Page 62 of The Rise of Saint (The Sins of Saint 1)

“I fucking hate you.” I spat.

His nostrils flared, and his jaw ticked, but I didn’t care. I didn’t care if I pissed him off, pressed his goddamn buttons until he snapped and beat my face in. That would be far less painful than what he just did to me.

Saint lifted a single finger in front of his face, and I narrowed my eyes at him, knowing all too well which goddamn finger that was.

I placed my hands on my hips. “So, my mouth is good enough for your cock, but not my cunt?”

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered and pulled his fingers through his hair, which was a mess of perfect disarray. Maybe the more fitting phrase would have beenI hate myself.

I hated myself for succumbing.

I hated myself for allowing the devil to seduce me.

I hated myself for not loathing him.

And most of all, I hated myself because I liked what he did to me. I liked his belt on my ass. His humiliating words. His cock in my mouth. I liked the freedom of finally breaking down the walls and letting the darkness in. But I hated the fact that it had to be him. It had to be the man I was supposed to hate. Supposed to run from.

Saint tossed his belt across the room. “Be thankful I allowed you to get off.”

“Thankful?” I snorted. “For what? Getting off on third base? Twice?”

He bit his lip, his jaw ticking as he rubbed the back of his neck, the veins in his arms bulging with strength. “Go take a shower. Now.”

“You know, I don’t think I need a shower since you already wiped your cum off my face.” I shrugged. “But you know what, I get it. I probably should be thankful. You’re used to fucking women like Anete. Beautiful little socialites with pampered little unicorn vaginas. There’s no reason you’d want to be with a woman like me—a woman who’s only good enough to suck your dick and nothing else.”

I turned on my heel, the skirt of my dress bobbing behind my ass when pain radiated up my arm as Saint grabbed my elbow and spun me around. He rushed me backward, slamming my back against the wall, wild eyes penetrating mine. “You think I didn’t fuck you because you’re not good enough?”

“Maybe. Now, let go of me.” I shoved against his chest, tried to push him away. But he didn’t move an inch. “Let me go!” I grabbed the fabric of his shirt and tore it down the middle, buttons clattering on the ground. God, I was so angry, frustrated, and I was probably not thinking straight. Maybe this was what Stockholm Syndrome felt like. Something you couldn’t explain, some weird shit that made you do things you wouldn’t normally do. Like provoke the devil.

Saint cocked his head. “Not good enough? That’s such a goddamn cliché, the least you can do is come up with something better.”

“What? Like maybe you’re just afraid you won’t be good enough.” I inched my face closer to him. “Maybe that’s why you’d rather let your fingers do the dirty work for you.”

His eyes flared with anger, blue orbs turning black with lust and rage all rolled into one moment of complete fucked-up-ness. His lips crashed into mine with such force it pushed my head painfully against the wall.

There wasn’t time to think or to react other than to kiss him back. Our teeth clattered, our lips ravaged, and fire blazed in my belly.

With rushed hands, he tore his tattered shirt from his chest, and I wanted to touch him. I wanted to feel his flawless skin under my palms, admire his ripped muscles and roped abs with my fingertips. But he grabbed my wrists pinned them above my head with one hand and used the other to yank his pants down with violent tugs. I gasped for air but refused to stop. I didn’t care if I suffocated from his kiss or burst into flames from his touch. All I cared about was letting go, to accept the fact that maybe…maybe I was just as fucked-up as he was because all I wanted—no, desperately needed, was for Saint to fuck some sordid pleasure into me.

With a rushed hand guided by a frenzy of ecstasy that had us both by the throats, he bunched the dress of my skirt around my waist. Already, I was squirming against him, my body ready and primed, on the verge of snapping in half. I was no longer the victim who had been wronged or the girl who had been kidnapped and taken halfway across the world. I was no longer the ten percent shares he wanted or the signature on a goddamn piece of paper. I was an eager participant, a willing slave to the witchcraft of his dark touch.

He bit down on my bottom lip, and the taste of my own blood exploded in my mouth. But I didn’t care. It didn’t hurt. It just added fuel to the fire, the blaze that was seconds away from incinerating me.

He stilled, staring at the blood on my lip, and his eyes flashed with a thirst for indulgence, every line on his face cast in shadows of debauchery. He leaned in and softly lapped the blood from my lips. My insides turned to liquid heat, and arousal coated the insides of my thighs.

Rolling his hips into mine, his hardened length pressed against my aching core, and I couldn’t stop my desperate moan from slipping out. He echoed my moan with his own and once again crashed his mouth to mine. Taking. Claiming. Demanding.

He let go of my wrists and grabbed my thighs with impatient fingers and forced them around his waist. My arms fell around his neck, and I inhaled deeply—his scent of power and sex, pure fucking adrenaline, oozing out of his pores.

The head of his cock nudged against my entrance, and he nipped at my lip again, his hands firmly placed under my ass. “This is the part where I ask you if you’re sure.” He nudged my cheek with his nose, and I looked at him, nothing but twisted desires and sordid pleasures swimming in the sea of his eyes. “But I’m not the kind of man who asks.” The tip of his cock entered me, and I craned my neck as my lips parted. “I fucking take.”

With one hard, unyielding thrust, he impaled me. Pain seared through my spine, and pleasure shot down to my core. Buried to the hilt, he gave me no time to adjust to him, to get accustomed to the feel of him stretching me to a point of pain. He reared back and plunged into me.

“Is this what you want?” He bit out, his expression as hard as his grueling thrusts. “You want to get fucked? You want that sweet little cunt ruined?”

I couldn’t hold on. I couldn’t even breathe, too consumed and possessed with a kind of pleasure I had never felt before. Saint had subjugated my entire body, and I was now completely at his mercy.

My arms fell from around his neck, and he let go of my ass, pinning me with his body, and nailed my hands to the wall above my head. “I swear to fucking God,” he growled, “you better keep those legs up.”

---