Chapter 66 66: Unleashed
Saint's gaze dropped to Baby's lips, his composure crumbling. The "heavy" silence was gone, replaced by the hearts of two people finally accepting the inevitable between them.
He moved, his face leaning closer and closer until their nose rubbed together.
He gulped, his control almost snapping from the way Baby was looking at him from underneath his body.
"You're not drunk?" Saint whispered huskily, he released Baby's wrist and laced their hands together, his thumb caressing Baby's.
Baby blinked slowly, shrugging, "I don't know, Kross, but know I'll be pushing you off if you're just going to be up there and stare –"
His words died in his throat as Saint's mouth crashed on his, his senses shutting completely down for more than one second.
All his consciousness was zeroed in on the way Saint ate his mouth like a starved man, sucking and licking his lips with a feral hunger that caused Baby's lower abdomen to knot with hot desire.
Saint pulled away with a low growl, his thumb pressing hard against Baby's lower lip, "Work your lips on kine, Baby, that's how a kiss works." He murmured breathlessly and claimed Baby's lips again, a guttural groan tearing from his lips as he felt Baby kissing him back with a filth that set his soul on fire.
Baby locked his arms around Saint's neck, his fingers sinking into Saint's hair to pull him in for a deeper kiss.
The air in the living room didn't just feel thin; it felt combustible. The expensive scent of the apartment was drowned out by the raw, musky heat of two bodies finally colliding after weeks of high-velocity friction.
Saint's mouth was a fever, a relentless pressure that tasted of expensive wine and a decade of repressed longing. He didn't just kiss Baby; he tried to consume him. His tongue swept deep, claiming Baby's mouth with a territorial possessiveness that made the "Unified Contract" look like a child's doodle. This was the real tether—physical, jagged, and absolute.
Baby let out a broken, needy sound against Saint's lips, his fingers tangling in the damp hair at the nape of Saint's neck, pulling him closer until there wasn't a single molecule of air left between their chests. He didn't want the "tamed" version of Saint. He wanted this—the predator, the man who was currently vibrating with a hunger so fierce it felt like it could tear them both apart.
"God, you're so loud," Saint growled against Baby's skin, his lips trailing a path of fire from the corner of Baby's mouth down to the sensitive cord of his throat. He bit down—just hard enough to leave a mark, a dark crimson stain that no suit jacket could hide—and felt Baby arch beneath him, a sharp gasp catching in the back of his throat.
Saint's hand, large and calloused from years of gripping a stick, slid beneath the hem of Baby's black shirt. His palm was searing as it raked up Baby's ribs, his thumb tracing the jagged line of his hip bone before flattening against the smooth, hot skin of his stomach. Every touch was an eviction of the "ghost" Baby had been trying to be.
Baby's legs tangled with Saint's, his thighs rubbing against the rough denim of Saint's jeans, the friction sparking a white-hot ache in his lower abdomen. He was lightheaded, but it wasn't the "low iron" vision this time—it was the pure, unadulterated rush of finally being seen.
"Saint," Baby breathed, his voice a wrecked, beautiful mess. He reached down, his hands finding the firm muscles of Saint's back, pulling him down, needing the weight of him to keep from floating away.
Saint shifted, his knee sliding between Baby's legs, pressing high and hard. He watched Baby's eyes roll back, his head hitting the sofa cushion as a long, low moan vibrated through both of them.
"Look at me," Saint commanded, his voice a dark, velvet rasp. He pulled back just an inch, his eyes dark with a primal, focused intensity. "I want to see you realise that you're never going back to being a ghost. Not after this. Not after me."
Baby's eyes snapped open, blue clashing with grey in a silent explosion. He didn't say a word. He just reached up, grabbed Saint by the back of the neck, and crashed their mouths together again, his tongue searching for Saint's with a desperation that said everything. He wasn't tamed; he was unleashed.
Saint's hands moved to the waistband of Baby's loose shorts, his knuckles grazing the skin in a way that made Baby's entire body go rigid with anticipation.
Saint didn't tease, he slid his hand in one swift move, palming over Baby's evidence of desire.
"Fuck, finally..." Baby shuddered, hips jerking up to meet Saint's touch.
"Touch me, Saint," Baby cried as Saint's thumb swiped over her leaking opening, his entire body dealing like an overheated furnace.
Saint growled, his tongue licking Baby's neck, "Damn, sweetheart, you're drooling. That desperate?" His husky voice whispered against Baby's ear.
Baby's hand flew to Saint's neck, choking him. "Touch. Me. Now."
Saint smirked down at Baby, his eyes darkening as he watched the oure hunger in those blue eyes.
Suddenly, Saint pulled away from Baby.
He grabbed the bottle of unfinished wine, tilting his head back and poured it down his throat.
Baby sat up, staring at Saint with eyes full of unshed tears.
"I'll be heading in now," Saint gestured his head toward his room and walked away without waiting for Baby.
Baby almost threw the empty glasses at Saint when he suddenly realised that Saint wasn't bailing out... he was inviting him into his bedroom.
Baby knew what that meant, if he went in there, there was no going back, this was his last chance to pull back.
He glanced down between his legs, then at Saint's door, "Fuck reasoning." He breathed and sprang from the chair, striding toward Saint's door with purpose and a hunger he'd never felt before.
Baby paused at the threshold of Saint's bedroom, heart hammering so loud it drowned out the distant city hum beyond the windows. The door was ajar—just enough for warm lamplight to spill into the hallway like an invitation laced with danger.
He pushed it open.
Saint was already there, not on the bed, but seated in the wide leather armchair beside it. Legs spread, shirtless, the bottle of unfinished Cabernet still loose in his right hand.
The low light carved sharp shadows across his bare chest—every ridge of muscle, every faint scar from years on the ice, every line of restrained violence now laid bare. His grey eyes locked on Baby the second he stepped inside, dark and unblinking, like a predator who'd finally stopped pretending to be civilised.
He didn't speak.
He simply patted his own thigh once—slow, deliberate. A silent, unmistakable order.
Baby's breath caught.
He crossed the room on legs that felt both liquid and electric. No hesitation now. No second thoughts. The door clicked shut behind him with a soft finality.
Saint watched every step.
When Baby reached him, he didn't sit politely. He climbed straight into Saint's lap, knees bracketing powerful thighs, straddling him so their chests brushed with every shallow breath. The heat between them was immediate, obscene—skin on skin, heartbeat against heartbeat.
For a long moment, they only stared.
Baby thought—foolishly, for one stupid heartbeat—that Saint might have changed his mind. That the man who walked away from the sofa was going to send him back out.
Saint tilted his head, studying Baby's face like he was memorising it for evidence later.
"You walked in here," he said, voice low and rough. "You know exactly what that means, don't you?"
Baby didn't answer with words.
Instead, he dragged one trembling fingertip down the centre of Saint's chest—slow, deliberate—tracing the valley between his pecs, over the tight ladder of his abs, until he reached the low-slung waistband of Saint's black sweatpants where his name tattoo was peeking out from. He hooked a single finger under the elastic and tugged just enough to make the fabric dip.
Then he leaned in, lips brushing the shell of Saint's ear.
"Fuck THC," he whispered, voice wrecked and velvet. "Fuck Sloane. Fuck 'me'."
Saint's exhale was violent.
He lifted the bottle, took one long, slow pull of wine straight from the neck—throat working, Adam's apple sliding—and then crushed his mouth to Baby's in the next heartbeat.
The kiss was filthy from the first second.
He parted Baby's lips with his tongue and let the warm, tart flood of Cabernet pour straight into his mouth. Baby swallowed instinctively, moaning at the taste—wine, heat, Saint—his throat working around the liquid and around the thick press of Saint's tongue chasing it. Some of it spilt, dripping down Baby's chin, down Saint's chest; neither of them cared.
Baby rolled his hips once—hard—grinding down onto the thick, rigid length already straining against Saint's sweats. The friction made them both hiss.
Saint's free hand clamped onto Baby's hip, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.
"Again," he growled into Baby's mouth.
Baby obeyed.
He rocked forward, slow and filthy at first, then faster—shameless, desperate—riding the hard ridge of Saint while their mouths stayed fused, tongues sliding, wine-slick and obscene. Every grind dragged a low, broken sound out of Saint's throat.
Then Baby slid off Saint's lap.
He dropped to his knees between Saint's spread thighs without a word.
Saint's breathing turned ragged.
Baby hooked both hands into the waistband and yanked—sweatpants and black boxer briefs dragged down just far enough. Saint's cock sprang free—thick, flushed dark, already glistening at the tip, veins standing out in sharp relief.
"Chill, Saint... I just wanted to see your beautiful tattoo," Baby smirked, leaning to swipe his yonuge over Saint's tattoo on his hip.
Saint's cock jerked from the lack of attention, his hips thrusting once.
"Baby," he snarled, his fists gripping the armchairs too tightly.
Baby locked eyes with Saint, "That night... did you fuck Kora?" He asked, his eyes falling on the huge cock that had his mouth watering.
Saint gulped, shaking his head, "No, I couldn't, not with you in my head." He rasped out, his eyes pleading with Baby.
"Good," Baby murmured.
This time, Baby didn't tease.
He wrapped one hand around the base, gave one slow, firm stroke—and then took Saint into his mouth in one deep, greedy slide.
Saint's head slammed back against the chair.
"Fuck—'Baby'—"
Baby hollowed his cheeks and sucked hard, tongue flattening along the underside, swirling around the head on every upstroke before plunging back down until his lips kissed his own fist. The taste—salt, skin, pre-come, the faint ghost of wine—flooded his senses. He moaned around the thick length, the vibration ripping a guttural curse from Saint.
Saint's hand flew to Baby's hair—not guiding, not forcing—just holding on like the strands were the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.
Baby worked him deeper, throat relaxing, taking him until his nose brushed the coarse hair at the base. Tears pricked his eyes from the stretch, from the sheer overwhelming fullness, but he didn't stop. He bobbed faster, wet and sloppy, spit slicking down the shaft, dripping onto Saint's balls.
He should feel ashamed, he should consider what his parents would say, but at that moment, the only thing he felt was arousal. Period.
Saint's hips jerked once—uncontrolled—then again.
"Look at me," Saint rasped, voice shredded. "Let me see those eyes while you choke on me."
Baby lifted his gaze.
Blue met grey—raw, wrecked, worshipful.
Saint's thumb brushed over Baby's cheek, catching a tear that had slipped free.
"Good boy," he murmured, voice dark honey. "So fucking good."
Baby whimpered around him and sucked harder, hollowing his cheeks until Saint's control visibly fractured—thighs tensing, abs clenching, breath coming in sharp, broken pants.
He was close.
Very close.
And Baby had no intention of letting him pull away this time.