Page 43 of Bad Saint

His warning should scare me, but it doesn’t. It excites me.

When he yanks me forward, pressing us chest to chest, I whimper, my bashfulness of being this close to him slowly vanishing. I don’t know what happens now, but I dare not breathe when his eyes drop to my chest, savoring the sight.

He takes his time, in no real hurry, while I’m certain my skin is about to burst into flames.

“Kneel, A????.”

A small mewl, that betraying bitch, slips past my lips, hinting what hearing him say that to me, unmasked, does. I’m basking in his fragrance, his touch, his entire makeup, and I’m helpless to stop it as I drop to my knees.

He nods once, clearly pleased.

My body is hypersensitive as everything is suddenly too much, too fast. Saint takes his time, walking around me, and I suddenly feel like prey as my predator circles me. When he comes to a stop behind me, I hold my breath.

He brushes the hair from my shoulder with a deliriously slow flick before running the back of two fingers down the side of my neck. A shiver surpasses me, and my nipples instantly pearl. “You’re very responsive. Are you sure you’re a virgin?” he says, insulting me.

“Go fuck yourself,” I say. Saint chuckles deeply.

“Choose your words wisely, A????.”

It’s a warning, but it still doesn’t prepare me for what he does next. Saint drops to his knees behind me and leaves mere inches between us. I can feel his hot breath bathing the back of my neck. My bravado stands tall, refusing to buckle, but when he places his hands, or more specifically, a single finger on me, I know it’s only a matter of time until I concede.

He traces a line from under my ear, down the column of my neck. He comes to a stop at my racing pulse. “Are you scared?”

“N-no.” My falter divulges my lie.

He hums low, then continues his exploration of me. My collarbone feels his touch next. Who knew a simple collarbone was able to experience such pleasure? I gnaw on my cheek to mute my whimpers, but Saint is in tune with my inner turmoil.

He runs the tip of his finger along the bony ridge before coming to rest at the cross at my throat. He traces it, clearly intrigued as to why I never take it off. “Do you think your God will save you?”

“He isn’t my God anymore,” I reply in a whisper. “He died the day my father did. If a Baptist pastor couldn’t be shown any mercy, then there isn’t any hope for me.”

My confession has caught him off guard as his finger hovers over the cross. I think back to his tattoo and wonder if he feels the same way.

“I think He might make an exception”—he begins to trace downward, between the valley of my breasts—“for you.”

My legs tremble as he detours his slow touch to my left breast. He takes his time, outlining the shape with his finger, skimming back and forth along the outer side. He’s familiarizing himself with my body. I remain utterly still as I’m too afraid to move.

My cheeks blister, and I’m rendered speechless when he leisurely slithers across and circles my areola. My nipples are already erect, but when he comes within inches of them, they tingle and seem to grow heavy.

My chest rises and falls intermittently as weighty breaths leave me. I shamefully press my thighs together, but it doesn’t stop the burn. “I hate you,” I cry, quivering, desperate for more.

Saint gives into my silent pleas when he flicks over my nipple lazily. “Your mind may tell you that…” He begins a torturous rhythm, circling the swollen bud with his finger. I clench my teeth together. “But your body is telling me something else.”

Before I have a chance to prove him wrong, his large, warm hand cups my entire breast and squeezes slowly. My eyes roll to the back of my head because goddamn him…it feels so good. I’m helpless to stop this because deep down…I don’t want to. This is the first form of pleasure I’ve felt in days.

He continues sampling me, humming low when he pinches my nipple.

I whimper as I feel like a million volts of electricity have zapped me. Everything throbs. Wetness gathers between my legs, and no matter how hard I press my thighs together, it doesn’t stop my arousal from coating my sex.

I know this is wrong, so very wrong, but I’m detached from my body, and the line between right and wrong begins to blur. The line blurred the moment Saint told me my husband sold me to some Russian mobster.

My breast is hot and heavy, and each squeeze and pinch transports me closer to hell. I’m trying to remain unaffected, but it’s laughable. His touch mingling with the fierce breath on the back my neck is too much.

He tweaks my nipple one last time before he continues his journey. He uses his hand this time and slides down my stomach slowly. Peering down, I gasp as the sight is so foreign. I’ve seen those hands do some callous things, but pressed against my skin, I soon forget them because his touch is nothing but tenderness.

He circles my belly button before skimming along the waistband of my underwear. My stomach ripples and goose bumps butter my flesh when he dips low and traces over my sex. It’s the wake-up call I needed, and I instantly buck my hips back, reality hitting hard.

What the fuck have I done?

---