Page 42 of Lethal Saint

“Pick a word,” he repeated, covering my hands with his and showing me how to loosen the monstrosity.

“Carnation,” I breathed, heat flushing higher, hotter in my body. It swept up my chest and neck and burned my face as I processed what I was doing, and who I was doing it to. I was acting like a desperate, wanton woman—with the Saint.

The Saint, who threw his tie onto the checkerboard floor and unfastened the buttons of his shirt. I swallowed, my mouth full of saliva. I was the queen, I made the rules, and it didn’t matterhow I acted or how shameless I was in my need. He was my husband. He was mine now. And this marriage was real.

Words tried to form; horrible, hateful names I’d been called. But Damien’s shirt fell open, and then he was taking my hands, setting them on his bare, heated skin. My mind went blissfully silent.

“Carnation,” he repeated, curling a lock of my hair around his finger. He kept doing that, playing with my curls, as if he liked them. I liked that he did, more warmth joining the intensity of passion coursing through my body. “Like the flowers at our wedding.”

“Yes,” I breathed, and wondered if I could kiss his chest, if I was allowed to set my mouth to the warm, golden skin over his beating heart.

You’re the queen here, Vasilisa. You make the rules.

I leaned forward, brushing my lips over his skin, my heart quickening at the feel of him against my mouth, at the salty tang of sweat and the oud cologne he wore.

“You can use that word whenever you’re uncomfortable, and I’ll stop. Not just in the bedroom—or bathroom,” he added with a smile, his eyes both gleaming and gentle when he held my gaze, “but everywhere, for anything. If you need to stop, just saycarnation.”

The gravity of what Damien was offering hit me, and I blinked, staring at him. How was a mass murderer and deadly criminal so sweet, so thoughtful, sokind?The word was a safety net, and reassurance that no matter where we were, or what was happening, he’d make sure I was safe. He’d be my shield, just like he promised.

“My shield,” I breathed, trying the words out.

“Always,” he vowed, his hands skimming my waist, sending a new rush of fluttering through my belly—and my pussy. I loved his hands on me, loved the attention, loved the way he looked atme. All the things that made me feel sick in the ballroom. Now I reclaimed them.

“Remember your safeword, Vasilisa,” he said, and tightened his hold on my waist, lifting me onto the counter beside the sink. A gasp tripped off my tongue, the marble icy even through my wedding dress. My heart thumped when Damien knelt again, gazing up at me with ink-dark eyes.

“I never got a chance to tell you how fucking gorgeous you look in this dress,” he said, a rough quality to his voice as he skimmed fingertips over the flowers embedded in the tulle skirt. “Like a fairy, a goddess.”

My mouth went a little dry when his hands slid under the hem and pushed up the fabric so he could kiss the curve of my calf, then higher, his hot mouth burning through the scant material of my stockings.

“Goddesses need to be worshipped,” he said, his eyes flicking up to catch mine. “And queens deserve to be served.”

A full-body shudder raised goosebumps on my skin. I curled my fingers over the edge of the counter, tension winding my body into a taut line as I waited, waited…

His next kiss fell on my other leg, lingering so I felt the scorch of his lips through the fabric. “Okay, Vasilisa?”

“Yes,” I breathed, anticipation like a bow strung tightly in every cell of my body.

I bit my lip when he kissed higher, his lips skimming the bare skin of my thigh. My eyelids drooped, laying heavy over my eyes as he drugged me on his touches, each one climbing higher, to where urgent need pounded through me.

I gripped the counter so hard the edges bit into my fingers when Damien’s head disappeared under my skirt, the layers of tulle opaque enough that I couldn’t see him, could only anticipate. My heartbeat was thunderous, bruising my ribs.

I gasped, my hips jerking when warm fingers curled into the sides of my underwear at the same time his lips brushed the delicate skin of my inner thigh.

“Can I take these off, my queen?”

Oh fuck, he was still calling me his queen. I nodded fast, realised he couldn’t see me, and hurriedly breathed, “Yes.Please,Damien.”

“God, I love it when you say my name,” he rasped, kissing the seam of my thigh before he eased down the white lace of my underwear.

Anticipation and curiosity and nerves clashed, so strong that I held my breath. The first swipe of his tongue made my eyes slam shut. I didn’t know what I expected, but the soft, cool glide of his tongue felt so much better than I imagined, every sensitive spot exploding into tingles under his attention. My pussy clenched.

“Fuck, you taste good,” Damien groaned, and my face burst into flames. I bit my lip, sensations threatening to overwhelm me when his warm hands slid along the outside of my thighs, curving around my ass and bringing me to the very edge of the counter.

A gasp stole my air when his slow, swirling tongue found its way to the throb where I needed him most. My lips parted, hips jolting, and a deep, surprising moan left me when he kissed my clit, wrapping his soft lips around it. Every sensation sharpened, deepened, concentrated where his lips surrounded me in heat and maddening pressure. He kissed me over and over until I shuddered, until my muscles wound so tightly I feared I’d snap in two.

My skirt shifted, light playing across the tulle when he licked a slow, tantalising trail down to my entrance and back up. Now I was gasping, struggling to keep my hands on the counter insteadof grabbing his head, urgent to drag his lips back to my pounding clit.

“Damien,” I breathed, complained, pleaded.

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