Saint: A Dark Mafia Romance

by Aubrey Irons

  “Facade, huh?”

  “Then prove me wrong.” His face smirks at me – supremely confident and infuriatingly self-assured.

  I take another big gulp of whiskey, letting it burn.

  I can’t believe I’m going to do this. I can’t believe how much I want to do this. Something about him commands me and makes me want to say yes to this.

  No matter how wrong it is.

  Slowly, I reach under the blanket, hook my thumbs into the waist of the shorts, and pull them down. I bite my lip as I slip them over my ankles, all under the blanket, before I slowly pull them out.

  Connor cocks a brow, and when I fling them across the room at him, he grins.

  “Now show me.”

  “You first.”

  I don’t know how it comes to my mouth, but there it is, tumbling out.

  Connor grins. “Well, well, well.”

  I bite my lip, not trusting myself to say another thing.

  His hands go to his belt, and I swallow thickly, my eyes glued to his lap. He undoes the buckle, looking right at me, and pops the button on his dark jeans. I swallow as he tugs on the zipper, my breath coming heavier and more labored with every tug.

  He reaches in, and I actually gasp as he slowly pulls it out.

  Jesus Christ, he’s big.

  His hand wraps around his cock, making it jump and pulse as he slowly strokes it from base to tip. I take a shaky breath, and I look up to meet his eyes, seeing them spark as they glare right into me.

  “Now show me.”

  There’s no resistance this time. I’m just panting and nodding.

  And so fucking wet for him.

  Slowly, I move the blanket off of my lap, shivering as his eyes drink me in. His gaze dips over me, over the too-tight t-shirt hugging my breasts, my nipples poking through obscenely. Over my bare mid-drift, down lower.

  “Spread your legs.”

  And I do.

  “Spread them wide,” he growls.

  And I know he can see how damn wet I am. I know he can see my arousal glistening in the firelight.

  “Touch your pussy,” he growls.

  And I do.

  My hands slide up my bare thighs, my breathing coming faster as I feel the heat and the whiskey and the rawness of this pulse through me. I take a shaky breath as my fingers find my wetness, and when I brush a finger over my clit, I gasp, my eyes locked on him across the small living room.

  My breath catches, and a moan tumbles from my lips.

  “Good girl,” Connor groans, stroking his cock in time to my fingers on my clit.

  The room swirls as the blood roars through my ears. I feel so dirty and so bad, and I love it.

  Connor stands, and I whimper as he moves towards me. I start to move to cover myself, but he shakes his head, his eyes locked on mine.

  “No, keep touching yourself.”

  I moan as I bring my hand back, watching with hooded eyes as he drops to his knees in front of the chair. His hands move to my legs, his touch electrifying on my thighs as he spreads them even wider. I moan as he pushes them back, hooking my knees over the arms of the easy chair so I’m so open and wide for him.

  He leans in, and I can feel his breath on my pussy.

  “Just like that, gorgeous,” he groans, his breath like silk over my skin. “Play with that pussy for me.”

  I cry out as his tongue finds my center, teasing and pushing inside. I moan, bucking against his face as he tongues my slit, my fingers still playing with my clit. His tongue pushes deep, his hands spreading my thighs wide for him as he groans into me.

  His hands find my ass, grabbing me and pulling me against his mouth, his tongue fucking me as I play with my clit. His tongue moves up and down my lips, then lower, teasing me, making me gasp.

  He goes lower, and my eyes fly open.

  “Whoa, what are- oh fuck!”

  Stars explode in front of my eyes as his tongue dips even lower, swirling across my ass.

  “Hang on,” I pant, the shivers from that illicit, dirty touch still rocking through me “I’m not sure I-”

  “Keep touching your pussy, beautiful,” he growls, and I whimper. “Just keep playing with that sweet pussy.” His eyes move up over my body, meeting mine.

  “Do you trust me?”

  “Should I?”

  “You tell me.”

  I’m nodding before I can even think about it. “Yes.”

  “Then lay back.”

  His tongue moves lower again, his hand laying on top of mine and moving my fingers in slow circles around my clit. He drops his hand, and I keep doing it, rubbing my aching clit with two fingers as he moves back in.

  His tongue touches my most private place again, teasing around my ass and making me cry out, bucking against his face. It’s like lightening, and sweet, sweet fire roaring through me.

  My body shivers as he starts to lick me, teasing and poking and swirling his tongue. His fingers find my pussy, and he slips two inside and curls them up to stroke against that sweet spot inside.

  My fingers move faster and faster, and the sensation becomes almost overwhelming, sucking me down. The dark dirtiness of it sends me reeling, and makes my body melt for him.

  He growls, tonguing my ass and fingering my pussy as I rub my clit. I bring a hand to my nipples, pinching one and crying out as the sensations start to flood through me.

  “I’m going to- I’m- oh fuck…”

  I gasp, feeling the inevitable cliff rushing up to find me. His hand grabs my ass like it belongs to him, his wicked tongue swirls, and his fingers stroke, and suddenly, I explode.

  It hits like a bomb, with no warning. I scream as the orgasm erupts through me, shattering me, making me lose my breath and see spots as I cry out.

  Connor slowly pulls away and stands.

  “Stay just like that.”

  I nod, panting, my eyes drinking him in.

  He shrugs off his shirt, kicks his pants away, and steps towards me, kneeling. I whimper as I feel him run the thick head of his cock up and down my slick opening. He looms above me, his muscled body coiled and ready to consume me.

  I suddenly swallow, my eyes darting to his.

  “This, this can’t- I mean…”

  “What.”

  “This is just, you know.”

  I shrug, and he looks at me curiously.

  “This is just sex, right?” I blurt out.

  “Well, it was about to be,” he growls.

  “You know what I mean,” I say quietly.

  “Don’t worry princess,” he grins. “I’m not gonna fall for the hostage.”

  “Too cliché.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So would be falling for the kidnapper.”

  “I’d hate to be the cliché.”

  “Same,” I moan as he pushes against me

  “So why don’t I just fuck you now instead.”

  “I think that’s a very good idea- fuck.”

  He buries himself in one stroke, making me scream in sweet pleasure, my hands flying to his wrists and clinging tight.

  “I think we should stop talking,” he groans.

  “I think I agree,” I gasp back.

  He drives in deep, filling me and making me scream. He grabs my hands and pins them above my head at the top of the easy chair, and he rocks his hips in and out, pumping me full of his cock with every thrust. His hands tighten on my wrists, and his hips rub against mine as he grinds in deep, making me moan.

  “Yeah, I definitely, think we should stop talk-”

  I whimper as he slides a thumb into my mouth, quieting me. I groan, sucking on his digit as he thrusts in and out, fucking me in deep, powerful thrusts. We keep rocking like that, bodies slamming together in this heated, frenzied rush towards the finish line. His hand drops to my knee and lifts it, bringing one leg up over his shoulder and letting him somehow go even deeper. I scream around his finger, my eyes rolling back in my head as I feel him rubbing against places I’ve never felt before.


  My hands are still clawing at the back of the chair, and I drop them to his chest, his arms, his hips - urging him faster and harder as the ecstasy roars through me.

  I’m lost in this, and not even remotely caring about what happens next, or whatever this is.

  Because this is just us right now. This is raw fucking. Pure lust. This is sweet, blissful escape and release.

  And it’s exactly what I want.

  He comes with me, his cock swelling thick and deep inside of me as I go screaming over that edge. Connor groans, holding himself deep inside as we both gasp for air, before eventually collapsing. He slides to the floor, chest heaving and his hands stroking my legs as I sink into the chair.

  Sweet, blissful escape and release.

  And that’s all this has to be.

  Right?

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Sierra

  I watch his chest rise and fall with his breath. My eyes trace over the ink and the scars like I’m reading his story over the pages of his skin rather than a book. I drag my eyes higher to his mouth, watching those perfect lips of his part slightly in his sleep. His jaw is all sharp lines and shadows in the darkness of the upstairs bedroom where we’ve finally collapsed, and my eyes linger on the way his eyelids flicker in sleep.

  Sleep, which isn’t happening for me. Not yet at least. I’m physically exhausted after the day I’ve had, but my mind just won’t shut the hell up.

  This is frequently a problem for me - not being able to shut my own thoughts down when I need them to be quiet. Like, say, when I need to sleep.

  And so I’m lying here, wishing I could close my eyes and join him, but unable to stop the whirring and turning of the cogs in my head. It’s all random stuff, too. My thoughts linger on my family, and how I’ve kept them in the dark for so long about what’s been going on with me. My brain flutters off, landing now on the dagger hanging over my head that could bring whatever’s left of my world down - the arson charge Agent Marlow dangled in front of me the other day.

  But I refuse to let my thoughts linger on Marlow or his offer. I haven’t touched the phone in the bottom of my bag, and I don’t intend to. Because contrary to the mind games he tried to throw in front of me the other day, I do know the man I’m running with. I know he’s broken, and that he’s lived and lives a life far harder than any I’ve ever known.

  I know he’s capable of violence. I know he’s able to turn off a part of himself - to shut the door on the place inside of him that might be vulnerable.

  I know the way he looks at me makes me feel both a princess and a dirty, dirty girl, all at the same confusing time. I know the way he puts his hands on me, and the way he touches me is like nothing I’ve ever known. I know that if this blew apart right now, I would spend the rest of my life comparing every man and every sexual experience to him, knowing they’d fail to live up to the bar he’s set anyways.

  But I also know that past his fierceness, past the armor, and past the raw, animalistic ability to cause hurt and inflict pain, lays a man aching from a life harder than I can imagine.

  I know that I’ve seen that part of him, and I know he’s seen that part of me, and I know I like that those two guarded versions of ourselves have met.

  My eyes dip back to his chest, and I watch it rise and fall again as I drop my cheek to his shoulder. He stirs slightly in his sleep, his hand tightens reflexively on my back, and his breathing stutters for a minute before he drifts back to normal.

  This is all insane, and I know it. I’m on the run from the Ukrainian mob. Me, the small-town, straight-A, honor’s program, never-had-a-parking-ticket me. Oh, and I’m naked in bed with a man I have no business even knowing let alone sleeping with.

  Actually, “insane” maybe doesn’t give it enough weight.

  Lunacy, that’s what this is. Absolute lunacy.

  And of course, that’s before I add in the other crazy part of all of this - the fact that I’m strangely comfortable with the whole thing. It’s the fact that I’m fine right now, here in this beach house while we’re on the run, with his arm around me. I’m still worried, of course, and my mind clearly won’t stop analyzing the whole thing.

  But the me of a week ago would have had a meltdown by now. The me from before he took me would’ve been huddled in a corner going into frozen-mode, unable to even deal with this.

  The new me - the me who has kinky, wild, unbridled sex with dangerous mob men, apparently, and the new me who grabs the wheel while aforementioned dangerous mob man shoots a gun at people out of the window of a moving car?

  Well, the new me is strangely all right with this whole thing.

  There’s a sudden beeping sound from downstairs. I frown as it goes off again, my eyes darting around the darkness of the room. Connor stirs, and I almost want to wake him to see what it is, but I push that thought away.

  Wasn’t I just saying I was okay with all this, and no longer the scared, freaked out girl I used to be?

  I leave the warmth of his arms and his skin as I slip from the bed, grabbing a blanket and padding downstairs. There’s the lingering smell of the fire we had earlier in the fireplace, and my eyes scan the dark living room. The beep comes again, and my eyes narrow in on my bag, tossed in the corner.

  My heart suddenly jumps in my chest as I rush for the bag, dig around the bottom of it, and yank out the fucking burner phone Agent Marlow gave me.

  “Evening, Ms. Hammond,” he mutters, before I can even say anything.

  “Wouldn’t the whole point of a secret phone be that it stays a secret?” I hiss, glancing back at the dark staircase. “The fucking ringer was on!”

  “Well, you should have checked it,” Marlow hisses back. “Roarke-”

  “He’s asleep.”

  “Did someone tire him out?”

  My face goes hot at the sneering tone in his voice, and I scowl into the phone. “What do you want.”

  Marlow chuckles. “Touchy thing aren’t you. I want information, kid.”

  “Well, I don’t have any informa-”

  “When exactly were you planning on telling me about the little shootout you had this morning in Southie? Or that you and Roarke were off on a goddamn road trip?”

  I swallow the lump that forms in my throat, fingers tightening on the phone. Even talking to Agent Marlow like this - without even giving him anything - feels like some sort of disloyalty to Connor. It feels like selling him out, without even saying anything.

  “What exactly do you think you owe him, Sierra?” Marlow says, as if reading my thoughts. His voice is without his usual edge this time, using my first name instead of “Ms. Hammond” or “kid”. And even though I’m sure it’s some sort of FBI trained tactic of “getting through to me” or showing empathy…

  It works.

  I close my eyes, biting my lip and slowly shaking my head.

  “Are you aware of the phenomenon of Stockholm syndrome?”

  It takes everything I have not to bark out the bitter laugh I can feel on my tongue.

  “People who’ve been taken or held against their will and put through stressful situations sometimes begin to empathize with their captors.”

  I know what Stockholm syndrome is. Hell, I’ve been wondering if it’s what this is for days now. But I sit there squeezing my eyes shut in the dark, trying not to listen to Marlow as he psychoanalyzes me over the phone.

  “These people sometimes begin to feel so close to their captors - their captors, Sierra - that they’ll actually refuse to be rescued.”

  Is he right? Is that what all this is? Is whatever is going on with Connor and I just some fucking manifestation of my own mountain of stress and bullshit?

  Is he just the perfect escape I was looking for, no matter the utterly fucked up way we were thrown together?

  “You see, Sierra, the syndrome can manifest itself in very strang-”

  “I’m aware of what Stockholm syndrome is, Agent Marlow,” I say icily, cutting him off before I lose my fucki
ng mind.

  “Now, since you apparently know everything anyways before I had a chance to call you, is there anything else you need?”

  He’s silent on the other end of the phone, and even if I’m pretty sure he’s not buying my half-assed attempt at a lie, he lets it be.

  “I need you to check in first thing tomorrow morning, Ms. Hammond. I want to know where the hell Roarke takes off to next. Shit, I want to know what he has for breakfast, how he takes his coffee, and how long he brushes his fucking teeth for. Understand?”

  I close my eyes again, shaking my head slowly in the dark and wishing this would all go away.

  Wishing I had all the answers.

  “Ms. Hammond, let me remind you of your pending-”

  “Okay,” I snap, the anger welling up inside at being played like this. At having my emotions pitted against each other for sport.

  “I’m glad we had this talk.”

  I grit my teeth.

  “Oh, and Sierra, one more thing.” Agent Marlow takes a beat. “I know you don’t believe a fucking word I’ve been saying, but if you somehow need more convincing that Roarke isn’t the man you think he is, go ahead and ask him.”

  I frown. “Ask him what.”

  “Ask him about Sheila.”

  The line goes dead, leaving me standing naked and alone in the dark.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Connor

  “Hey.”

  She doesn’t look up as I drop down the last step into the living room.

  “You’re up.”

  She nods. I frown, furrowing my brow as I click with the fact that something isn’t meshing here.

  “And something’s up.”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “Sierra.”

  I wondered when this would happen. The thing is, this might not exactly be my usual day-to-day but it’s not wildly outside the norm. Dodging heat, running, carrying a gun.

  Using it when I have to.

  Yeah, this is me, but it ain’t her, and I wondered when she might break under it. I shouldn’t have brought her into this shit. I should have stuck her somewhere safe. I should have driven her ass to Mexico, or fuckin’ Montana, or wherever she could just disappear and avoid whatever Anton and his guys want to do with witnesses who see too much.