Picture Perfect - Page 174

“Snowflake,” Dre murmurs, his voice a velvet touch as his hands glide over the contours of my dress, slipping down bare skin, igniting a trail of fire.

“God, I’ve waited for this,” Saint confesses between kisses, his fingers tangling in the loose strands of my braided hair, releasing it to cascade over my shoulders.

“Me too,” I whisper back, the words almost lost in the fervency of our embrace.

“My wife,” he whispers as he moves his lips down my throat. “My fucking wife.”

The word ‘wife’ sends a thrill through me, wrapping around my heart like a vine. I can’t help but repeat it back to him, savoring the weight of it on my tongue. “Your wife.”

Dre’s laugh is soft, a sound that twines around us, comforting yet charged with desire. “Let’s get you out of this dress, Mrs. Saint.” His deft fingers find the zipper at the back of my gown, pulling it down slowly, deliberately, while Chess assists with nimble hands that leave a trail of heat across my bare shoulders.

Fabric pools at my feet, and Saint drinks me in with eyes full of hunger and awe. For a moment, none of us move; we are suspended in time, caught up in the reality of what we are to each other. Then, as if pulled by an unseen force, they begin to undress themselves, eyes locked onto mine.

Their movements are a dance of mutual longing, every article of clothing discarded revealing another inch of skin that begs to be touched, kissed, worshiped. Saint’s chest is bare now, the contours of his muscles casting shadows in the dim light, inviting my touch. I can’t resist running my palms over him, loving the way his breath hitches at the contact.

“Princess, you don’t know how long I’ve waited for this,” he says, his voice thick with emotion, dark eyes blazing with intensity. “You’re mine. My wife.”

“Yours.” I nod. “Theirs.”

I reach for him, for all of them, needing to feel the truth of his words against my skin. They surround me, a protective circle of devotion and lust, three hearts beating in sync with mine. And in this room, with the world shut out, I am whole, loved, and irrevocably theirs.

Pressing a gentle hand against Saint’s chest, I guide him back until he’s seated on the edge of the mattress. His eyes, dark and liquid with desire, search mine, questioning my next move. I feel his muscles tense under my palms as I drop to my knees, a supplicant poised at the altar of our newfound union.

“Princess,” he breathes, “you don’t have to,” Saint starts, his voice laced with concern. The protective veil he wears so effortlessly can’t hide the tremble in his tone.

I shake my head, silencing his protests with a look that I hope conveys all the determination stirring within me. “But I want to, Saint.” My voice is a whisper, but it rings with the power of reclaiming something lost. “This… I’m taking it back. With you, my husband.”

“Princess…”

I shake my head, silencing him with a determined glance.

“Let me,” I breathe out, fingers reaching out to wrap around his length. I lean forward, intent on tasting him, when his large hand cups my cheek, halting me.

“You don’t have to do this,” Saint says gently, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw. “I don’t need—”

“But I want to, Saint.” My voice is a whisper, but it rings with the power of reclaiming something lost. “This… I’m taking it back. With you, my husband.”

“Just… don’t touch me.” The request hangs between us, laden with the complexities of my past, but he understands. He always does.

His hands hover over me, aching to touch, but he restrains himself, respecting the boundaries I’ve set. This moment is about healing, about rewriting the narrative that William and Preston tried to etch into my skin.

Saint nods, his throat working as he swallows down whatever protest he wants to make. And then, I lean forward, closing the distance between us, and take him into my mouth.

A guttural groan escapes him—one echoed by Chess, who watches us with heavy-lidded eyes. The sound sends an unexpected shiver down my spine. I glance up, catching sight of Chess as he begins to stroke himself, his movements languid but filled with a tension that mirrors the electricity crackling in the air around us.

“Fuck, Addy,” Chess breathes out, and even without looking, I can hear the strain in his voice, the raw edge of need sharpening each word.

Saint’s hands ball into fists beside him, one of them finding the sheets to clench, the other resting tensely on his thigh. He’s holding onto his control by a thread, honoring my request even as every muscle in his body screams to touch, to claim, to comfort.

“Good?” I manage to murmur around him, pulling back just enough to speak.

“More than,” Saint rasps, his eyes never leaving mine. Love, lust, gratitude—they swirl together in his gaze, a tempestuous sea that reflects the storm raging through my own heart.

The moment Dre’s presence registers behind me, a shiver races up my spine. I’m lost in the intensity of Saint, but Dre’s energy is impossible to ignore. He kneels, and his voice is a whisper against the nape of my neck, “Can I touch you, Snowflake?”

I nod, breathless, unable to form words as my affirmation. His fingers are a phantom touch at first, tracing the curve of my spine before his hand fans out across my skin. A moan escapes me when he wraps a firm, yet gentle hand around my throat, grounding me in the here and now.

“Is this okay?” he asks, the concern in his tone incongruous with the lascivious act we’re all entangled in.