Page 58 of Broken Saint
“No, please,” I beg, refusing to look at him as I try to disentangle myself from his body. But he’s having none of it. His giant hands hold me down, pinning my wobbly bits against his rock-hard muscles. “Please,” I whimper, shame and disgust rolling through me.
I shouldn’t have done this. I shouldn’t have let him bring me back here and see?—
“Ella, baby,” he whispers as a sob erupts.
As if this whole situation wasn’t mortifying enough, I have to top it off by crying on his chest.
His fingers slide into my hair, and he tries to make me look up, but I fight it.
“Did I do something wrong?” he asks, sounding confused and totally out of his depth.
Our connection might have been powerful back in the day. But it was mostly only physical. We talked sure. But it was usually only limited to our lives at college. We never dived into anything deeper.
It was how he wanted it, and I accepted that just so I could get a piece of the enigma that is Colton Rogers.
I knew then that it was a mistake, and I still know now.
I gave too much of myself—my heart—to him back then, and in return, he gave me multiple orgasms.
They were great, don’t get me wrong. But they weren’t what I wanted. Not really.
I wanted him.
I’ve always wanted him.
“We can start again.”
His words earlier made so much hope flutter in my chest. But I was high on endorphins and the addictive scent of him.
He didn’t mean it.
Deep down, he hasn’t changed. He’s still the player he always was. Hell, it’s splashed over the internet most weeks.
Pressing my brow against his chest, I shake it from side to side.
“No, Colton. You haven’t,” I finally answer once I’ve found some strength to do something other than cry.
I did. I’m the one who did something wrong.
I came here. I allowed this to happen.
When he tugs my hair again, I make the mistake of looking up.
His eyes are dark and so full of emotion that I don’t think I’ve ever seen on him before.
“You’re regretting it,” he states.
I want to lie, but I can’t force the words out. Instead, I whisper, “I should go.”
I expect him to release me, to allow me to do the walk of shame—even call me an Uber to get back to Letty’s—but he does none of those things.
Instead, his lips twitch, although I’m not entirely sure if it’s in amusement or frustration.
“No,” he states simply as if that’ll fix everything.
“Colt. This isn’t…we don’t—” I gesture to his bed.
“I don’t give a fuck about what we did or didn’t used to do, Ella. This isn’t then. This is now, and I want you here. I want you in my bed. I want your body crushed up against mine, and I want to make you scream, not cry.”