Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 105667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
“Thanks,” I say, lifting the mug to my lips and taking a sip. The tea is hot, almost too hot, but the warmth spreads through me, steadying the frayed edges of my nerves.
We stand here in the kitchen, sipping our tea, both of us wrapped in towels, and for a moment, it feels like the most normal thing in the world.
The Xanax is kicking in, and it’s exactly what I needed after what happened.
Saint is watching me while he takes a slow sip of his tea. I want to ask him so many questions, but I also prefer the mystery that surrounds him. I know very little about him other than his name and his occupation. But if I ask too many questions, the answers might contradict all the ways I’ve built his character up in my mind.
Saint sets his tea on the counter and then takes my cup from my hands and does the same. He slides his hands down my back until both of his hands are gripping my ass. Then he lifts me and sets me on the counter next to the stove.
He takes my hand gently, lifting it toward him as his eyes drop to my wrist. His fingers trace over the red marks left by the rope, and the contrast of his warm, tender touch against the remnants of restraint sends a shiver over me.
He lifts my other hand, repeating the same motion, his thumbs running back and forth over the sensitive areas where the rope dug into my skin.
There’s a softness in his eyes as he studies my wrists, a rare moment of vulnerability from him, and I can feel his concern. “Did I hurt you?” he asks quietly, his voice low, almost cautious, as if he’s afraid of my answer.
I shake my head, my voice steady. “I’m fine.”
He doesn’t look convinced. He tilts his head slightly, his brow furrowing as his eyes narrow with skepticism. “Be honest,” he urges, his gaze penetrating, searching for the truth.
“I’m fine,” I repeat, firmer this time. I can see he still isn’t entirely convinced, so I soften my tone, offering reassurance. “I’ll be fine.” I offer a reassuring smile, but I’m still somewhat coming to grips with the night. With how easily I’ve forgiven him.
I think it’s because I’m just now realizing what he’s given me. As both a reader and a writer, I tend to lean more toward the darker side of suspense and romance. The kinks some readers and writers are into can make even me blush.
But even the darkest of books have an audience that enjoys them. And even though as readers, we wouldn’t want to live out some of the fantasies we read about, it doesn’t mean we don’t enjoy reading those things.
I did not enjoy what Saint did tonight. But I do appreciate that he was trying to give me the experience he thought I was asking for in a safe way. Aside from being tied up, I was never in any actual danger. He just thought I wanted to feel like I was.
What’s strange is that it feels as if he did those things in a book and not in my real life. We forgive our characters for much worse than we’d forgive our friends and lovers for, and I feel like I’m lending him the forgiveness I’d lend a character rather than an actual person in my life.
This entire night has been surreal, but I feel his remorse and I can accept it and I can take what happened and I can use it. I will definitely be using it.
Knowing how Reya is feeling in that moment has given me a whole new level of respect for her fear. For the actual pain she endures.
The red marks are still fresh on my wrists, and I can feel the slight sting when I flex my hands, but it’s nothing I can’t handle. They’ll fade in a day or two, nothing that would leave lasting harm. I’ve endured worse in the heat of passion, moments where pleasure and pain blurred together. He wasn’t trying to hurt me. He was following the script, playing the role we both fell into.
The game I started.
At least . . . I think I started it.
A part of me isn’t even sure anymore, but I know I want him here. I know I don’t want him to stop. Every emotion I just went through is one I want to type into my laptop this very moment. I want to describe Reya’s fear, the strength in the stranger’s hands, the way Reya’s voice betrayed her when she needed it the most.
I almost want to thank Saint for giving me that.
Almost.
“I think you might be crazy,” I whisper.
Saint laughs quietly. “Yeah, well. I’m still here, so which one of us is crazier?” He brushes a strand of wet hair off my cheek. “Petra, are you sure you don’t need some alone time? I would understand.”