Page 36 of Property of Saint

Interrupting, I tell him. “I lit a cloth and threw it into the gas tank.”

His eyes widen. He obviously hadn’t thought it was deliberate. A second passes, and a look of almost admiration crosses his face. Then he finishes, “And you saved my cut.”

Turning away, I mumble to myself. “Should have let the damn thing burn.”

He’s beside me in an instant, his hand gripping hold of my chin. “What the fuck did you just say?”

Rolling my eyes, I give it to him straight, jabbing my finger into his chest to make the point. “By saving that piece of leather, I gave away that I had knowledge about bikers and their clubs. If I hadn’t…”

“We’d have done our investigation into you just the same.” His words are spat out, then he swings around, brushes his long hair back from his face, and shakes his head. “And if you hadn’t, I wouldn’t be in the position that I am now.” I just wait, tilting my head to one side to get him to explain. “You’re a fuckin’ Fed, you’re already dead, and I should make sure and put you underground. But I owe you a fuckin’ debt.”

I shouldn’t ask. I shouldn’t ask.But I can’t stop the words coming out of my mouth. “So, what do I need to do to repay you and get out of here with my life?”

His mouth turns up in a smirk. “Your only option to stay here is to become my ol’ lady, so giving me a trial run at your pussy might help convince me.”

My mouth literally drops open. Of course, being a man, sex could have been expected to be the answer, but it’s taken me off guard.

Would I be willing?My life as a secret service agent means I can be called to go anywhere at any time. There’s no place in my world for relationships, and I’m no virgin since that disastrous introduction to a boy’s penis following my prom. He’d barely broken my hymen before literally losing his shit. Thankfully, I’d made him wear a condom, I’d brushed myself off and set out to find a real man who could get the job done. To be honest, I’ve not yet found one that gives me orgasms as good as my battery-operated boyfriend, but I still like to experiment from time to time. Saint? Well, I reckon he’s got the equipment, but whether he can use it to satisfy anyone other than himself is still in doubt. Bikers are used to women offering themselves in return for a ride on a bike or a leather vest, naming them as property. I suspect most club girls are more skilled at giving and resigned to receiving not a lot in return.

Sex, with Saint, despite his bad boy reputation, would no doubt be a disappointment. He’d be a selfish lover. But then again, he’s incredibly good looking, I find his long hair attractive, in a kind offuck themway to the neatly groomed agents who’d tried to flirt with me at work. If he does want my body in payment, it certainly wouldn’t make me feel like throwing up. I start thinking I must definitely have a TBI as my body’s core starts heating at the thought of Saint taking what he wants.I should be disgusted, not getting turned on.And it would be him taking, I can’t be much of an active participant with my injuries.

Could I let him into my body for a chance to have more time? I don’t want to be here forever, or to be anyone’s old lady, but maybe by playing along, he’d relax his guard and I’d be able to escape.

Saint’s staring at me while these thoughts are going through my mind. His dark eyes are intense and focused, but his expression gives nothing away. Suddenly, I’m glad I wasn’t playing poker against him. I doubt my winnings would have been so much.

He breathes in deep, then, turning away from me, lets his breath out on a sigh, accompanied by a shake of his head. When he speaks, his tone is heavy and weary. “There’s no way you can leave here and go back to your life. No one fucks with the Kings.”

How can I convince him?“I’m not going to fuck with your club.”

Snorting, he refutes, “We killed you on paper. Your reappearance would lead straight back to the club.”

“Help me change my name. Start over.” Fuck knows what I’d do, but there’s enough doubt in my mind to realise that going back to my old life might not be in my best interest. There’re enough people with a target on my head.

Again, his head moves side to side. “Can’t do that.” His eyes find mine and hold my gaze as if trying to read into my soul. “Even if I accepted you want to take that way out, my club would never believe you.”

His actions have made me his responsibility. My life or death lies in his hands. I should fear this man, hate him, but something makes me feel sorry for him instead. I never asked for a rescue, yet he offered an, albeit probably short, reprieve from death. Though our occupations make us mortal enemies, I’ve a feeling that he wouldn’t find it easy to put a bullet in my head, though I’ve no doubt he’d do it. If our positions were reversed, me, a government agent with an outlaw motorcycle gang member at my mercy, I would be expected to restrain him and commit him to a cell where he was unlikely ever to taste freedom again. Or if it was a situation where it was either me or him, my trainingwould have seen me sending him out of this world without a second thought. Are we really that different?

He swallows. His hand reaches down and touches mine. After a second, he gives my fingers a soft squeeze. A tactile gesture that suggests what he has to do might not align with what he wants.

Clarity hits me. If this is going to be my last night on earth, I want to leave it on my terms. All my previous partners have been respectable men, going out of their way to be seen as treating me as an equal in a man’s world. Perhaps what I needed all along was a man who couldn’t give a fuck about equalities and niceties. Though I don’t have high expectations that Saint would bother to satisfy my needs, by forgoing my chance to be with a bad boy, I’d go to my death never knowing what a dominant partner could be like.

Maybe it’s the threat of the loss of my mortality, but God help me, I’m part scared, but mostly turned on.Does imminent death increase the need to procreate?I’m sure I’ve heard that somewhere. Whatever the reason for my madness, I open my mouth to find myself bargaining, no, begging with the Devil.

“Fuck me, Saint.”

His body tenses, muscles going rigid. His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he swallows.He didn’t expect me to give my consent.As my eyes lower, I see the bulge at his crotch enlarging. The bruises may not show my face in its best light, but that doesn’t seem to be turning him off and I’m confident that my tits are pert, and my ass firm and rounded. Maybe my stomach won’t work if he’s a man who prefers curves. Hopefully I won’t disappoint.

But his lack of response stretches out so long, I’m doubting myself.Perhaps he’s a man who prefers soft and thick to toned and muscular. Maybe my hair’s too short, too masculine in style…Or would he have preferred if he’d needed to force me?Maybe that’s the kind of sex he likes. He’s a biker from a notorious club, and I could be putting myself in danger.

When he finally speaks, he disavows me of that last worry at least. “I don’t want to fuckin’ hurt you,” he growls, his hands waving, pointing to my shoulder, my leg and my ribs.

A startled laugh barks out of me. “But you’d have no problem killing me.” Catching mine, his eyes widen, so I press my chance. “Doesn’t a condemned man, or woman, get a last request?” His brows rise so high, it’s comical. “So, what if mine is to feel what you’ve got between your legs?” Now it’s me who’s swallowing. “What if I want to know what you’re packing before I meet my maker?”

“You don’t know what you’re fuckin’ asking,” he suddenly roars. “You’re testing the limits of my control, woman.”

“So, fuck me.”

“If I fuck you, I’m going to ruin you for all other men.”

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