Page 56 of The Rise of Saint (The Sins of Saint 1)

I heard the belt cut through air, followed by a merciless crack as it slashed against my flesh. This time, it brought tears to my eyes, the burn spreading down my legs. I bit my tongue to stop the scream from tearing up my throat.

“Lay back down, Mila. I won’t ask again.”

The pain was so intense, as if he had lit a match on my skin—burning with a raging fire. Unable to keep myself up, I sagged back down, my stomach flat against the bed. I clenched my jaw, biting back tears and willing the pain to dissipate.

“Good girl.”

I took rapid breaths, and sweat beaded behind my neck. His heavy footsteps were almost as loud as my heartbeat, and I heard him circle the bed. Starting at my ankle, he traced his fingers across my skin with slow strokes, as if he tried to make the moment last. He stroked the burning flesh on my thigh. “I knew it would look beautiful. Your skin blushing for me.”

I swallowed.

“I thought about it on the plane when I had your tit in my hand, your cheeks flushed the prettiest pink. After that, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”

“You’re sick.”

“Am I?” He dipped his hand between my legs, and I couldn’t stop the moan that fell from my lips. “If I’m sick,” he dipped a finger through my slit, “and your pussy is this wet, what does that make you?”

I bit my lip and shut my eyes. “A masochist.”

A groan rumbled from his chest. “God, I love that word.”

He kept his finger between my sensitive folds, and I clawed at the silk sheets when I heard the sound of his pants zipper.

“Did it feel good when you fucked my finger last night?”

I refused to answer, refused to play his sick game.

He pulled his hands from between my legs, and I heard the slice of leather as it struck my naked ass. I gasped and whimpered, but it wasn’t nearly as painful as the whips against my thighs.

“Tell me,” he ordered, his voice nothing but pure conviction. “Did it. Feel. Good?”

I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t answer him because the truth felt wrong. It tipped the scales from what was normal to something that was completely fucked-up.

He clutched my hair as he jerked my head up. “Answer me.”

My pressed lips denied him the reply he seemed to desperately want.

He let go of my hair, and my cheek fell against the sheet. “You shouldn’t test me.”

His belt struck my ass twice in quick succession. The pain was excruciating, and I tasted my own blood as I bit into my tongue, struggling to keep the screams from twisting through my insides.

I inhaled deeply and hoped air in my lungs would settle the pain some.

“Think about it, Mila. Think about how your cunt sucked my finger inside you, how your body took control.”

I shook my head and refused to let his words remind me what it felt like—the confusion of finding pleasure in something I thought I didn’t want.

There was a swoosh of air, a strike of leather, and the agony of marred skin that burned all the way to achy bones.

He leaned down, his lips hovering above the side of my face. “I can do this for hours,” he said softly. “The more your skin burns for me, the harder my cock gets.” He brushed his palm across my ass, his touch stinging as if needles had pricked my skin.

I closed my eyes when he straightened, still biting my tongue, anticipating the next blow. But instead, he dragged the cruel leather up between my legs, over my ass.

“I’m going to ask you one more time. How did it feel when you came around my finger?”

Every muscle in my body was pulled taut, and the more he brushed the belt over my skin, the more I convinced myself I wouldn’t be able to take any more. I couldn’t.

“Good,” I whispered with a trembling voice.

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