Page 279 of Vicious Saint
Saint retracts his head from my neck, making my eyes draw to him.
Who am I kidding?
Everything about me draws to him.
“You’re not playing fair…” I mouth and he grins back an “I know.”
Asshole.
The beat of the next song is a lot faster, thank fuck, because it allows me the chance to mentally try and fan my pussy.
It works.
But only because Saint has mastered the art of moving to Taylor Swift too.
In a mocking way, of course, but the excitement on his face comes a little too natural for a guy who electrocutes people for kicks.
If I had to guess? This is Theory’s monster she created.
A laughing snort pipes out of me when Saint starts fan girl bouncing, but it’s not until his hips areshaking it offlike the song is calling for, I’m straight up wheezy cackling.
Guys, girls, hell, even Carlo looks on in bewilderment as Saint grips my hips, forcing me to shimmy shake like he is.
The best part?
He doesn’t seem to give a flying fuck that people are watching.
Another day, another version of Saint for me to fall in love with.
And I want the one I have with me now to be the one who knows it first.
Saint wraps his arms around me, and like he did on the field earlier, picks me up, and spins me around, making me yelp out in surprise.
When he stops, I’m dizzy, so it takes a few seconds of staring into his eyes before screaming, “I love you, you idiot!”
This time, it’s me getting dropped like a potato in front of him.
A much cuter, less dickish potato.
Saint blinks at me.
“You fucking love me...” He mouths.
I nod, and his lips smile something magical. “I knew it!” He scoops me up in his arms again. “Youareobsessed with me!”
Yep. Such. An. Idiot.
Wrapping my arms around his neck, I kiss him hard enough to leave his lips a shade of mauve. Then, with my thumb and forefinger pinched together, I tell him, “Maybe just a little!”
I allowed Saint one Drake song before dragging his ass off the dance floor, not only needing a drink but needing to pee.
And thanks to Carlo waiting for me by the bar with a water bottle, I’ve executed at least one of those necessities.
Saint’s coach ended up surprising the team with his—not at all cringy for a fifty-year-old man in the club—presence twenty minutes ago. But partying with the faculty was something not even love was enough to have me doing. Saint fought the good fight but ended up losing with no grace when his coach journeyed over and demanded he join the team upstairs.
Fast forward twenty minutes and the monster sized jacket Saint forced around my shoulders, I’m in front of the bar next to Carlo, officially giving up on the alcohol and sipping on Poland Spring.
The music turned to shit, and the distaste must be readable on my face because Carlo asks if I want him to take me back to the dorms.
