"Mercy of fate, of course. We can plan all we want, but life takes us in directions we’d never intended to go."
He lifts his other hand in the air, twirls his finger, "You mean like this."
I glance around the massive bathroom that is three times the size of the room in which I had grown up. "Exactly." I turn to glance at him.
He lowers his arm, slides his hand between my legs, inserts two fingers inside of me.
I shudder.
He hooks his fingers, and I can’t stop my internal muscles from clamping down on him. A shiver of lust crawls up my spine and my breathing goes ragged. I half close my eyes, take in his features. He watches me with curiosity, a hunger in his eyes, his lips pressed together as if intent on the task at hand. He twists my arm around my back, so my chest is pushed forward. My breath trembles and my nipples pucker to hard points. I wiggle, lean in, needing him to close his mouth around them. He holds me in place.
"You still sore?"
His voice fades in and out of my hearing. I focus on his fingers sliding in and out of me—soft, gentle. Christ, he doesn’t have a tender bone in his entire body, yet there is no mistaking the barely imperceptible movements of his digits inside of me. I draw in a breath, and his scent, dark and edgy—now laced with roses, which only heightens the pheromone-laced impact of his essence—goes straight to my head. My head spins. My eyelids flutter shut.
"Victoria?" His voice seems to come from far away. "Gigi?" His breath whispers over my cheek.
"You okay?" His lips quirk.
I nod.
"Are you sore?"
I nod again. He ceases that beautiful friction, withdraws his hand.
"No." I force my eyelids open, "I mean, I am sore, but not tha-a-t sore."
"Ah," his lips twitch.
A flush creeps up my throat, but damn that. I want his fingers back inside of me. Want him to do all of those things he’s been hinting at over the past few weeks.
"You asked what I needed, Saint?"
His gaze narrows. He looks down his patrician nose, the skin stretching tight over his cheekbones. He jerks his chin.
I raise my head, "I want you to fuck me like you don’t care about me. Can you do that? Can you screw me without mercy?"
31
Saint
Fuck, bloody, fuck. She is hiding something from me. It’s there in the curve of her cheek, the angle of her chin, in how she lowers her eyelids to stop me from reading the emotions that claw at her. In how she wraps her hand around my neck and leans in close enough for our eyelashes to tangle. In what she asks me to do, "Will you do this for me, Saint?"
"No." I reply.
She pales. Her chin wobbles. Then she firms her lips and retreats. I swoop out my hand, grab the back of her neck. "I am going to make love to you instead."
Her gaze widens. Her pupils dilate. She opens and closes her mouth, "I… I…don’t think you should do that."
"Why not?"
"It could…uh…lead to complications."
"This is already far from simple." Her neck is so fragile that my fingers meet around the front of her neck.
"It’s not what I want."
"You lying to me?"
She chews on the inside of her cheek. "I am not going to admit the truth to you."
"I’ll get it out of you yet." I haul her close. Graze the heel of my palm over her pussy. Gently, gently. Don’t want to hurt her more than I already have now. F-u-c-k. This entire emo mindset is going to take some getting used to.
She whines, and I can’t stop my lips from curving.
"You like that, hmm?"
She opens and shuts her mouth, "Saint."
My name from her lips sounds like a whispered prayer. I close the distance between us, "You wanna come for me, Gigi?"
She nods. I swipe my thumb between her lower lips and her body shudders. Her hand on my shoulder spasms, she digs her fingers into my skin, attempts to pull herself closer, to impale herself on my fingers.
"First, answer this riddle."
"What?" she blinks.
"Would you rather have a hamster or a cat?"
"Is that a trick question?"
"Answer me, Gigi."
"A cat."
"What would you call him or her?"
"You’re asking me this…now?"
"No better time to get to know you than when I have my fingers inside of you, hmm?" I press my thumb into the bud of her clit. She stutters.
"What’s that?" I slide my finger in and out of her again; she groans.
"What’s the name you’d choose?"
"Cats," she gasps. "I’ve always wanted to own two cats. I’d call them Salt and Pepper."
I frown, "Like that crazy cat-obsessed fucker Lennon did?"
She blinks. "How the hell do you know that? Have you been reading up on The Beatles?"
"You know what they say—nothing like knowing everything about your enemy to get the better of them. Knowledge is power, and all that."
"And you, have you ever had a pet?"
"You don’t get to ask the questions."
She pouts, "That’s not an answer."
"It’s the only one you’re getting." I twist my fingers inside of her and her entire body bucks. "Oh… Saint… Oh, I’m…"
"Come for me, Gigi."
She opens her mouth and a low wail keens from her.
I withdraw my fingers, bring my mouth to hers, "How do you feel?"
"Knackered," she whispers, then yawns.
"Good."
Keeping her in my arms, I rise up and step out of the bath tub. Walking over to where the towels are stacked on a shelf, I lower her to her feet. She winds her fingers around my waist as I pull out a large towel and dry her off first, then myself. I scoop her up and march over to the bed, lower her to the mattress. Sinking down next to her, I draw the sheets over us, before tucking her into my chest.
When was the last time I spooned someone this way? Never… Yeah, that’s the honest answer. So why her? Why this woman who holds a
