stomachs so I can shape my palm to it.

“Fuck,” he mumbles as I grip him through his jeans. His forehead drops down to roll against mine in slow, agonized movements. “Fuck.”

I’ve never touched someone like this before, never held the weight and heat of someone’s pleasure in my hand, never felt someone shivering violently against me because of something I was doing to them.

With the possible exception of Auden. Who came just from spanking me.

I’m not his.

Saint’s breath ruffles the hair near my ear and warms my neck, and he moves his lips over my temple, then over my face in helpless, searching kisses, like the answers he’s looking for are in the curve of my jaw and the blush warming my cheeks, like he can find the meaning of life with his lips alone.

I trace the hardness of him, I let my fingers wander up to the tip—swollen and distinct even through the denim—and then down to the base and back up again.

“Sometimes I wish you were engaged to him like Ralph wanted,” Saint confesses in a hoarse whisper. “And that he was here right now. Seeing us like this.”

“He’d punish us both,” I say, and it comes out like I’m fantasizing because I am fantasizing; I am imagining being thrown over his lap again, being scolded, being fucked into dreamy submission by Auden Guest for the crime of kissing his enemy.

God. I have to stop.

“I’m not his,” I repeat again.

Saint pulls back enough that I can see his blown pupils and his parted mouth, which is wet from kissing me. He cups one of my breasts in his large hand, plumping and massaging it until it’s so heavy and aching that I could cry, until my nipple pulls into a tight bead against his palm. Then he gives it a vicious, unexpected twist, and I whimper in pure, clean pain.