Page 7 of My Fallen Saint

“We shouldn’t do this. Not tonight. Not when I—Not after—But dammit, I want you too much. I can’t stand the thought that I might—”

“What?”

“Lose you?”

He made the words a question, and I nodded in understanding. Peter was the first person he’d lost. And I understood grief better than anyone. “You won’t lose me, Alex,” I promised. “How can you if we love each other?”

I thought I saw tears in his eyes, but then he kissed me, and once again I was lost as he swept me away, out to sea on a tide of passion. He moved slowly, every touch bringing me that much closer to begging until, finally, I did exactly that and showered him with pleas.

He didn’t ask if I was sure—he knew that I was—but he met my eyes, and when he grinned, he was more than my new lover, he was my best friend. And I knew right then that no matter what, the night was going to be perfect.

He buried himself inside me, moving slowly, taking care to hurt me as little as possible, until I was actually whimpering with need. And when he exploded, I opened my eyes and watched the release play out over his face and body, amazed that I had the power to take him there—and then amazed again a few minutes later when he once more sent me off on the same journey until we were both utterly spent and limp as rags.

He slid up the bed, pulling me against him, and we clung to each other, whispering softly until sleep claimed us. I drifted off in his arms, knowing that I would survive this. Because with Alex by my side, I could survive anything.

That’s what I believed, anyway, but I learned soon enough that it was a crock of steaming bullshit.

Because by the time I got up the next morning, Alex was gone, vanished with no word other than one crappy slip of paper telling me he was sorry and that I was strong. I’d loved him. I’d trusted him. And he’d walked away.

Everyone else in my life had been stolen from me. But Alex? He’d left of his own accord.

And that made him the worst devil of all.