Page 21 of Property of Saint

I hate the way my inner core tenses and responds to his last demand. All my sexual interactions have been polite, and at best, transactional in that I’ll get you off, then you give me what I want. I shouldn’t be aroused at the suggestion that Saint would use me roughly, make me submit to him somehow.

I retort, “Should have expected bikers to have no finesse in that department. You want the woman to give you all the pleasure while she gets none.”

“Never said that.” His nostrils flare, his eyes narrow, and lines appear on his brow. “You think I couldn’t satisfy you?”

The challenge in his response makes my lady parts come alive, overcoming the pain from my injuries.If he can cause such a reaction from just words, I’m fucked.

His eyes heat, his pupils expand, his breathing rate quickens, and he adjusts his stance.I’m getting to him,I realise.He’s not the only one with control here.

We stare at each other, then he suddenly barks out, “You hungry?”

The swift change of subject takes me unawares, but as if on cue, my stomach grumbles, reminding me I’ve not had food for hours. Warily, I respond, “I could eat.”

He lends a hand to help me onto my feet, then steadies me and passes me the crutches. Unable to use both as I’m hampered by the sling I’d taken to using again as my shoulder had hurt after that meeting in their clubroom, I let out an exasperated huff and pull my arm free.

“Use it,” he snarls, surprisingly gently, threading my hand back through the support. “If you don’t let your shoulder heal, it will keep popping out.”

Why should that matter to him, if I’m going to be dead in a number of hours? Cocking my head to the side, I try to analyse his expression, but he’s a closed book I can’t read.

“Can’t use two crutches without both arms.”

My explanation falls on deaf ears, as he takes one of my supports away. “Lean on me,” he growls.

What choice do I have? I take the support he’s offering and let him pull me into his side. Like earlier, the stairs present a problem, so without asking permission, he simply sweeps me up into his strong arms. He lets my feet drop to the floor when we reach the bottom, then puts his arm around me again. He walks, I hop, into a kitchen. When I come to a halt, he stares searchingly at me for a moment, then with a shake of his head that makes his long hair swing, he opens a drawer and pulls out a packet. When he throws them down on the table in front of me, I see they’re over-the-counter painkillers. Without a word, he moves again, this time to fill a glass with water. Appreciating the effort and knowing I could do with something to stop the pounding in my head, I take two tablets and swallow them down.

He gives a chin lift, then gestures to the stove. “All yours.”

What the fuck?“You want me to cook for you?” My tone successfully conveys my outrage.

His brow creases, and his head tilts to one side. “Well, yeah.”

“What makes you think I can find my way around a kitchen?”

He shrugs. “All women can.”

I roll my eyes. “Not this one.” Actually, I’m more than able to put together a decent meal, but it’s his misogynistic response that’s made me deny my skills. It’s not really a lie, I justify to myself. With one arm in a sling and only one leg to stand on, I’m more than slightly handicapped.

His eyes meet mine. A moment passes and neither of us blinks. I’m just about to give in when he huffs loudly. “Fuckin’ good ol’ lady you’d make.” He follows it up with a snort. “It’s good that I don’t want one.”

“I’m disqualified?”

“Fuck yeah.” He raises one hand, curls it up leaving the forefinger straight, cocks it like a gun and pretends to shoot at my head. “If you’re not going to make yourself useful, sit the fuck down.”

My head, ribs, shoulder and leg still hurt like hell. I’ve absolutely no opposition to complying to that suggestion. Leaning my crutch against the table, I manage to hop around on one leg, pulling out a chair and collapsing into it. My stomach growls, making me aware that I’m so hungry I could eat the proverbial horse, and if I’m going to keep taking painkillers and antibiotics, I need to get some food into me before my innards rebel.

Once again, his hair swings as he shakes his head, then he steps to the refrigerator and takes out some eggs. I watch, half-entranced, half-amazed, as he starts to gather other ingredients, and it looks like he’s going to make pancakes from scratch. When he puts maple syrup on the table and puts some bacon on to grill, my mouth starts salivating. I daren’t say a word in case it breaks the spell, but I can’t deny I’m getting a feast for the eyes as this tattooed biker keeps placing his firm and very admirable ass, right in my direct line of vision.

I might dislike the man, but I can admire the package. Can’t I?

Especially as he expertly flips pancakes, his hips thrusting and twisting as he does.

What a shame such a body is wasted on an outlaw biker.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

SAINT

Of course, in her condition, I didn’t really expect her to cook breakfast for me, but I got a buzz from her reaction when I implied that I expected her to. I can fend well enough for myself. I had to learn early. My mom hadn’t cared whether I ate or not, preferring most of her nutrition to be of the liquid variety.

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