Page 41 of The Rise of Saint (The Sins of Saint 1)

He paused. “Never cower away from my touch.”

“No one’s here. We don’t have to pretend,” I sneered. “And I wasn’t cowering away from your touch. I was refusing it.”

His tongue traced along his bottom lip, and like a starved lion, he watched me as if he could already taste me. As if he could feel my bones snap along with the last shred of self-control I had. The bastard was toying with me, playing me like I was his shiny new toy.

“Elena said you’re one of Italy’s most eligible bachelors. I bet you have women lined up like cattle, willing to be slaughtered for you. Or should I saybyyou?”

Sapphire eyes glinted with amusement. “Are you jealous?”

“Not in the least.” I squared my shoulders and tried to make myself seem taller. “Don’t make a fool out of me, Saint.”

“What do you mean?”

“After we’re married, don’t make a fool out of me by whoring with other women.”

His smirk turned dangerous, wicked. “I’m a man whose needs are very,” he pursed his lips, “specific. And you made it clear that you refuse my touch, so I don’t really have a lot of options,” he inched closer, “do I?” He leaned his head from side to side as his gaze pinned me to the spot. “Besides, I know how to be discreet.”

The knots of need that still lingered in my gut started to burn, jealousy I refused to acknowledge tightening the muscles in my shoulders. “Like your aunt said,” I met his gaze with a glare, “someone is always watching.”

“Well, there’s an easy solution, then.” He lifted a hand, and this time I didn’t inch away, allowing him to trace the back of his hand down the side of my face. “If you don’t want me to fuck other women, Mila,” he leaned closer, lips barely brushing against my earlobe, “you’ll have to take their place.”

A shiver rippled from where his breath touched my skin, down to my clenched thighs. It should have disgusted me, the way he insinuated I be his whore. It should have forced bile to burn up my throat, the thought alone causing me to cringe. But it didn’t. Instead, it forced unwelcome heat to every corner of my body, wrapping around every bone.

“Think about it.” His hand brushed down my arm, leaving heated flesh in its wake. “We could make our deal so much more interesting that way.” Every word he uttered was laced with wicked intent, his voice laden with seduction—manipulation.

I swallowed, my heart hammering against my ribs. “You’re disgusting,” I sneered between clenched teeth.

“I think the word you’re looking for is filthy.”

“Or senile.”

A mischievous grin tugged at the corners of lips. “You know, Mila, you are making this so much fun.” He took my hand in his, fingers laced with mine. I gasped as he pulled me closer, placing my hand on his crotch. “You feel that? You’re making me hard. And now I’m wondering what you’ll look like bent over that dining table, legs spread and cunt glistening.”

“Stop,” I whispered, but he ignored my weak plea by moving forward, forcing me to move back, my palm still firmly pressed against his cock.

“You hate it, don’t you?”

“If byityou mean you, then, yes. I do.”

He shook his head. “You might hate me, but you hate the way your body responds to me more.”

“Again, senile seems like a more fitting word.” I refused to let him see anything other than disgust on my face, desperately trying to keep my expression cold and hard even though my body had become a pool of heated waves and electric currents.

The edge of the dining table bit into my lower back, and he let go of my hand. His arm snaked around my waist and lifted me onto the table.

My muscles tensed, my core tightening with a need that burned as bright as the fire in his eyes.

“Tell me your thighs aren’t aching right now.” His fingers brushed against my knees. “Tell me that if I slip a finger inside your panties, I won’t find your pussy slick and swollen for me.”

Fingers gripped my knees and jerked them apart, spreading my legs and tearing the dress up the side of my thigh. The rip echoed between us, but he didn’t even blink, not caring he just ruined a thousand-dollar dress.

I wanted to tell him to stop, but I couldn’t. ‘No’ burned the tip of my tongue, and my mind fought against the ripples of tainted desire that spread through my blood like a disease. But there was no stopping it. My body was already infected and out of control, his touch, his voice, his words, even his goddamn scent twisting and corrupting me into wanting more.

I let out a rush of air as he moved between my legs, pulling me to the edge of the table. My panties brushed against his pants, and my eyes rolled closed as he flexed his hips, allowing me to feel how hard he was—how ready he was to take me.

Soft lips caressed my throat as I craned my neck, and his tongue explored my skin with slow, leisurely strokes. Something dark and demanding stirred inside me, a throbbing ache pulsing in rhythm with my heartbeat. It was wrong for me to feel it, for my body to demand it. But I wanted more. I wanted the rapture, the release, the freedom to indulge in his sins. I wanted to feel his hands all over my heated skin while I lusted and hated him with equal vigor.

Lips traveled down my chest and lingered at the swell of my breast. “You’re conflicted, Mila, and it’s fucking beautiful—the way your body wants me while your mind hates me.” He moved his hips, grinding his cock against me, the friction threatening to push me over the edge. “If I make you come, will you hate me more?”

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