Chapter 67 67: No More Ghosts, Absolute Synergy
Saint's grip tightened in Baby's hair—not pulling him off, but holding him there for one long, shuddering second as Baby's tongue swirled mercilessly around the head, sucking hard enough to make Saint's hips jerk involuntarily.
"Fuck—enough," Saint rasped, voice cracked and dangerous. "Not like this. Not yet."
Before Baby could protest, Saint's hands were under his arms, hauling him up with brutal, effortless strength. Baby's knees barely touched the floor before he was airborne for a heartbeat—then slammed down onto the centre of the massive bed, the mattress dipping under his weight.
Saint followed immediately, kicking off the sweatpants that had tangled around his ankles. Naked now, every line of him carved in lamplight and shadow, he crawled over Baby like a storm rolling in. Knees bracketing Baby's hips, hands planting on either side of his head, caging him completely.
Baby stared up, chest heaving, lips swollen and glistening, eyes glassy with want.
Saint didn't speak at first. He just looked—really looked—like he was trying to burn the sight into his memory: Baby spread out beneath him, shirt rucked up to expose the flat plane of his stomach, loose shorts tented obscenely, thighs trembling.
Then Saint leaned down slowly—agonisingly slowly—and kissed him.
This one wasn't frantic like before. It was deep, deliberate, filthy in its patience. Tongues sliding together in long, wet drags. Saint tasted himself on Baby's mouth and groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating between them.
He broke the kiss only to drag his lips down Baby's jaw, down the column of his throat, sucking another bruise into the skin just below the last one. Baby arched, fingers scrabbling at Saint's shoulders, nails leaving crescent moons.
"Off," Saint muttered against Baby's collarbone, already yanking at the hem of the black shirt.
Baby lifted his arms obediently. The fabric was torn away in seconds, tossed somewhere into the dark. Saint's mouth was on him instantly—hot, open-mouthed kisses across his chest, teeth grazing a nipple until it pebbled hard, then sucking it deep. Baby cried out, back bowing, hips grinding up into nothing.
Saint kept going lower. Tongue tracing the faint line of hair that disappeared into Baby's shorts. He hooked two fingers into the waistband and dragged them down—slow enough to torture, fast enough to promise.
Baby's cock sprang free, flushed dark and leaking steadily against his stomach. Saint wrapped a rough hand around it, giving one firm, twisting stroke from base to tip. Baby's hips snapped up, a broken whimper tearing out of him.
"God... the sounds you make," Saint murmured, voice gravel and reverence. "So fucking hard for me. Been like this all night?"
Baby could only nod, words gone.
Saint released him—only to shove Baby's thighs wider apart with his knees. He settled between them, broad shoulders forcing Baby open, exposed. Then he leaned down and dragged his tongue in one long, slow stripe from Baby's balls to the leaking slit.
Baby's entire body seized. A high, wrecked sound punched out of him.
"Saint," Baby cried, shuddering greatly.
Saint did it again—slower this time—then sealed his lips around the head and sucked, hollowing his cheeks, tongue flicking relentlessly against the frenulum.
Baby's hands flew to Saint's hair, gripping hard. "Saint—fuck—please—"
Saint pulled off with a wet pop, lips shining. "Please what, baby?"
Baby's eyes were wet, desperate. "Inside. Need you inside. Now."
Saint's control visibly frayed.
He reared back onto his knees, reached into the nightstand drawer, and came back with a small bottle of lube. He snapped it open with his teeth, poured a generous amount into his palm, then slicked himself with slow, deliberate strokes—eyes never leaving Baby's face.
Baby watched, mesmerised, thighs trembling.
Saint coated his fingers next, then slid one inside Baby—slow, careful despite the heat in his gaze. Baby hissed at the stretch, then moaned when Saint crooked it just right, brushing that spot that made stars burst behind his eyelids.
"More," Baby gasped.
Saint smirked and added a second finger, scissoring gently, then a third—working him open with ruthless patience until Baby was writhing, hips rolling down to meet every thrust of Saint's hand.
When Baby was panting, begging, Saint withdrew his fingers and lined himself up.
He pressed in slow—inch by devastating inch—watching Baby's face the entire time.
Baby's mouth fell open on a silent cry. The stretch was intense, burning, perfect. Saint was thick, unrelenting, filling him until there was nothing left but the feeling of being claimed.
When he bottomed out, hips flush against Baby's ass, they both stilled—breathing hard, foreheads pressed together.
Saint's voice was wrecked. "You feel that?"
Baby nodded frantically, tears slipping free. "Yeah. Yeah—move. Please."
Saint pulled back almost all the way—then slammed home in one brutal, deep thrust.
Baby screamed—raw, beautiful, overwhelmed.
He went slow first, drawing low moans from Baby as he thrust in and out, the delicious feel of skin sliding together almost blinded them with pleasure.
Then he set a punishing rhythm—hard, steady, relentless. Every stroke dragged against that spot inside Baby until pleasure bordered on pain. The headboard thudded against the wall in time with their bodies. Skin slapped skin. Sweat slicked every point of contact.
Saint hooked Baby's legs over his shoulders, folding him in half, driving even deeper.
"Mine," Saint growled against Baby's mouth. "Say it, Danvers."
"Yours," Baby sobbed, nails raking down Saint's back. "Yours—fuck—Saint—"
Saint's hand wrapped around Baby's cock, stroking in time with his thrusts—rough, perfect friction.
"I told you, baby, I'm no Saint. Come. Now." Saint ordered.
Baby shattered—back arching violently, hole clenching like a vice around Saint as he came hard, painting his own stomach and chest in thick pulses. The sight—Baby wrecked, marked, coming apart—snapped the last of Saint's restraint.
He buried himself to the hilt one final time and came with a guttural roar, flooding Baby deep, hips jerking erratically as he rode it out.
They collapsed together—sweat-soaked, trembling, hearts slamming in unison.
Saint didn't pull out right away. He stayed buried inside, arms wrapped around Baby, face pressed to the crook of his neck.
In the quiet that followed, Saint pressed a soft, almost reverent kiss to Baby's temple.
"No more ghosts," he whispered.
Baby turned his face into Saint's chest, breathing him in.
"Mm... no more ghosts..." he murmured.
The "Legacy" was a thousand miles away. The "Consortium" was a joke. In the dark of the bedroom, there was only the sound of frantic breathing, the scent of skin on skin, and the terrifying, beautiful reality of two rivals finally burning the house down.