What the—?
As I watch, he toes off his shoes. Letting go of his dick—which stands erect without any help from his hands, thank you very much—he shrugs off his expensive jacket, drops it to the chair, followed by his shirt. His tanned skin gleams in the warm ceiling lights; his eight pack abs flex as he proceeds to pull off his socks.
He shucks off his pants, along with his boxers, then poses in place for a second. Enough for me to take in the awesome sight of that naked expanse of 100% masculine alpha male who belongs to me. He is mine, from the moment I'd laid eyes on him. Why had I ever thought I'd be able to avoid his charisma, his power, the raw animal magnetism that emanates from his sexy-as-fuck presence?
I gulp, my hand slips, and I slide back into the pool, only he's already there. He dives into the water, arcing up to close his arms around me. His lips find mine and he plants his bulk between my thighs, so I have no choice but to part them. Then he thrusts inside me, instantly filling me as he impales me completely. All I can do is grab onto his shoulders and hold on, as he pushes forward, pins me against the side of the pool, and proceeds to fuck every thought out of my head.
He swipes his tongue across my lower lip, brings his hand down to cup my butt as he slides his finger inside my puckered back hole. My entire body bucks. He winds his fingers around my neck, holding me in place, before ripping his mouth from mine. He peers deeply into my eyes, holds my gaze, urging me with his expression to strain against him, push my pelvis forward, match him thrust for thrust. He kicks his hips forward one last time, bottoming out inside of me, then whispers, "Come."
The climax instantly crashes over me as he comes inside of me, his body spasming along with mine. I sag against him, all thoughts fucked out of me as I float in that strange after-space that comes from being completely and utterly spent.
The world tilts. I sense him tugging me along to the steps at the side of the pool. He scoops me up in his arms, then walks out of the water. He snatches up one of the towels piled by a lounge chair and dries me off, then himself. He picks up my bathrobe and places it around my shoulders. He helps me into the robe then ties it around me with great care. He fetches his pants and steps into them. Carrying me in his arms he takes the private elevator up to his suite. Once inside the room, he strips us both, then carries me into the shower.
He proceeds to shampoo my hair, then seats himself on the stone bench in the shower before washing every inch of my body. He begins to soap himself, and I catch his wrist.
"Let me," I clear my throat, realizing those are the first words I have spoken since I saw him at the pool.
He nods, then leans back, spreading his arms across the back of the bench. I reach around to shut off the shower, then pour out the liquid soap. I work it in across his biceps, down his corded chest, digging into the dips between his pecs. He makes a noise of satisfaction, then sinks back, widening his stance. I massage down his belly, to his thigh, then sink my knuckles into the tense backs of his calves. Sitting cross legged on the floor, I place his large foot on my lap, brush my fingers between his toes. Then hold up his foot to massage the underside and gasp, "Saint."
He instantly tugs on my grip. I let go of his foot and he stamps it flat onto the floor.
"What happened?" I ask.
His jaw tenses.
"Those scars, Saint..."
He sets his jaw, "What about them?"
"Did you get them when you were kidnapped?" I swallow, "Did they do this to you?"
"What's it to you?"
"Not all of the scars are old."
"What do you mean?" He lowers his arms to his lap, his movements deliberate, "What are you trying to say, Victoria?"
Shit. When he calls me by my full name, it's never a good sign.
"Just that, if you're trying to hurt yourself..."
He rises to his feet and my heart thuds in my chest. I have to look up, have to sweep my gaze up every ripped inch of him to meet his gaze.
His eyes blaze, then a shutter comes over his face. "I'm not." He steps around me and heads for the shower door.
"Saint," I jump to my feet, turn toward him, "you can talk to me."
"Oh?" He straightens. "And why would I do that?"
"I'm your wife."
He turns then and his lips curve in a smile that doesn't reach his eyes, "Fake wife, darling."
I wring my fingers together, "You don't mean it, you are simply lashing out at me because you are confused inside."
"We spent some time together; the sex was okay," he tilts his head, "sometimes."
Bastard.
"Don't go mistaking the last few days for some kind of intimacy between us." His lips twist, "It was a transaction, make no mistake."
I swallow. My throat hurts and my eyes burn. Was I wrong to imagine that the last few weeks had shifted the tone of the relationship between us? No, it can't be. I tip up my chin, "You're lying."
"And you..." He looks me up and down, "You are replaceable." Turning he grabs a towel, and leaves.
34
Saint
No one can replace her and that is the problem.
I dry myself with the towel, then toss it aside.
She has crawled under my skin, sunk into my blood and I can't get enough of her. I'd been heading to work the last three weeks every day—including weekends—because hell, I had to make a point to her, and to myself, that I’m not dependent on her.
