Page 346 of Vicious Saint
A few fleeting moments later, all of Saint’s restraint gets thrown out the window, and my lips are crushed to his in another bruising kiss. We breathe each other in for what feels like forever, then my mouth parts in a ceremony to welcome him home.
Saint’s tongue is devouring mine as his hands move between clawing my hair and caressing my cheeks. Getting reacquainted with every part of my face as if he’s afraid it’ll disappear.
I’m no less eager in my attempt to savor him.
It’s a mess of kisses and limbs at first—me ripping off Saint’s Letterman as he tries for my blazer. Same goes for his tie andblazer, then our oxfords together. Pants, skirt, briefs, bra follows—all torn off in a series of chaos that ends in a hilarious forehead collision. We take a couple seconds to laugh about it, but no more than that before he’s adjusting himself between my legs. Then, through fallen strands of Saint’s hair, his blue eyes hold me hostage.
So intense. Full of life. Crystal enough to see my reflection in.
There’s color, then there’s the light they aspire to be.
Saintisthat light.
Even through his darkness it shines.
A truth undeniable when Saint cradles the side of my face, brushing a thumb across my cheek bone. He kisses me again, with passion so radiant it mimics the sun.
The awe of it has a small cry escaping my lips, which turns to a moan as Saint pushes his cock inside me, freezing when he’s fully sheathed.
“Fuck, baby.” He grunts but keeps his commentary at that before filling me again.
I don’t mean with just his cock.
Because as Saint’s thrusts fall into rhythm, his hands and mouth make damn sure to stay busy.
Scratching my thighs.
Biting my lip.
Caressing my nipples.
Every touch is methodical to ensure all of me gets his attention.
Every thrust is timed and angled perfectly to have me brimming with stimulation.
My body jerks, moans echoing the air as Saint continues on his quest to conquer every surface of me—and if one position doesn’t allow for his reach, I’m being flipped, folded, thrown like a doll into another one.
On my back, face down, sideways.
Each position escalating into what I suspected.
Something darker, more depraved.
A place where Saint’s nails are scratching harder, his bites are drawing blood, and his caresses are turning to complete domination.
The worst of it now, on all fours, where Saint has turned full on madman slamming into me, the hand he’s got laced around my throat being the only thing standing between me and a trip through the headboard.
“I can’t…fucking…stop.” He grunts, mostly to himself, but I don’t bother responding with anything other than needy, breathless sounds.
Because at this point I’m not sure he’s aware I’m still here.
The sex we’re having is no longer about pleasure for Saint.
It’s merely a score he’s settling against time.
Not that it matters, like I said, I was never doing this for me.
It’s to give Saint the chance to unleash all his rage. His pain. His darkness onto me.
