Page 112 of Broken Saint
He doesn’t say any more as he drives us toward his penthouse. He wants to, but I don’t push. When the time is right, he’ll let the words out. I have to trust that.
The Colt sitting beside me now is a very different man from the one I knew before. And I think the changes in him have hit him just as hard as my own.
Where my ability to trust has been shattered; I’m not sure he’s ever allowed anyone to get close enough to even consider trusting them.
Who knows—maybe we’ll be able to find a way to move past our issues together.
30
ELLA
Iroll over and press my face into the pillow beneath me, breathing in his scent.
A satisfied smile spreads across my lips as I think back to the night before.
The little tryst in the restaurant and then at the club really was just the beginning of what Colt had planned.
My muscles ache and my pussy throbs as I think about what happened the second we got inside his apartment.
I’d barely made it two steps before I was in his arms, and I was naked before we even hit the couch.
Heat rushes through my system as I remember him laying me out and then dropping to his knees to eat me again.
He had the bright lights of Seattle behind his head, but the only thing he was focused on was me.
It was a heady experience.
I lost count of how many times he made me come before we finally made it to the bedroom. And I have no clue what time we finally passed out. All I do know is that it was later than it should have been, seeing as Colt had to be up at the crack of dawn to get to the facility for training.
He told me that he wasn’t going to wake me as he left, and he probably wouldn’t have if he hadn’t stopped to kiss me. I’m so fucking glad he did.
“I want you here waiting for me when I get home, Bombshell,” he whispered roughly in my ear. “We’re going to have dinner, then embark on a repeat of last night. It was epic. You are epic.”
I was still smiling long after he left the apartment, and I drifted back off to sleep happier than I remember being in a very, very long time.
Breathing in another shot of the man I can’t stop thinking about, I stretch my legs out and groan at the pull of my muscles.
While a repeat of last night might sound incredible, I’m not sure my body can keep up with his.
He’s in prime condition from all his training. He has to be. He plays for the freaking Seattle Saints. All I’ve done over the last few years is make every excuse under the sun as to why I can’t exercise and eaten one too many tacos.
Throwing the covers back, I pad naked to the bathroom and gasp the second I get a look at myself in the mirror.
“Jesus, Colt,” I mutter, my eyes roaming from love bites to teeth marks to bruises.
I did say I wanted a physical reminder about last night. I certainly got one—or twenty.
I clean up and brush my teeth before finding a Saints shirt in Colt’s closet and heading out to his kitchen to see if there’s coffee.
As I move through the open-plan living area, I can’t help but notice how sparse and impersonal it all is.
It’s the kind of home that I would have predicted for him when we were in college. But it doesn’t gel with the man I’m getting to know now.
Thankfully, though, I do find a coffee machine sitting on the side of what I can only assume is a barely used kitchen.
I can imagine Colt doing a lot of things, but for some reason, cooking isn’t one of them.
With a mug in my hands, I walk toward the floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over downtown Seattle.