Page 136 of Vicious Saint
For a girl who claims I thrive on torturing her, Hendrix had very little problem falling into the deepest sleep of her life next to me. It took less than five minutes for her breaths to even out after we got into bed.
Hendrix wore the blanket over her like armor, but now? She’s got it thrown off almost completely. I watch as her legs widen, revealing a glimpse of the boyshorts she’s been hiding behind another one of her superhero T-Shirts.
Talk about fucking torture.
My dick is already a painful blue.
I’m mid swig as Hendrix murmurs something, then leans her face my way, the tip of two fingers ghosting her pouty lips.
I spend every waking moment trying to ignore how beautiful she is. To bury it in the same places I do my sanity, along with everything she has the power to take from me.
My obsession with Hendrix has become a sickness almost as deadly as my mind.
Another reason to stay. The fuck. Away.
Before I let it take over.
She stirs, and my eyes dip to her waist, a sexy as fuck handful of curves more than ninety-nine percent of the girls I’ve been with had.
The fake hourglass most of them would pay thousands to achieve, Hendrix carries naturally, all the way to her hips.
It’s the reason every bitch in our school hates on her, and every guy I know secretly wants to fuck her.
But what’s on Hendrix’s outside isnotthe only reason I’m drawn to her. No…that pull between us runs much deeper.
Darker.
Parallel to gray and black.
Hendrix stirs again, and it’s a knee-jerk reaction when I throw the last of the whiskey back, placing it on the nightstand before shifting closer to her.
The world tilts on its axis, courtesy of the Macallan, but I still manage to graze my fingers along Hendrix’s thigh. Her skin is so soft, still so warm in spite of the A.C. blasting.
I continue exploring, this time along the top of her underwear, and watch as her stomach rises and dips in response to my touch.
She breathes a small, needy moan when I circle her belly button, and I revel in the sound.
Fuck.
Hendrix may lie, but her body doesn’t. Awake or not, it always responds to me.
My hands travel downward, and with a careful glance at Hendrix’s face, I gauge her reaction.
She’s still sound asleep in the same position.
My mind reels with every sick, twisted thought…each more tempting than the last.
I shouldn’t. Of course I fucking shouldn’t.
But what’s the alternative?
I may talk a big game, tread some dicey lines, but there’s a reason I’ve held myself back for so long—one I knew the second my knees hit the floor in that closet a year ago.
That Hendrix’s mouth would not only put her in danger but make her dangerous too.
My inhale is sharp as I remove the last bit of blanket still covering her leg, then turns full on hiss when I spot the flower tattoo between her pelvis and upper thigh.
A Zinnia, like her middle name.
