Page 51 of Penny for Your Saints

“C’mon Cazzy—no pills? Nothing? You gotta have at least some weed, you little stoner shit,” Frank groans as I pick up the rag and pull the kettle, just shy of whistling, off the hook—pouring the steaming water into the bowl. Along with a few drops of castile soap.

Caz shoots Frank a nasty look, but I see his eyes dart quickly to his backpack. This delights Frank—who seems to be enjoying pressing Cazzy’s buttons as much as he enjoys the prospect of pain relief.

“Or you could come over here and treat Miss Penny and I to some of that special sauce,” Frank goades, his tongue flicking out over his incisors then his bottom lip as if considering taking a bite of Caz.

Caz turns a surprisingly flattering shade of pink—the blush extending all the way to his flaxen buzzed hairline.

“Not until I’m finished patching you up, he can’t,” I admonish, pushing Frank back into his seat with one flat palm on the middle of his chest.

“Ooh! Little Lucifer thinks she’s gonna get rough with me, huh?” Frank grins, that spark of mania spreading like a growing flame from his curled lips to his glittering Prussian blues.

“You talk tough,” I begin, tartly—dipping the rag into the soapy water and wringing it out thoroughly before gently dabbing his gently oozing wound with it.

Frank, for all of his masculine bluster, lets out a high-pitched yelp of pain and scoots quickly away from me—stopping abruptly as he reaches the end of the cushion before he’s practically in the fireplace.

“Stay still—you big baby!” I scold him as the others watch silently from their places on the couch; Seb and Q hovering at the edge of their seats, whiskey in hand as Caz half-heartedly rolls a messy spliff over the open backpack on his lap.

“Why don’t you make me, Sweetheart,” Frank growls back in challenge, his body inclining toward me once more.

I can smell him, his scent turning from its typical warm, woody finish—to a deep, musky sweetness—a tang with almost ametallic sharpness finishing out his alpha fragrance; a sure sign that he’s been driven to the precipice of rut with Q and I both so close to our heats.

My sigma biology sings out, and before I can give too much thought to what I’m doing—I’ve planted one knee on the outside of Frank’s right thigh, then his left; allowing my full weight to settle onto his lap as I straddle him—pinning him to the makeshift couch beneath us, the bowl of soapy water and the first aid supplies still on the slate overhang to my left.

Frank moves to resist—but his injured shoulder brings him up short, a growl rumbling low in his chest as I bring the cloth back to his shoulder.

“Tch, tch, tch! Quentin, Caz, and Seb may let you get away with… well murder,” I challenge as Frank bares his teeth with another snarl of pain. “But I am not so easily swayed.” I lean in—allowing my body to press against his; his right hand creeping up over my left thigh from where my knee makes contact with the cushion beneath us.

“After the tearful parting with your old work buddy this morning and conking out on the ride up here, I didn’t think you’d be so in the mood, Sweetheart,” he seethes, gripping my thigh—stopping a moment to savor the involuntary press of my legs and the dip of my pelvis as it grinds against him. I wish I could bluff this off, but my heat is too close—it’s all I can do not to start ripping his clothes off right now and ride, ride, ride till his knot is inside me.

A flash of Tennant’s bloody face—his blank stare fixed far beyond me, through me, is like a momentary dousing of ice water.

“Body chemistry is a bitch,” I manage to bite out, laying the rag over the edge of the metal bowl before snatching up the bottle of iodine and a cotton pad.

“Ain’t she?” Frank volleys back, both his hands suddenly cupping my ass, his hands squeezing my glutes through the black denim—pulling me against him as my eyelids flutter, my lips roll over my teeth to avoid letting out an obscene moan.

I grab Frank’s face with my right hand, pinching the sides of his face so that his cheeks hollow—his lips pressed in a fishy purse as I press the iodine soaked cotton pad to the large cut that runs from his right brow to his hairline.

“FUCK!” he barks in pain, his hips bucking beneath me so that he almost launches me off of his lap.

“Maybe later, if you’re real good,” I taunt, pressing the antiseptic against his wound again—this time without an outburst.

“Oh, I’mreal good,Sweetheart—you’ll see,” he growls, his face lifting beneath my careful tending, his upturned nose brushing against my pulse—the surprisingly soft brush of his beard ghosting against the hollow of my throat, his hot breath pooling between my clavicles as he breathes my scent in.

“Tough talk from one of the only guys in the room who hasn’t made me cum.” The challenge is past my lips before I can take it back.

“Give a guy a chance, eh?” I hear Seb grumble from just outside my peripheral vision.

My eyes flick to the dark window, finding the others in the night lit glass’ reflection.

Quentin and Caz sit flanking Seb—both of them rubbing up against Seb as he strokes himself—already hard and sporting a half-knot in his threadbare jeans.

I feel Frank’s hardness beneath me, the heat of his breath dissipating as I pull back—leaning over to dab at his shoulder with the iodine.

“Fuck,” he moans, rolling his hips upward into me—the two of us desperate for whatever friction we can make between usand our dark denim. “Usually I hold off till the third or fourth time I fuck someone to add in the S&M shit,” he hisses through a shit-eating grin—his hands still gripping my ass as he helps guide my pelvis to grind against his.

“What can I say? I’m the little red Corvette type—fast, but fun,” I tease, using all my willpower to focus on winding the cylinder of clean white gauze around Frank’s shoulder.

He reaches up and pulls several of the long bobby pins from my hair—the pair of braids I plaited my tresses into earlier falling in long lines down my back.

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