Page 9 of Saint

“Now what?” she asked, studying him with eyes so blue, so pure and deep, he wanted to swim in them. To lose himself in that clear, cerulean abyss and be cleansed of all his sins.

“Now you go to sleep.” He nodded to the daybed.

“I’m not tired.”

“Pretend to be.”

She crossed her arms, lifting her breasts, and his gaze automatically dipped. Not his fault, though. She’d pushed them up, testing the limits of her dress’s neckline and putting that perfect set of tits on display. His fucking mouth watered, nostrils flared. That red dress flattered her curves and sent Saint’s mind straight into the gutter.

Turning away, he sucked in a deep, steadying breath, needing his head to clear of any and all distraction, including the lust-filled thoughts currently poised front and center. Forcing himself to focus, he figured he should check in with Braxton, but it was late and he didn’t feel like getting his ass chewed out at the moment. The call could wait until morning.

“Can Ipretendto get a drink of water instead?” she asked saucily.

“Yeah, whatever.”

She skirted around him, assaulting his senses with another sweet shot of vanilla, and opened the small fridge, leaning down to peer inside. Her pert ass, sheathed in red, lifted and wiggled slightly. Why she had to bend over and put her goods on display directly in his line of view, he didn’t know. But the end result was unavoidable.Fuck.Swallowing hard, he adjusted his dick, trying to ignore the pure shot of lust making it grow behind his zipper.

Speaking of shots, he could really use some vodka. He’d even settle for the cheap stuff.

“Want a water?” she asked, straightening up. Twisting the cap off hers, she took a drink and Saint couldn’t pry his eyes off her.

“Sure.” He cleared his throat and watched her bend over again to retrieve another bottle. An image of her bare ass filled his head. Lily-white, silky soft…and sporting his handprint.Head out of the fucking gutter, Saint,he chastised himself.

“Here you go.” She walked closer and, as she handed it over, their fingers brushed. The touch jolted him into awareness as it moved up his arm then sparked through his stomach and continued downward, making his dick throb.

Saint knew what lust felt like, but whatever this was felt like lust times a thousand. Like Mia was a live wire and he was holding on for dear life, getting the shit zapped out of him.

So let go, jackass.

Clenching his jaw, he opened the bottle and took a long swig, hoping it would help cool him off. No such luck. He needed a cigarette. Desperately. “Why don’t you go sit?” he suggested in a slightly-strained voice, nodding to the daybed again.

This time, she didn’t argue. He watched her kick off her heels, climb onto the bed and crawl across the mattress, seriously testing his self-control. Did she really have no idea how sexy she looked on her hands and knees, her ass hiked in the air, as she made her way to the headboard? Turning around, she scooted back, and he couldn’t miss her pink-polished toes. She had the smallest, daintiest feet he’d ever seen and he swallowed hard as all sorts of bad ideas filled his head. Every single one involved him joining her on that daybed.

Suppressing a growl, he reached into his pocket, pulled his pack of cigarettes out and swore under his breath. Only three left. How the hell was he going to survive an entire night with Goldilocks in that sexy, red dress with only three smokes? He’d have to space them out. Good thing he was no stranger to doing without.

“Is your name really Nik?” she asked.

He tucked a cigarette behind his ear, willing himself to hold out as long as possible, and stuffed the nearly empty pack back into his inner jacket pocket.

“Sure,” he responded.

“What kind of answer is that?” she asked, cocking her head.

“The only one you’re gonna get.”

“You’re very difficult,” she stated, eyeing him intently. Her gaze was focused and unwavering, and he felt like a bug under a magnifying glass.

“What do you care?”

“You’re not from here originally, are you? America, I mean.”

Saint plucked the cigarette from behind his ear and reached for his lighter. Well, that hadn’t lasted long. “I was born in Russia,” he murmured, lighting up. No point in lying.

“Really?” She leaned forward, appearing interested. “Do you speak Russian?”

“I speak a lot of languages and, yeah, Russian happens to be one.”

“Oh, please, don’t smoke in here,” she begged.

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