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)
My thoughts are broken, fragmented, as Saint steps into the shower with me, his warm, naked body pressing against mine in the confined space. He grabs the showerhead and pulls it off the holder with a soft click. He places it between my legs, aiming the nozzle, and I gasp, a sharp, involuntary intake of breath, because the water is still stunningly cold, a frigid shock against my most sensitive skin.
“What are you doing?” I ask, my voice thin, almost a whimper, shocked by the sudden, visceral intensity of it all, the sheer, brazen audacity.
He presses his mouth to my ear, his breath hot against my wet skin, the words a low, guttural growl that vibrates through me. “Washing him off your cunt so I can eat it.”
His words, crude and utterly depraved, make me physically shudder, a deep, involuntary tremor that racks my entire body. I lean my head against the cold, tiled shower wall, surrendering to the sensation, to his sheer will, and in that moment, in the face of his desire, I forget all about Shephard. All about my husband, about the lies, about the life I’m betraying.
Right now, it’s just . . . Saint.
Chapter Seventeen
Saint, Saint, Saint. He is a beautiful specimen.
The sun beats down, a warm, benevolent weight on my skin, as I watch him navigate the boat across the glittering expanse of the lake. He’s a natural, his movements fluid and strong, utterly at ease behind the wheel. He’s shirtless, his back a canvas of lean muscle, glistening with a fine sheen of sweat. Every flex, every shift of his shoulders, is a stark, captivating display of power, a visual rhythm that makes my breath catch in my throat. He’s so undeniably sexy out here, untamed and free.
And in return, I, too, feel free. I lean back against the cushions of the boat, the worn fabric warm beneath me, and try to lose myself in the pages of my book, a psychological thriller that feels far less unsettling than my own life right now. But my eyes keep drifting, drawn inevitably to Saint. He glances my way often, his gaze a hot brand on my skin, and occasionally, as he moves past me, adjusting a line or checking a gauge, he leans down to press a quiet, lingering kiss to my hair, my temple, the corner of my mouth. Each touch is a silent claim over me.
“Need any help?” I ask, my voice a little breathless, as he passes by again, his hand brushing my arm. The words are automatic, a reflex from years of partnership, of being the one who always offers.
He laughs, a low, dismissive sound that isn’t unkind. “Relax, Petra. You work too much.” He says it with a casual ease, a simple observation, and the words resonate with a surprising depth. I remember Shephard’s voice, the subtle barbs, the undercurrent of judgment when I don’t work, when I try to rest. “The well’s looking a little dry,” he said, a veiled accusation, making me feel guilty for not churning out content, for not always being productive, for my artistic struggles. Saint, with that simple sentence, offers a liberation I didn’t realize I craved. He sees my exhaustion, not my failure.
The sun is getting hotter, and I can feel the beginnings of distinct tan lines forming where my tank top ends. With a decisive shrug, I pull my top over my head, exposing myself to the wide-open sky. I feel Saint’s eyes on me immediately, a familiar heat, and he lets out a low, appreciative groan, a raw, visceral sound that hums through the air. But he doesn’t say anything annoying, anything that feels cliché or objectifying, none of the cheap compliments or possessive remarks most men would offer. He just watches, his gaze intense, possessive in its own way, and utterly silent. It’s more powerful than any words.
After a while, the wind whipping his hair, the sun glinting off his shoulders, he finally comes to sit down next to me, the boat swaying gently beneath us. He props an elbow on his knee, his body angled toward me, his presence a warm, magnetic force. The silence stretches between us, comfortable for him, electric for me. I can’t hold back the question that’s been gnawing at me, a persistent ache in my chest.
“Do you regret this?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper, gesturing vaguely between us, meaning this—the affair, the betrayal, the secrets we share.
He considers it for a long moment, his eyes scanning the horizon, his expression unreadable. Then he turns to me, his gaze direct, unflinching, honest to a brutal degree. “I wish it wasn’t an affair, Petra,” he says, his voice low, tinged with a quiet regret that surprises me. “But no. I don’t regret being with you. Not for a second.”