by L. Steele
I place my hand on his mouth. "Stop," I whisper, "I can’t…take more of this; it’s…too soon, Saint."
He takes in my features, peers into my eyes, then nods.
"Later, then." He lowers his head and brushes his lips over my forehead. "For now, let’s enjoy our bath, shall we?"
He holds out his hand, so gentlemanly, the gesture so different from how he's acted so far with me that I blink. And, hold on, had he kissed me earlier, on my forehead? A peck, with something resembling affection? My head spins. I grab at his hip.
"You okay?" He scoops me up in his arms again, bridal style. "Gigi?"
I blink, stare as his features fade in and out in front of my eyes.
"Victoria." His voice snaps through my head.
I jerk my chin. "I… I’m a little befuddled."
"Tell me about it," he chuckles. "It’s not like me, to fall asleep so soon after making love."
"What do you mean?" I squeeze my eyebrows together.
He steps into the bath tub—still wearing his socks, huh?—then lowers himself into the massive tub that’s big enough for five people. He settles me on his chest.
"I hadn’t intended to black out that quickly after our love-making."
"That…" I stab a finger in his direction. "Why do you insist on using that phrase?"
"Which one."
"Don’t pretend."
"No, really." He scoops up some water, pours it over my shoulders. "Please do clarify what seems so wrong with what I said."
"You said love-making, not fucking, or shagging, or screwing or any of the other ways you could have expressed yourself.
He raises his shoulders and lets them drop. "Semantics, my lovely girl." He pours out some shampoo and proceeds to work it through my tresses, "If you prefer it though, I could say fucking."
My belly flips-flops.
"Or shagging."
I wriggle my hips.
"Or screwing," his voice lowers to a hush.
My nerve endings spark. My sex clenches, the emptiness inside of me yawning, stretching and coming back to life. Why is it that the filthiest words from his mouth turn into weapons of seduction? Why does it sound so damn hot coming from him? On the other hand, it is a relief. This alphaholish behavior? That’s the side of Saint that is familiar, the one I can handle.
"Not fair," I huff. "With that voice of yours, you could literally talk me into an orgasm."
His eyes gleam.
I wave my hand in the air, "Can’t believe I said that. Like your ego needs any more stroking."
He pushes up his pelvis and his dick throbs against my hip.
"That’s not what needs stroking."
"Oh, my God!" I push up, or try to—for he simply wraps his large arms around my waist, and holds me in place.
"Where do you think you’re you going?"
"To get dressed."
"Not happening."
"Why…?"
"Why not?"
"I… I need some space."
"Not happening either."
I exhale a breath, then turn to scowl at him, "Saint, really, you are a confusing man. Has anyone told you that?"
"Me?" He leans back against the bath tub. His biceps bulge with the motion. Hard, thick, ropey…like other parts of him. Jeez, get your brain out of the gutter. You’ re accusing him of having a one-track mind?
"Is there anyone else here with us?" I ask.
"You tell me." His features form into that mask I am coming to hate. The one that says: gone is the warm, caring, easy-to-get-along-with man I’d briefly witnessed, leaving behind the one I hate… And lust after, since the moment I’d met him. No… Not true, I’d lust after him in any…and every form.
Goosebumps dot on my skin. I fold my arms around my waist. "What’s that supposed to mean?" My words stay suspended between us for a second.
He holds my gaze, peruses my features, then runs a hand through his hair. "Adam Rhodes."
Of course. I glance away.
He reaches down, runs his big hand across the flesh of my upper arms. Warmth seeps into my blood instantly—insidious, seductive, pulling me, grounding me, anchoring me to him. Shit. I pull away. He releases me.
"You were married to him, but..." He seems to hesitate. Huh, Saint? Uncertain about something? I tilt my head.
"You want to know why I was a virgin?" I ask.
A nerve throbs at his temple. He doesn’t reply. Doesn’t say a word. Watches me intently. Waiting…waiting… The silence stretches for a beat. A bead of sweat crawls down my temple.
His jaw tics.
My nerves stretch, my belly trembles, and I firm my lips, "It wasn’t a marriage at all, we were each playing a role."
"Clearly."
I wince at the bite in his voice.
"He…he wasn’t a bad man," I say.
"And there was no sexual relationship between the two of you?"
"He… I… We agreed to keep it platonic. He needed a woman on his arm. I needed…" I bite my lip. I turn away.
This time he reaches out and pinches my chin, "Tell me. Don’t hold back now." His jaw tics. A dense wave of anger spools off of him.
"Security. It was an arrangement, that's all." My nerve endings crackle. "You have nothing to be jealous of," I mumble. "We were only married for a month."
"You didn't love him, yet you married him. Makes me wonder what hold he had on you." His grip turns punishing.
I wince, but don’t pull away. The pain he inflicts is a reminder that I am alive… So is he. There is hope for both of us… I just need to make it right by him…while figuring out how to also rescue Nina.
This is the perfect moment to tell him why you are here. Confess it. Win his trust... And what if he hates me for it?
Worse, what if the Mafia finds out?
There is no telling what they'd do to Nina if that happened. I bite the inside of my cheek. I can't betray her. I have to keep up the pretense. "No hold, Saint," I lie, "other than the kind a man with money has over a woman who needs security."
"Is that important to you, Gigi? Security?" He drags his hand down my arm, until his fingers brush the ring on my left hand.
I glance down at the emerald winking against the bubbles.
"Sure," I swallow. "You’ve always had money. You didn’t have to scrimp and save for small treats, or watch your mother work two jobs to support you, or work your butt off to win a scholarship to college. You're not the one who was left alone when your mother died, then meeting the one person who became your best friend only to lose her; you aren't at the mercy of—" I twist my lips. Shit, what is wrong with me? Why does he always catch me unawares? I almost blurted out everything that happened to Nina...to me. Dammit.
"Mercy of...? he tilts his head.
"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 piece of the puzzle of who was behind the incident that turned the lives of the seven of us upside down?
Why her?
Why me?
Why this strange obsession with her that is quickly turning out to be a fixation?
"Saint?" her husky voice reaches me.
"Hmm?"
"Can I ask you a riddle of my own?"
Nope. Never. I’d sworn never to allow another to question me. To trick me again. To trap me into revealing more than I should, to stepping into a situation which could lead to my demise. Perhaps it is the sex… Or the fact that she has crept under my skin, or that the fucking has completely undermined my barriers…but hell… Answering one question wouldn’t matter, right? I mean, what do I have to lose, hmm? Maybe it is the false sense of security that having my wife in my arms seems to envelop me in, which allows me to comply with her wishes. This once.
"What do you want to know?"
She remains silent for so long, I am certain she’s fallen sleep. Her breathing grows steady, her muscles relax, her body twitches as she settles into me.
I tuck her head under my chin, wrap my hand around her waist, my palm coming to rest over her pussy…my favorite place. Yeah, that’s how much of a goner I am. Maybe there is something in this marriage thing, after all? Something like, announcing your intention to the world ensures that you follow through on your word…or…the fact that I had been her first. Her fucking first. I shouldn’t care, but fuck… How could she have been a virgin? Surely, she would have had partners before me? Not that she was inexperienced either. She’d enjoyed the sex, hadn’t shied away from it… So what is she hiding from me?
I wind my fingers across her now-drying hair, and smooth it about her shoulders.
"My question is…"
I pause.
"Would you rather have a baby of your own or would you baby-sit?"
My heartbeat ratchets up, "The fuck kind of question is that?"
"Forget it," she mumbles. "I have no idea what prompted that question anyway. It’s not like it matters. Not like this…thing between us is real or anything. It’s a means for you to get what you want, right?"
"The man who came to see you earlier… He wasn’t your lover?"
"No," she shakes her head.
"So he was…"
"My contact with the Mafia... My handler."
I still my hand.
"The Mafia planted me to play the role of Adam’s wife." She turns in my arms, her lips swollen from my kisses, her cheeks flushed from the hot bath. "But you knew that already."
I tilt my head. Should I reveal how much I know? Has she guessed how much I’ve already uncovered about her past? "Go on." I pull back my arm. She shivers and I pull the blanket up to her ears.
"They…they wanted me to keep an eye on him."
"Adam knew about it?"
She nods, "He had no choice, but to accept that I was reporting on his activities back to the Mafia."
"And you, Gigi? Did you have a choice?"
"It…it isn’t that simple." She licks her lips, brings her hand up to chew on her nails. I weave my fingers with hers, pull it down between us.
"It really is. Tel
l me what they have on you and let me help you."
"Is saving damsels in distress your specialty?" she asks.
"I’m no fucking white knight, and you know it."
"You’re also not as much of an asshole as you make yourself out to be," she muses.
"Each of us have the stories we tell ourselves, and the masks we put on to face the world," I answer.
"And you, Saint, what’s the persona you’ve bought into?"
I allow my lips to kick up, "I am not the one with the agenda here." She pales, turns away from me. I tug on her hand so she has no choice but to stay facing me. "Don’t push me away, Victoria. This is our chance to come clean so we can make a fresh start of it."
"Is that what you’re offering?"
I hold up her hand with the emerald ring glittering on it. "Isn’t this proof enough?"
"Is that why you gave me your mother’s ring?"
"Not only." I run my thumb across the smooth surface. "It felt right. When my instinct points me in a particular direction, I follow it."
"What does your instinct say about me?" She lowers her chin, peers up at me from under her eyelashes. That green gaze of hers deepens, stormy emotions caught in their depths.
"My head says that I shouldn’t trust you."
The remaining color leaches from her cheeks.
"Let me go." She yanks at her hand, but I don’t release it. I use the leverage to haul her into my chest. "My instinct says to ignore what my logical mind is pointing out to me—that you are dangerous, that for both of our sakes, I should walk away from you, that if I were a betting man, I should cash in my chips and leave, that you are a riddle with more than one answer as a solution. Too bad, when it comes to you…" I search her features, take in the hollows under her eyes, the sharp jut of her cheeks, "I have no choice but to follow my heart, Gigi."