Page 121 of Broken Saint

“That sounds ominous,” I tease.

When he swallows thickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, dread begins to seep into my veins.

“Shit. This is serious, isn’t it?”

Sliding my hand into his, I step closer, letting my breasts brush against his chest.

He doesn’t say anything as he stares down at me, making my heart race.

“I owe you an explanation about a few things, Bombshell. It’ll help you understand…well, everything.”

“You don’t owe me anything, Colt,” I say, although the longer I think about it, about all the pain he’s caused me over the years, maybe he does.

“I do, Ella,” he whispers before leaning forward and resting his brow against mine. “I owe you the truth. The reason I’ve held back from what I’ve always wanted with you.”

My breath catches and my eyes burn, but I blink back the tears. He doesn’t need that right now. Whatever he wants to tell me is a big deal for him. What he needs is for me to be strong.

“Okay,” I say. “Whatever you need.”

Holding my hand tighter, his fingers slip into my hair, dragging my head back so he can kiss me.

It’s not as unrestrained as our last one; his anxiety over what he wants to tell me is holding him back.

It’s not something I’m used to seeing or experiencing with Colt. He’s always so confident and sure of himself. It’s a bit of a head fuck.

“Come on,” he says, tugging me toward his bedroom. “But you’re not taking the lingerie off.”

“Okay,” I agree with a cringe. It’s damp and now covered in his cum. But if it makes him happy, I’ll do it.

Reaching his closet, I find the bag I packed last night while he watches.

Pulling out a pair of leggings, my skin continues to burn with his attention.

“What?” I ask lightly.

I glance up just in time to see him rub his hand over his mouth, his head gently shaking from side to side.

“Nothing,” he mutters.

Letting it go, I reach into my bag again for a dress, but before I manage to pull it free, fabric hits my arm.

Glancing down, I find a Saints-blue jersey in a heap at my feet. Reaching for it, I lift it up.

“You want me wearing your number again, Rogers?” I tease.

“Always.”

“Who knew you had such a possessive streak.”

Stalking over, he takes the jersey from me and tugs it over my head.

“Looks a hell of a lot better on you.”

“I’m not so sure about that. Have you looked in a mirror recently?”

Turning to look at him, I swallow my argument.

It would be too easy to give him an out from whatever he’s so scared to talk to me about.