by L. Steele
I punch the button to the elevator and the doors slide open. I step in, take it to the ground floor. Moderating my pace, I reach the guard by the door. It’s the same guy who’d come toward us the day Saint and I had had our altercation on the sidewalk.
"Ma’am." He touches his finger to his forehead, in a semi-salute, "Can I help you?"
I bite my lips, "Uh… Actually, yes." I tip up my chin, "Can you get me a rental car or a taxi, please?"
He frowns.
"Saint told me I should ask you for help if I need anything." I add.
He stills, then nods. "I won't be a minute, Ma’am, if you’d wait here?" He disappears out the front doors. I shift my weight from foot to foot. A group walks in, and I shuffle aside.
I wring my fingers together; sweat slides down my back. What am I doing? Will I be too late to catch him?
The doorman walks in. He extends his arm and I take the key fob from him.
"It’s the red Maserati parked right in front."
"A Maserati?" I blink, "Oh, but I don’t need anything that flashy—" Not to mention that it'd stand out on the road. "Isn’t there any other car, a little less…uh... Expensive?"
"Mr. Caldwell specifically allocated this one for you."
"Right."
Had he remembered my tastes from our conversation a few weeks ago? That must be it. What does it mean that he did? And when had he indicated to the doorman to direct me to this, if I asked? Had he guessed that I might want to drive my own car at some point?
"Ma’am?" the doorman prompts me.
I curl my fingers around the key fob, then eye his name tag. "Thank you, Dorian."
He nods, "No problem." He holds the door open for me.
I walk down the steps, press down on the key fob to unlock the car doors. I slip into the driver’s seat, then program the way to Mill Hill East on the GPS.
It takes me 30 minutes to get there on the highway. I ease into a parking lot on the main street, then walk up the sidewalk. I spot Saint's Jaguar almost immediately. It's parked outside a coffeeshop.
Is he meeting someone here? I peek in through the glass wall, but can’t see him. I turn to go…then glance back. There, at the far end, are the unmistakable broad shoulders which could only belong to one guy. His dark hair curls at his collar. He’s facing away, talking to someone. I try to peer past him. Damn it. I can’t see who’s in the seat opposite him. Show me your face. Go on. Do it.
As if she hears me, the woman in the seat rises to her feet. She’s tiny, perfectly curved and wearing black skintight jeans. Her blonde hair flows to her waist. I can’t make out the color of her eyes, but no doubt, they are as stunning as the rest of her. She blows out a breath, folds her arms over her waist.
She hauls her handbag over her shoulder, then throws her hands in the air. Her slim, tight-fitting shirt rides up, revealing a smooth flat stomach. I ball my fists at my sides. Of course, she’s model perfect. Is she his ex-girlfriend? Ex-something? Or maybe...current?
Her gestures are heated as she talks to him.
He leans back, runs his fingers through his hair.
She stabs a finger at him. He squares his shoulders.
She turns to leave, takes a step away, only for him to jump to his feet. He grabs her wrist. His face is in profile, but there’s no mistaking the anguish in his features. I’ve never seen him this…disturbed. Not in all the time that I’ve known him. Nothing I’ve said to him has ever made him this overcome with emotions… Well okay, almost. The only time I’ve seen him this overcome is when we made love—no, fucked. That’s all it was. He’d fucked me, and that last time, I was sure I’d broken through to him, just as he had shattered all of my defenses. I’d been sure it was the beginning of... Trust? Love? Whatever. Doesn’t matter.
The woman he's talking to tries to pull away. His lips move, and her features crumple.
He pulls her to him and she buries her face in his shoulder.
He holds her close… My guts churn. Fuck you, Saint. Fuck you for making me want to…believe. Moisture streaks my cheek. I dash away the tears. I will not cry over this…two-timing, conniving jerk. I step away, retrace my steps back to my car. The red Maserati gleams in the dawn light.
Why did he have to remember my preferences and then go and do this? Damn it, I want to give him the benefit of doubt. But hell, if that scene didn't indicate there is a relationship between them.
I stomp over to the car, open it and throw myself inside. Smash the door closed with enough force that the entire vehicle shudders. I cringe. The car is new… And I am not jaded enough to not appreciate the power under my hands. I grip the steering wheel, press my forehead to it. "Bloody hell." Why did you have to do this, Saint?
I slap my hand against the steering wheel. Pain sweeps up my arm. It helps center me. I focus on the vibrating threads that sink into my nerves, follow them to where they disappear. Draw in a breath, allow the calm to steal over me. Somewhere along the line, I’ve become a masochist. When I inflict pain on myself, it helps me feel alive. It’s something I can control. My response to it… To him. Why is it that I had felt compelled to hand that power over to him? Asking him to take me on as a sub had been…unplanned. It wasn’t until I’d seen him that day, sprawled back in his chair, his glorious cock in his hand, as he’d looked me up and down with the smirk that had dared me to issue the challenge to him. I’d wanted to surprise him, wipe that satisfied smile off of his face. He thought he had me pegged? Well, he has no idea who he is dealing with.
He thinks he can take me for granted? He has another think coming. I am going to teach him not to mess with me. Over the last few weeks, a part of me had felt I was taking advantage of him.
Now, my conscience is clear. I can conclude my mission. I can complete the mission and save Nina. There is no more reason to hesitate. I wipe the tears off of my face, then reverse the car out of the parking lot.
Thirty-five minutes later I pull into the parking space reserved for Saint at the offices of 7A investments. I am his wife, right? What’s his is mine, and all that. I can take what rightfully belongs to me. I slam the doors shut, reach the elevators meant for the penthouse where the Seven have their offices. I call for the elevator and it arrives in seconds. I step inside, press my thumb into the receptacle meant for identification. It lights up green. Of course, it does. Saint has already shared my identifying information with the entire security system.
I tuck my bag into my side, jab at the button for the top floor. The doors close. The numbers above the elevator door increase. They open onto the executive floor. I step out and stride confidently toward the last office on the floor, where this entire bloody saga had begun. Don’t run. Don’t hurry. Keep your pace. You are his wife. You have every right to be here, remember? At least, it’s a floor only frequented by the 7 and those to whom they have given clearance. And it’s too early for the employees to be around. Not that any of them could come to my aid, if Saint were to catch me. But why would he? He is with his… Girlfriend? Mistress? Whoever it is. I am safe…as safe as could be expected for a woman about to commit a crime—one that will free my friend. I wrench open the door to his office. There’s that dark and edgy scent of his—pheromones and leather, laced with a woodsy scent that is uniquely Saint. My belly flip-flops. Hell, the scent of him is enough to turn me on. Get what you need and get out of here. Do it.
Rounding the table, I plop my bag on his table then drop into his chair and yank at the top drawer—it's unlocked. My breath catches. I ease it open. There, on top of the papers is...a USB drive? I stare at it. This is too convenient. Did he place it there for me to find it?
I snatch it up and insert it into the laptop.
I place my forefinger on the lock-pad and the screen springs to life.
I freeze. Did he really trust me enough to have my fingerprints recorded onto his every device? Can I access all of his secrets…so easily? The hair on my forearms rises. It’s a trap. It has to be. I stare at the screen; but damn i
t, I have to take this opportunity. I can’t not do it.
A window pops onto the screen, prompting me to access the files on the USB stick. There’s one file so I click on it and a video begins to play. The image of a boy tied to a chair fills the screen. His face is streaked with dirt, hollows under his cheeks. He's wearing a school uniform, his white shirt streaked with mud...and blood? His breathing is ragged. There's a sound off-camera, then he stirs, looks up and straight into the camera. I gasp. He's blindfolded but that patrician nose... The slant of his jaw? It's Saint. My heart begins to race. A man moves into frame, his back to the camera, he slaps the boy. Saint's body jerks.
The man leaves; Saint slumps back in his chair, blood trickling from a cut in his lips.
My stomach lurches and bile laces my throat. Shit, I can't be sick, not now. I click out of the video, eject the flash drive, then shove it into my handbag.
I turn to leave, then hesitate. I mean, come on, I have access to his computer. Do I dare? I pause. Do I? Fuck it. I swivel to face the screen, open up his email folder and scan through the emails. What am I looking for? Any clue to the woman? Anything to indicate who she is? The subjects of the emails all seem boring...work related. Shit, this is getting me nowhere. I click out of the emails. What now? I open up the pictures folder... Peruse the images. There. I click open pictures of Saint with Sinner, Saint with Weston and the other guy from the Seven... Arpad? Yeah that’s his name... Saint with... I pause. It's a picture of Saint with the girl I saw him with earlier. It's taken somewhere in the open, by a river...? The two of them are fishing. Saint's smiling at her—shit, he never smiles like that.
His features are relaxed, his clothes more weather-beaten than anything I've ever seen him wear. My fingers tighten on the mouse. Damn it, this was a mistake. What do I care what the relationship between them is?
I click out of the pictures, scan the names of the other folders...
Anything else? Anything. Come on. There's a folder called “Gigi.”
I click it open… then open up the file called 'Beatles.' Beatles, huh? It has files…marked in the order of years. From 1963—the year the first Beatles album came out—to the current year. I open the first file… A page filled with facts… Every single detail of every hit, links to relevant events that happened to the Fab Four in that year—the tours, the albums released, girlfriends at that time, news headlines they made. Wow. Did he do all of this research? Nah! Probably had some minion pull it up for him… He is thorough, I have to give him that.
I scroll down to the file marked “Gigi.” Gigi? I click it open…and it is filled with riddles. Questions about the Beatles… So this is how he prepared for his meetings with me, like I was some kind of acquisition. It’s so very Saint. Being thorough, strategic… He’d been planning on how to converse with me…because he’d realized The Beatles were a pet obsession for me? But why? Why would he go about it in such a methodical fashion… Almost as if he—
"Victoria?"
I jump and the hair on the back of my neck prickles.
I look up to see his familiar features towering in front of me.
"Saint…?"
37
Saint
* * *
Her features freeze and her gaze widens. I step into my office.
She swallows.
I prowl forward and the color fades from her cheeks.
"What a surprise to find you here, wife."
She draws in a breath, then tips her chin in that gesture of defiance I am coming to recognize so well. My woman will never give me an inch; she’ll make me fight for it. And fuck, if I don’t love that about her.
Love? Fucking love.
There is that word again. A confusing emotion—one which muddles my instincts, clouds my intuition, and causes me to doubt my own judgment.
I reach my desk, pause in front of it with my legs spread wide apart. I prop my hands on my hips, "You have something to tell me?"
She swallows.
"Out with it, Gigi." I glance over the part of her that is visible above the monster hunk of a wood, which— Truth be told, I’d bought the desk in a fit of defiance. I’d wanted it to be the biggest desk among all the Seven. Don’t judge. I’m entitled to spend my hard-earned money how I like it, right? Especially on her. I’ll shower her with whatever she wants, and stuff she doesn’t even know she needs. Hell, I’d trade in all of my riches for one more night of ecstasy with her—under me, in my bed, bent over my desk, ass in the air... Gigi crawling over to me across that wide surface, asking me to punish her for a crime she’d committed. I lower my voice to a hush, "Say the word, sweet thing." She pales. Her chest rises and falls. "Confess to your misdoings and I’ll mete out your punishment."
She bites down on her lower lip. I jerk my gaze to that glistening flesh—pouty, full, pink and sensuous. Like the melting triangle of goodness between her legs. My dick lengthens and her gaze drops down to my crotch. I don’t need to look down to know the crotch of my pants is tented right then.
"Do it," I growl.
She flinches. Her upper body moves, then she rises to her feet. She grabs the arms of my chair, swings her legs up, and hoists herself onto the chair.
"What the fuck?" I blink.
She’s naked from her waist down.
No panties. Nothing except the curve of her hips silhouetted against the light pouring in from the wide windows behind her. Nothing except for the smooth expanse of her creamy thighs marked with reddened scratches. I’d done that, at some point during the last night, when I’d gone down on her. After she’d fallen asleep on my chest, her breathing had deepened. I’d stayed unmoving for an hour… Maybe two? Until I’d been sure I wouldn’t wake her. Then I’d slid her onto her back, parted her thighs, settled in between her legs and feasted on her. I’d made sure not to wake her…had been gentle, soft, soothing, slow… I had licked and slurped and eaten her out, until she’d quietly come under me. Then I’d moved up to kiss her, to share our joined taste with her. She’d sucked on my tongue as I had eased into her; I’d finished myself off with a few thrusts. Hell, I’d been so turned on by the act of tonguing her cunt that… I hadn’t been able to stop myself. I’d left my stamp on her. I’d claimed her over and over again. The phone call had woken me up and I’d left. Saying ‘no’ hadn’t been an option. Some things are too important. Not even my feelings for her could prevent me from acting.
I’d wrapped up my meeting, checked up on her—yeah, I’d bugged her phone. So? Don’t judge. Only I can keep her safe… And if that means I am stalking her? Well, it's for her own good, right?
"Gigi," I breathe. "What are you doing?"
"What does it look like?" She grabs the hem of her top and pulls it off. No bra… Fuck… Her pink nipples perk up, inviting me to come closer, closer. I bump into the desk... Shit, when had I bridged the distance between us?
"Victoria, have you forgotten the rules?"
"On the contrary, Saint." She climbs up onto the desk on all fours. "I’m submitting to you completely. This is what you want, right? Me…begging for you?" She crawls toward me, her breasts jiggling; her beautiful shoulders arch with each forward motion.
"You don’t know what you are doing."
"Don’t I?" Half-way over, she stops. Dropping down, she picks up a riding crop with her mouth.
She glances up, the strip of leather caught between her pearly white teeth. Fuck, fucking fuck. My groin hardens and a pulse flares to life at my temples, behind my eyelids, even in my fucking balls. "You’re playing a dangerous game," I growl.
She glides forward, head held up, green gaze daring me to inch forward, to bend from my waist, to take the offered object of punishment from her. I shake out the modified whip. It whistles through the air. She flinches and a bead of sweat dots her upper lip.
"I know what you’re doing, Gigi." She’s trying to distract me. I drag the switch between my fingers. Her gaze drops to my hands. I slap the crop on my outstretched palm. Her shoulders shudder and her bre
athing grows erratic.
"You want this?"
She touches her tongue to her lips. My hand shakes. It fucking shakes as I hold it up.
"Say it."
"I…I…"
"Now."
"I want it, please. Saint. Use it on me. Make it hurt enough that I forget everything else that came before it. Own me, Saint. Hit me on my behind, then fuck me in the arse."
"Bloody fuck." My vision tunnels, and my cock insists on springing forward—ready, impatient to be done with all of the preliminaries. To simply bury my aching self inside her welcoming heat, to finally come home. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph," I snarl.
"Those… Those were the names of the three cats Lennon had at one point," she answers.
I laugh, "You’re perfect, you know that? The answer to my twisted prayers." I push the tip of the crop under her chin.
She stills.
Drag the leather down her throat, between her breasts, down the concave of her stomach to where the bud of her clit peers out.
She shudders. "Saint…"
I withdraw the crop the same way, drag it under my nose, "Your scent, Gigi." I glare at her. "The sweetness of your arousal is more potent that honey." I swipe my tongue up the strip of hide.
A whine bleeds from her lips.
I swipe the crop through the air. "Turn around."
She instantly complies. The creamy mounds of her arse thrust out at me.
"Fucking gorgeous."
She swivels her head.
"Don’t," I admonish her.
She faces forward.
I drag my crop across her buttcheeks and her entire body trembles.
"Which Beatles album spent the longest consecutive time at number one?"
"Their debut album… Please, Please Me."
"You bet." I bring the crop down on her arse.
She screams, "Bu…but I got the answer right."
"So?"
"Sadist."
I chuckle, "Now you recognize my true nature." I tilt my head, "Which song by the Beatles features only thirteen different words in the lyrics?"