Page 25 of Gilded Saint

“I’m fine.”

My palms flatten over silk, cooled by the underlying marble. I lower my head and dig deep for inner strength. Shame flames my cheeks and chest.

A strong, masculine hand with short, clean nails extends into my line of sight. I take it, using it for balance as I rise. He steps on the dress, and I step out of the heap of silk and tulle.

My heels click on the marble, and I struggle to ignore the breeze over my tush. In a mirror, I glimpse Leo, standing in his socks on my dress, watching me with an unsettling intensity. Disgust? Hatred?

I’m too overloaded. I can’t think about what he must be thinking.

The door clicks closed, and I sit on the edge of the bed to remove the painful shoes.

He probably regrets helping me. My fingers tremble. Goosebumps climb my arms, but my palms are clammy. Undefinable emotions swirl.

Breathe. Think.

He doesn’t hate me. That’s my emotions playing with reason. Unreasonable emotions are bubbling up, and I don’t know what to do with them. Feeling sorry for myself won’t get me anywhere. I need a shower. I need to remove the make-up, rid my hair of pins, wash away the hairspray, change into comfortable clothes, and calm down.

Chapter10

Sam, aka Leo, aka Saint

My back aches from a night on a sofa, an annoying reminder of my age and my predicament. What the hell have I done?

When her dress fell to her calves with one harsh rip, the stupidity of what I’d done hit with the force of a grenade. One glance at her lacy white lingerie and my dick went rock fucking hard.

Those sheer white thigh highs burned into my retinas, along with the lace garter belt and the most perfectly fitting lace thong I’ve ever seen.

Jesus, I wasn’t expecting any of that. It wasn’t a real wedding. I wasn’t expecting her to be dressed like a Victoria’s Secret Angel underneath that fluffy dress. More like aPenthousepin-up. She surpassed every erotic dream I’ve ever had and all the porn stars I’ve watched too.

She struck me speechless, and my view had been of her back. My fingers itched to touch the smooth slope of her neck, on display as her hair was still pinned in an elaborate twist. With one flick of my fingers, her strapless white lace bra would have fallen to the floor. Thinking of the lines of her waist, the dip in her lower back, and those two perfect ass cheeks tightens my throat.

I ached to push her up against a wall, to do things with her I had no business doing to a woman younger than my sisters. And who am I kidding? I still ache like a madman to do it to her now.

And I’m supposed to take her home with me? To my flat? Contrary to everyone’s notions, I am not a saint. And she’s already shared she’s not a virgin.

I tossed and turned all fucking night. One, because I’m on a goddamn sofa. And two, because I fucked up royally. When I close my eyes, I see her body, her curves. God, those thigh highs. When she turned around and I glimpsed her breasts, bound by lace and pushed into tempting pillows, I almost came right there like a fifteen-year-old. And if I had, who could blame me? It’s been five fucking years since I’ve had sex.

Over the years, as a syndicate member, I’ve had plenty of prostitutes offered to me, in countries where it’s legal, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. And I haven’t let myself explore anything real because I’m not real and it wouldn’t be fair to the woman.

And here I go and play hero to a woman younger than my sisters with a plan to bring her into my home. Not, of course, to my real home. I don’t have a real home. I’m in a never-ending job assignment where I’m playing so many sides you’d think I was a politician. I’m bringing the temptation wrapped in lace to my flat, and I’ll have to keep her at a distance because I’m so deep undercover doing anything else would be cruel.

I’m not a saint, but I’m not cruel either. Given how I can’t get her out of my head, I’m definitely not a saint, but apparently, I am a masochist.

Knock. Knock.

The sound is faint. I rub my tired eyes and glare at the narrow stream of light between the drapes.

Room service? What the fuck time is it?

I swing my legs off the sofa and reach for my watch on the coffee table.

Pound. Pound.

The soft knocks now resemble a hammer.

Room service wouldn’t knock that hard.Fuck.

The bedroom door is cracked. I pull it closed without looking inside the dark chamber, find my bag, unzip it, and remove my SIG.

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