Chapter 110 110: Love-sick Fools
Baby woke slowly, the way dawn creeps in through half-closed curtains—soft, golden, inevitable.
A low, involuntary moan slipped from his throat before his eyes even opened.
There was pressure. Fullness. A deep, steady ache that pulsed in time with his heartbeat. Something thick and hot nestled inside him, unmoving but undeniably there, stretching him open in the most intimate way. His body remembered before his mind caught up: the stretch, the heat, the way Saint had buried himself to the hilt last night and simply… stayed.
They'd fallen asleep like that.
Still connected.
Baby's lashes fluttered. A second, softer moan escaped as he shifted—just a tiny rock of his hips—and felt Saint's cock twitch inside him in response. The sensation rippled through him, lazy and electric, making his toes curl against the sheets.
"Mm… Saint…"
Saint stirred beneath him, arms tightening reflexively around Baby's waist. A low, sleepy rumble vibrated through both their chests.
"Morning," Saint murmured, voice gravel-rough from sleep and sex. His lips found the bruised curve of Baby's shoulder, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to one of the fresh marks he'd left there. "You okay?"
Baby nodded against Saint's throat, too blissed-out to form full sentences yet. He clenched once—deliberately—around the length still buried inside him.
Saint's breath punched out in a quiet curse. His hips jerked once, shallow and instinctive, pushing deeper before he caught himself.
"Fuck, baby… you're gonna kill me doing that."
Baby smiled sleepily, nosing along Saint's jaw until their mouths brushed.
"Didn't mean to fall asleep like this," he whispered, voice still thick with remnants of last night. "But… don't pull out. Not yet."
Saint's hand slid up Baby's spine—slow, reverent—fingers tracing every bite mark, every fingerprint bruise like he was reading braille across Baby's skin. When he reached the nape of Baby's neck, he cradled it gently, tilting Baby's face so their eyes could meet in the soft morning light.
"I'm not going anywhere," Saint promised quietly. "Not pulling out. Not letting go."
He rolled them in one careful motion—keeping them joined the whole time—so Baby ended up on his back, legs splayed wide, Saint settled deep between them. The movement dragged Saint's cock along every sensitive inch inside, slow enough to make Baby arch and whimper.
Saint braced himself on his forearms, caging Baby without crushing him. Their foreheads touched.
"Look at me," he whispered.
Baby did. Blue eyes wide, glassy, trusting.
Saint began to move.
Not thrusting—not yet.
Just long, languid rocks. Tiny rolls of his hips that ground the thick head right against Baby's prostate on every pass. No rush. No brutality. Just deep, worshipping pressure that built like a slow tide.
Baby's hands found Saint's back, nails dragging lightly down sweat-damp skin. Every tiny shift earned a soft, broken sound from his throat—half moan, half plea.
"Saint… feels so good… so full…"
Saint kissed him then—slow, devastatingly tender. Tongues sliding together in the same lazy rhythm as their hips. He tasted like sleep and cigarettes and last night's desperation turned devotion. When he pulled back, it was only far enough to speak against Baby's lips.
"You feel like mine," he murmured. "Like you were made for this. For me."
Baby's breath hitched. His legs wrapped higher around Saint's waist, heels digging into the small of his back to pull him impossibly closer.
"Always yours," Baby breathed. "Always… please don't stop…"
Saint didn't.
He kept the rhythm torturously slow—long, deep glides that dragged every ridge along Baby's walls, every withdrawal leaving him achingly empty before the next gentle push filled him again. One hand slipped between them, wrapping loosely around Baby's leaking cock—not stroking, just holding, letting the motion of their bodies do the work. Every forward roll pushed Baby through the circle of Saint's fist; every retreat teased the sensitive head.
Baby was trembling now—soft, continuous shivers that ran from his toes to the crown of his head. Tears gathered at the corners of his eyes, not from pain, but from how overwhelmingly good it felt. How safe. How loved.
"Saint—" His voice cracked. "I'm… I'm close already… I can't hold…"
Saint's lips curved against Baby's temple.
"Come whenever you want, sweetheart," he whispered. "No rush. No orders. Just feel me. Let me love you slow like this."
He angled his hips just slightly—enough to grind relentlessly against that spot inside—and Baby broke with a quiet, shattered cry.
His orgasm rolled through him like warm honey—long, liquid waves instead of sharp spikes. He pulsed around Saint's cock in slow, rhythmic clenches, spilling hot and thick between them while his whole body trembled in Saint's arms. Tears slipped free; Saint kissed them away without breaking rhythm.
When the aftershocks eased, Saint finally let himself follow.
He buried his face in the crook of Baby's neck—right over the darkest bruise—and came with a low, wrecked groan. Deep, pulsing heat flooded Baby again, marking him from the inside the same way his mouth and hands had marked him on the outside. He rocked through it gently, drawing it out until they were both oversensitive and shaking.
They stayed like that—sweaty, tangled, still joined—breathing each other in.
Saint lifted his head eventually, brushing damp hair from Baby's forehead.
"You're beautiful when you come like that," he said softly. "Quiet. Open. Mine."
Baby gave a sleepy, sated smile, fingers tracing the line of Saint's jaw.
"Love you," he whispered.
Saint kissed him again—soft, lingering.
"Love you more."
Neither moved to separate.
The world outside could wait.
For now, there was only this: slow, worshipping love in the hush of morning, bodies locked together, hearts finally beating without lies between them.
An hour later, Baby stood in front of the apartment door, smoothing out his silk, white shirt.
The shirt was buttoned to the neck, his sleeves properly cuffed. No one would see his marks, not unless he purposely undressed before them.
He loved them... his marks. He had asked for them, and he loved the memories that came with each of them.
Walking around with Saint's claim on him would be a subtle turn-on for him through the day.
He was waiting for Saint so they could appear before Sloane together. She was right outside the door, waiting to take them for the day.
"Oh..." Baby gasped quietly as Saint's arm wrapped around him.
Saint hugged Baby, placing his chin on Baby's shoulder. "I'm going to be distracted all day," he murmured.
Baby smirked. "And why's that?" he asked quietly, glancing at the door to make sure it was locked from Sloane.
Saint chuckled. "You," he whispered.
"Me?" Baby turned his head slightly to look at Saint.
"You. Knowing I can reach for you whenever I want, knowing you bear my marks in you and on you... my head is totally whipped. I'm going to mess something up, I'm sure," he confessed.
Baby chuckled lightly. "You'll be fine," he assured.
"I'll be fine when we're back on my bed with you singing my name—"
"Saint," Baby hushed, nudging Saint's side.
"You know you want to," Saint murmured and walked around to stand in front of Baby.
He reached up, cupping Baby's face. "Come here," he said and pulled Baby in, kissing him slowly.
"We'll talk tonight... real talk. Okay?" Saint whispered.
Baby nodded. "Okay."
Saint smiled at the way Baby's face fell.
"Relax, it's just talking. And try not to stare directly into my eyes today," he said.
Baby frowned. "Why?"
"Because each time I look into your eyes I'm compelled to say I love you," Saint answered.
Baby laughed softly. "Are you rizzing me, man?" he asked.
Saint smirked. "There's only one way to find out." He stepped back. "I don't mind letting everyone know once and for all. Less drama." He paused, placing his hand on the door handle.
Baby stood behind Saint, thinking of what Saint had just said.
He suddenly looked up as he felt Saint's finger under his chin.
"I love you," Saint murmured.
Baby felt the butterflies fluttering like crazy in his stomach. He sucked on his bottom lip before replying, "I love you..." he flushed.
"Now wipe that love-sick look off your face if you don't want Sloane falling unconscious." Saint smirked and turned.
Baby wasn't given enough time to get his butterflies settled before Saint pulled the door open, forcing him to keep a neutral face when he felt like drooling over the man in front of him.
"Morning, Ms. Vane. Sleep well?" Saint asked, striding forward without waiting for her.
"You look beautiful, Ms. Vane," Baby commented in a robotic tone, walking past her in quick strides to hide the flush that still refused to disappear from his cheeks.
Sloane blinked slowly, her brows furrowing as she stared at the strange-acting boys.
Was she pushing them too hard?
Were they getting enough sleep?
Or was there something else entirely?
She'd find out before the day ended.
She was no child. Something definitely seemed off between her two chosen players, and it was her duty to get to the root of it.
.