“We said a week, right?” Saint asks me.
“A week for . . .” I’m confused for a moment, but then I remember our conversation onboard The Toy, about him . . . and me. And I know exactly what he means. “Oh, that.” A hot flush creeps along my body, spreading down, down, down, all the way to my toes. “Yes, that’s what we said,” I admit.
“How about now?” he surprises me by saying.
Tingles and lightning bolts race through my bloodstream. The sensation covers my body from corner to corner. I try to suppress it; it’s wrong to feel it. But I can’t stop it, I can’t stop what he does to me. “What happened to your legendary patience?”
“How about now, Rachel?” he insists.
All my guilt, my insecurities, and my fear are suddenly weighing down on me. It’s really hard to speak as I shake my head in the dark. “I’m a mess, Saint,” I choke out.
“Be my mess, then.”