I feel him stretch me . . . take me.

Then we begin to move. Quiet. Only our breathing audible.

My every sense is sensitized to a million.

I stare, in hazy ecstasy, up into his face, lit by the lamplight and golden and perfect, and ohmigod, his eyes look so hot for me. So violent and fiercely tender for me as he stares down at me. I knot up inside.

My chest flutters as I wonder if he can see it right in my eyes in every wild beat of my heart, I love you I love you Iloveyou . . .

I stay staring as we move, my hands caressing his chest, his body hoisted up by one arm while his free hand makes love to my skin. And then we start kissing, and we don’t stop, the connection of our bodies too delicious, our mouths tasting, savoring, hot, wet, mine eager and soft, his more demanding and thirsty, our bodies moving together.

We lie there after he goes clean up, silent and sweaty and I’ve lost all modesty at the moment. I feel raw and open and unable to pull myself together right now.

I let him kiss my mouth for a while; my lips are red and I like it. I like his bed, I like our bodies tangled, I like that he broke me down and I get to stay and sleep here as I pull myself together again. I realize his breathing is deeper and shift a little, and he’s asleep. I reach up and touch his lips and quietly set a kiss on them.

I know Saint usually has trouble sleeping and I wonder how many nights he’s lain here, in this bed, without shutting his eyes. Enough that he’s fast asleep now, as if he too feels at peace having me back in his arms. I take his arm and curl it around me. And kiss the corner of his lips.

“Good night, Sin,” I whisper.

I never thought I could love a guy this freaking hard.

SOMETHING NEW

Helen loved my “Things That Obsess Us” piece inspired by the Cubs game, and I’m excited to be writing again. I’m hopeful these newest pieces will help me open the door to one of my job prospects.

I was already at Lokus this week, and I’ve already queried every one of the places Saint mentioned. But my phone is silent.

Sometimes at night, when Saint leaves bed to work, or sometimes even when he’s holding me, I quietly worry about my options.

Or lack of them.

Valentine tells me that sometimes it takes time. That I may have to freelance, but I’m scared to lose the security of a full-time job, especially with my mother and our lack of health insurance for her.

Helen hasn’t mentioned Noel Saint again. But . . . can the deal please fall apart?

I know Helen doesn’t want me to leave. She’s trying her damnedest to act as if Edge isn’t in the midst of an acquisition, but I can tell by her shut office door and the flurry of meetings with her bosses that it’s happening.

There’s a long-standing war of wills going on between Noel and Malcolm. I mean, why else would his father, whose business mostly involves real estate, just happen to be interested in journalism, just as his son is being seen with me?

And I know how ruthless Saint can be. Saint is not a guy who’d let his father win, especially where I’m concerned.

The week goes by in a blizzard of texts, and anticipation of seeing him on Friday.

He warned me he was working late, but that he wanted to see me. I’m already in bed when he finally texts, I’m coming up.

I tiptoe out to open the door in nothing but a tiny pair of lace bottoms, and when I swing the door open, he lifts me up.

I crawl higher up the trunk of his body and bite his neck. We’re both ravenous when he takes us to my room. He shoves his hands into the sides of my panties and gives a hard pull and when I hear them give with a spectacular tear and snap, I gasp his name, raw on my lips. Another breathy gasp escapes me as he throws me on the bed and jerks off his clothes. Then he covers me, and my nails sink into his shoulder blades, ankles lock at the base of his spine.

“Inside,” I beg.

He tortures me for a little while. “No. I want you like this. Wild and hot.” He’s not very obedient. The arousal and lust in my body triples. I ache for it, need it.

“Inside . . . get in me. Oh Sin, give it to me.”

By the time he rolls on a condom and lets me have it, I’m a mass of delicious contractions and heat.

He holds the back of my head in one hand, kisses me. “The way you squeeze me, Rachel. The way you just don’t want to let go of me even when you know I’m coming back, hard and deep . . .”

The next morning, I awake to an empty bed and a shiny black credit card lying next to the cell phone on my nightstand. And a text: Get some new ones.

I roll to my side and see the torn panties, and smile so hard my face hurts.