Page 73 of Ruthless Saint

“All blood. It…” he trails off, opening his eyes.

“Shower or wipes?” I lift the wipes in front of his face, smiling.

“Shower.”

I nod, then step away from him until I’m in his walk-in shower, turning the knob to lukewarm water. “It what?” I prompt him from behind the glass panel.

Firm hands land on my hips as the one-eyed monster presses firmly against my buttocks, and his face lands in the crook of my neck, his stubble tickling me. My body ignites as my palm slaps the tile in front of me, holding on for dear life.

“It’s a secret,la Fata. Are you trying to bewitch me to give you all my secrets?” he whispers, peppering small kisses on my shoulder while his roaming hands move from my hips tomy belly, his index fingers flicking my belly ring. Every touch of his calloused fingers makes me feel weak.

“If it works.” I shrug, pretending the close proximity doesn’t affect me. My wobbly knees say differently.

“Have you been sleeping in my bed?” He pulls my hips flush against him, causing a gasp to escape my throat, my body arching into him.

“You first.”

“Are we keeping score?”

“Yes.”

“You’re cheating then. You still haven’t told me why you were naked in my pool.”

I shiver as his warm fingers trace circles over my lower belly, then up my body, before pinching my nipple and spinning me around. I no longer have control over my body as he manoeuvres me around the shower until we’re both under the warm spray of water. Rivulets of blood make their way down his neck to the avenging angel on his chest, making it look like it’s raining blood over the desolate graveyard.

“I haven’t finished cleaning you up.”

“Blood always made me nauseous. I just—I don’t like the way it smells, the colour—I just don’t like it.”

“Is this why you asked if I was a virgin? You were worried about the blood?”

He stills, his eyes two stormy whirlpools as he looks down on me.

“Never. With you… it’s never about me, Alessa. Fuck. I—I lose my mind around you. For you. What the fuck are you doing to me?” Anguish replaces the storm like the simple act of admitting he cares for me causes him great pain.

“I’m sorry,” I apologise, sneaking my arms around his waist and pressing my face against the avenging angel. “You don’t have to look at the blood. I’ll make it all go away.”

Understanding about his reactions while I was taking the glass out of his cuts dawns on me. Little nuances I’ve picked up on since we met suddenly make sense and for the first time since my brilliant idea of turning Dante’s house into an oasis filled with red things, I question myself if I’ve done the right thing. If maybe, I’ve crossed a line I wasn’t aware of.

“Alessa,” he rasps into my hair, his heart galloping so hard I can feel it against my cheek.

“I’ll take care of you.” I sneak my hands around his midsection and press myself against him, closing my eyes. The feelings in my chest foreign and overwhelming.

He stills in my embrace, his body becoming rigid. “No.”

I stiffen at the sound of his voice. No?

He unwraps my arms from around me and takes a small step back as a feeling of utter shame and rejection comes over me.

Then he drops to his knees in front of me. Blood mixed with water pooling around him.

“I’ll take care ofyou.” He lifts my leg and places it around his shoulder as his face dives between my legs.

32

ALESSA

The first stroke of his tongue against my pussy has me throwing my head back and nearly choking on the shower water. But nothing matters except Dante’s languid strokes against my slick entrance. He hums in delight as his tongue breaks through the seam and dives into my wet channel. My hands tangle in the wet strands of his hair, and I fight the urge to either pull his face against me hard and hump it like there’s no tomorrow or push it away because it’s too much. And it is. The stubble on his face—rough against my thighs. His nose rubbing my clit each time he moves his tongue. I’ve never felt anything like it. My legs begin to shake as his hands land on my bum, massaging and spreading my cheeks. I’ve got nothing to hold on to except the hair strands on his head. I moan as pleasure builds in the pit of my stomach, the steam in the shower becoming unbearable to breathe through. If this man ends up with no hair by the end of this, it’ll be all his fault. A damn shame, but he’ll have no one but himself to blame for it.

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