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)
He grips my jaw with one firm hand, his fingers digging into my skin just enough to make my breath hitch, and then his mouth crashes against mine in a hard, possessive kiss.
There’s no gentleness, no hesitation, no tender exploration. His kiss is a claim, a brutal, undeniable reminder of the power he holds over me, a force that both terrifies and thrills. And despite the fear thrumming through my veins, I feel myself melting into it, my body betraying my mind, responding with a desperate hunger of its own.
I don’t know what it is about this twisted game we’re playing that I love so much, this push and pull of control and surrender. But rather than shove him away, rather than fight him, which is what every shred of my responsible, married self screams I should do, I moan, a low, guttural sound, and pull him closer, my hands instinctively gripping his shirt, clinging to him like a lifeline.
I think it’s the reckless, careless danger surrounding Saint’s actions that draws me to him, the thrill of walking so close to the edge. He takes risks that Shephard never would, not in a million years. He puts me in uncomfortable, exhilarating situations, pushing my boundaries, shattering my complacency.
And he clearly enjoys every single second of it. His pleasure is almost as intoxicating as his touch.
Saint pulls back, tearing his mouth from mine with a soft, wet sound, and presses his forehead to mine, his eyes still burning into my soul. His breath is warm against my face, a ghost of a whisper. “Get in the shower and wash him off.”
The command, delivered in that low, intimate tone, hits me like a physical blow. It’s so shockingly, surprisingly insulting, so utterly possessive and demeaning, that my immediate response is pure, unfiltered defiance. “Fuck you,” I snap, the words spitting from my lips before I can even think.
He grins, a flash of white teeth in the dim light, a predator’s smile. Without a word, he grabs my wrist, his fingers firm but not bruising, and pulls me with a deliberate, unyielding force in the direction of my bedroom, toward the bathroom. “Don’t worry, I will,” he murmurs, his voice dark with promise. “But not until you wash him off.”
He gets me all the way to the bathroom door, the porcelain gleam of the sink visible, before I try to defend myself, to regain some agency, some shred of dignity. The rational, self-preserving side of me wants to run from him, to escape this intoxicating vortex he’s created. But the overwhelming majority of me is consumed by a morbid curiosity, a thrilling anticipation of where this will lead, how far he’s willing to push. I pull my wrist from his grasp, the gesture more symbolic than effective. “You’re insane,” I whisper, my voice laced with a genuine awe and terror.
He pulls me into the small bathroom, the space suddenly too confined, too intimate, and then, with a shocking tenderness amid his strength, he grips the back of my head, his fingers tangling in my hair. “And you fucking love it,” he says, his voice a low, gravelly rasp, right before his mouth comes down on mine again, harder this time, more desperate. And like the whore that I am, I kiss him back with just as much urgency, just as much desperate need, my own body demanding the punishment and the pleasure.
He’s unbuttoning my jeans while he kisses me, his fingers quick and adept, surprisingly gentle, making short work of the button. When he gets them unzipped with a soft rasp of metal, he tears his mouth from mine, his breath ragged, and kneels in front of me. His dark eyes burn into mine as he expertly removes my jeans and then my panties, pulling them down my legs, urging me, silently, to step out of them. My balance is precarious, but I obey, stepping out of the small heap of denim and lace. Then he’s standing again, pulling my shirt over my head, stripping me bare under his relentless gaze.
He reaches into the shower, turns on the water, and then looks at me, his gaze intense, expectant. “Get in, Petra.” The command is soft, yet absolute.
I love that he doesn’t call me Reya in this moment. When he says my name, my real name, it makes it seem like he really is jealous, truly possessive. That raw, masculine jealousy inexplicably emboldens me, fuels a defiant thrill. I step into the shower, the cool spray hitting my naked skin, just as he starts to remove his own clothes, shedding them with a fluid grace.
I know he locked the front door. I saw him do it. But Shephard could still come back. What if he forgot something? What if he realizes I’m not in the living room, that I didn’t grab my laptop? If he forgot something and came back . . . The thought flashes through my mind, a fleeting spark of terror, a necessary adrenaline rush.