Page 61 of Bad Saint

The sound of his strokes intensifies, only adding to the fire burning within me. I imagine the slickness of his skin combined with the hardness of his shaft. I am certainly no expert on the matter as I can count on one hand how many cocks I’ve seen in the flesh, but the thought of Saint’s has a whimper escaping.

A groan slips past his lips as he arches his head farther back, the slapping of his flesh combined with the spattering of water indicating he’s close. This rugged beast takes what he wants. His arm works frantically, and I lean forward, desperate for a closer look.

It seems to go on for minutes, and my mind wanders to this man’s stamina. I’ve seen him kill a roomful of men without breaking a sweat. He is commanding, strong, and in control. And watching him jerk himself off is no different.

The moon is my beacon, highlighting Saint in all his glory as his body tightens before a low moan fills the air and his back bows. The moan soon turns into a hoarse growl as he curses in Russian. The sound has me biting the inside of my cheek, my knees buckling at the sight of him coming.

That was the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen, and I didn’t even see the whole thing. But the mystery is what turned me on and has my arousal trickling down the inside of my thigh.

His head hangs low as his raspy breaths evoke my body to swell, frantic for a release too. But once again, shame overcomes me, because I shouldn’t respond to him this way, but I do…time and time again.

Memories of when his fingers were on me, in me, only stoke this fire, and the temptation to soothe this ache between my legs overwhelms me, but then I remember his cruelness. I remember everything he’s done to me—the humiliation he makes me feel—and my high soon fades.

I came out here to teach him a lesson, but once again, it seems he’s taught me something. Whatever I feel for him seems to be strengthening and evolving, no matter how badly I don’t want it to.

Once Saint’s breathing returns to normal, he cups some water and passes it over his body and through his hair. He sweeps his wet locks back, and the sight is too much. Placing the knife back into my bra, I turn the way I came and creep through the jungle and away from the image of Saint exploding with a guttural moan.

My flesh is warm and ripe, but the farther away I walk, the need soon simmers. When I get to the hut, without delay, I reach the rope and climb it, desperate to get away from what I just saw. Memories of why I went there fade because Drew seems to be the furthest thing from my mind.

What is wrong with me?

Curling into a fetal position on the hard floor, I close my eyes and promise not to think about what I just saw. But through the darkness, no matter how hard I try to lock them away, I see Saint’s angel wings and hear his ardent moans when he came; it’s the lullaby which lulls me to sleep.

I wake to my stomach growling.

Propping open an eye, I see that it’s daylight, which means I slept for a few hours. Rising slowly, my body screams in protest. Everything hurts. My mouth is drier than the Sahara Desert.

Reaching for a bottle of water, I crack open the lid and take a small sip, testing to see if it’s any good. Apart from being hot, it tastes like heaven, and I throw back the entire contents. Once water fills my belly, it gurgles, hinting it needs to be filled with food.

Unsure where Saint is, I decide to head down to the beach to grab a change of clothes. He mentioned a pond filled with rainwater, which is screaming my name. I’ll bathe and then think about what to eat.

The descent down the rope is a little easier, but I will be glad when I’m in underwear and a pair of shorts. Not to mention shoes. I stagger through the rocky terrain, flinching as the soles of my feet are raw.

Following the trail I left yesterday, I find the shoreline easily enough. Memories of what I saw early this morning crash into me, but I put them out of my mind and focus on bathing and finding food. The box with my clothes sits where I left it, so I open it up and grab the toiletry pack, underwear, denim shorts, a white tank, and some tennis shoes.

Saint’s bag with his journal and sudoku book is nowhere to be seen.

Just as I close the lid, a rustle from the trees has my head snapping up. Saint emerges with his hands filled with coconuts. When we lock eyes, he pauses but soon recovers.

He’s ripped his pants into shorts, and the jagged edges cover his knees, but he’s still topless. He looks rugged and rough as his beard has grown and an elastic band ties his hair back. The shorter strands have slipped free from the tie, and it seems the saltwater has given him edgy beach waves.

His body rivals Michelangelo, and all the ink just adds to the appeal. I really wish he’d put on a shirt because seeing him this way just cements my attraction to him.

I don’t know where we stand, seeing as the last time we spoke was when he exposed the ugly truth. My heart feels heavy when I remember Saint’s confession.“Sold you in a game of poker!”

Frowning, I avert my gaze, not wanting him to see my eyes grow wet with tears.

“I found some coconuts,” he says, breaking the silence. “With the bottled water, I’ll bring it down here and keep it in the water so it stays cool.”

Good idea.

Nodding, I stand, gathering my clothes to my chest. “Where is the pond?” I ask, my voice small.

“I’ll show you,” he replies, walking over and dumping the coconuts near the box.

Up close, it’s difficult not to replay what I saw him do, but I nod, hoping my inner thoughts don’t give me away.

He leads the way, and I follow. However, when we get to the edge of the jungle, I slip on my tennis shoes. A small piece of independence returns when I’m able to walk over the rocky ground without Saint helping me.

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