BAD SAINT (All the Pretty Things #1)

Five-3

“Help,” I whimper in barely a whisper, defeated.

I religiously watch the hands on the clock, and when a half an hour ticks over, I hear the unmissable voices of enthusiastic tourists, speaking English. The street vendor’s music loudens as he calls for the visitors to come look at his goods.

Beaten, I commence a slow crawl toward the window, clambering onto the seat and peering out the window. The mixture of T-shirts and hats reveals these travelers are from all over the globe. There are only about twelve people, as this part of Egypt is clearly not as popular as other parts, but it still draws the curious explorer or two.

I place my open palm to the window, begging someone sees me, begging to be rescued, but it never happens. All I can do is watch them laugh happily, sampling the local foods, oblivious to my situation because down here, I’m hidden, forgotten to the world.

An hour passes, and the street vendor begins to pack up his loot. He’s done for the day. The tourists are long gone, but sadly, I’m not. Here I kneel, peering out into a world I was once a part of. When the air turns still and the 80s pop vanishes, I sink down and crumple into a heap.

That was a wasted opportunity, and I don’t know how many more I’ll get. Saint said we would be here for a few days. That we’re going to dock to change boats. But I can only imagine that will be done under the veil of night because here, I stand out like dog’s balls.

I’m trying not to be disheartened, but that is impossible. And when the hatch clicks and opens, and I hear heavy footsteps, I realize I’m about to face the epitome of impossible.

I turn on my side, refusing to look at him. That doesn’t deter him, however.

“I got you something to eat.” I hear a thud onto the table.

His heavy sigh is my victory, but I remain unmoving. A static crackles, hinting s**t is about to get real.

Before I know what’s happening, the seat suddenly depresses, the air is ripped from my lungs, and I’m flipped onto my stomach as Saint throws me over his lap. I’m lying stretched out with him under me. He’s so damn smooth, I don’t even know how he maneuvers me this way like I weigh nothing at all.

I don’t bother fighting him, but instead, I turn my cheek, looking away.

“You know,” he starts, two simple words filled with such wicked promised, “I can make you talk.”

A shudder passes through me because I have no doubt he can. I’m clueless to what he’s about to do because the last time we were this way, he spanked me. The memory smashes into me, and I bite my tongue to prevent any verbal response.

When the material of my dress slowly glides up my legs, I measure my breaths, but my heart begins to race. He stops just at the small of my back. I exhale, but it’s in vain because what he does next has my cheeks bursting into flames.

He leisurely lowers my innocent white underwear to expose my ass. I close my eyes, humiliated, which is exactly the response he wants.

He hums low while I remain unresponsive. However, when I hear what sounds like a jar being opened and feel a cool cream being applied to my ass cheeks, I jolt, dismayed. I’m about to tell him what a sick, perverted creep he is until the soothing scents of myrrh, lavender, and tea tree catch the air. Then a cooling sensation against my tender flesh follows.

Helpless to resist and also a tad confused, I instantly relax and allow Saint to surprisingly tend to my wounds. It feels absolutely wonderful as the burn to my skin fades. He gently massages my ass, applying just the right pressure to make what he’s doing feel so good.

He lifts the hem of my dress and exposes my back, where he applies more ointment. By the time he gets to my shoulder blades, I’m almost drooling. His strong fingers dig into my tender muscles, kneading out the stiffness. Over the past seven days, my poor shoulders have suffered such abuse.

My breasts are still covered, but being this way is so intimate. I’ve never had a man touch me like this. Not even Drew. But with Saint, it almost is effortless.

Once he finishes massaging my back, he detours to my ass once again, gripping my cheeks in both hands and squeezing softly to ensure every inch is slathered in cream. A contented sigh betrays my pleasure, but I’m too relaxed to care or question why he’s being so nice.

His heavy breaths are hypnotic and lull me into a sleepy bubble. I must look ridiculous with my ass poised high, covered in whatever balm he’s applying. It doesn’t even seem like having me half-naked on his lap has affected him, which is a good thing, I remind myself. This is all methodical for him, seeing as he can’t deliver damaged goods.

He scoops more cream into his hands and pays attention to my legs. He works my inner thighs, never drifting too close to my s*x, which I’m thankful for. Once I’m slathered in the ointment, he puts the lid back onto the container and gently pulls my underwear back up.

When he lowers my dress, a small, insolent part of me is disappointed. But I’m quick to dispel such thoughts. I’m so relaxed, I feel like an overcooked piece of spaghetti.

“You see, it doesn’t have to be all unpleasant between us. I can be kind too.” His honeyed voice is smooth, and I hate myself because I want to hear it again.

My wish is granted, but what he says next confirms his kindness comes with strings. “Will you behave?”

His thoughtfulness is because he wants something from me. It wasn’t done out of the kindness of his heart, which is my error, forgetting he doesn’t have one. But this act proves otherwise. Doesn’t it?

“Aнгел?” He waits for me to reply, but he’ll be waiting for a long time to come.

A string of profanity severs the serenity as he slides out from under me. I lounge on my stomach with no intention of moving or replying.

“I promise…you will talk.”

He leaves me with that oath as he marches up the stairs and slams the hatch shut. A smile spreads from cheek to cheek because for once, Saint knows how it feels to be used.

Once Saint left, I fell into a deep slumber, exhaustion creeping up on me. For once, my body didn’t ache, thanks to Saint, which is ironic, considering he’s the reason I was sore in the first place.

I was too drained to even try to comprehend why he helped me. His hot and cold behavior leaves me confused because I don’t know which version of Saint I’ll get whenever he walks down those stairs.

Kazimir frightens me because, without a doubt, he will ensure I pay for what I did to him, but Saint scares me in a different way. I’m not fearful for my life when I’m with him. I’m fearful for my soul. I hate myself because each time he’s near, I crave more—more of his voice, his touches, more of him. I want to know the man beneath the mask.

My body’s response to him is…curiosity. I’ve never met a man like him before. He takes what he wants and commands control. In no way am I attracted to him, I mean, I’ve never even seen his face, and there is a little thing that he kidnapped me, but I can’t deny he makes me feel something…I just don’t know what that something is.

However, when the hatch opens, and the unmistakable sound of a woman’s moans travels down the stairs, I’m soon to identify what that something is.

It’s pitch black down here as the moon has gone into hiding, and there are no lights close by, but I see and hear enough to understand what is currently taking place before my eyes. My immediate reaction is to turn away, but there’s a reason he’s down here, parading his new prize. And I intend to find out what it is.

I shrink into the shadows, but Saint knows I’m awake, watching him as he comes tumbling down the stairs with some strange woman. I know it’s him by the broad width of his shoulders and his menacing height. A strangled gasp gets caught in my throat, and I strain my eyes. There must be some mistake. But as I perch on the end of the seat and dig my fists into my eyes to ensure I’m not seeing things, I see it…he’s not wearing his ski mask.

I can’t make out any distinguishing features, but when the moon peeks its head out from behind the darkness, it highlights strands of messy dark hair. It looks wild and untamed, just long enough to tie back. The long tresses are thick and full of volume. He looks like he just tumbled from bed.

When he slams his eager lover against the wall, I flinch, wishing I’d chosen another analogy.

Once again, the moon takes cover, but her impassioned moans fill in the blanks. His back faces me while she writhes against the wall, speaking to him in Arabic. I’m taken aback when he replies in her native tongue.

I feel obscene bearing witness to something so personal, but this is just so…foreign. Sure, I’ve watched the occasional porn clip, who hasn’t, but seeing this in real life is utterly captivating. Drew went down on me, and I returned the favor, but this is something else. The way her moans intensify like she’s about to explode has me inching forward, desperate for a closer look.

All I can make out are shadows, so I rely on my ears to fill in the blanks. When I hear a garment being shred, it’s apparent things are about to get messy. Her bracelets jingle as I presume she undoes his pants because a second later, I hear a zipper being unfastened and the crinkle of a wrapper.

“f**k me,” she hums.

I grip the leather beneath me, my fingernails almost tearing through the material. I don’t know what’s come over me, but I suddenly want to rip out her tongue. My heart begins to race, and I’m covered in a light sheen of perspiration. What’s wrong with me?

Her impatient sighs deepen, and the sound does something to me which it should not. I feel myself growing wet between the legs because I feel like a secret voyager, privy to the most intimate act between two people. I am ashamed and disgusted, but I can deal with that later because when a guttural cry penetrates the air, I know Saint has hit home.

The rough slapping of flesh soon follows as the woman howls in delight, mumbling words in a language I don’t understand. What I do understand however is Saint hissing as I see a sharp tug of his head. “No kissing.”

Relief swarms me because to me, a kiss is more sacred, and in some sick way, it pleases me that he won’t kiss her. But he certainly has no qualms f*****g her. I hate referring to the act in such a way, but the untamed sounds of flesh sliding together and the banging against the wall hints that this is exactly that.

Fucking. And f*****g hard.

Even though I can’t see a whole lot, tears sting my eyes because I suddenly feel so dirty. Why did he bring her down here? Her honeysuckle perfume will forever mar these walls as will the cry of her coming loudly as Saint drives into her violently.

Once again, so many emotions flood me, but this time, I can’t help the jealousy that rises. I don’t even know why I’m jealous. I suppose I miss the connection with another human being. But deep down, in a secret place, the truth floats just below the surface.

I’m jealous because I want to know what it feels like. If what Saint says is true, then I will be losing my virginity to a monster. If I’ve been sold, there is only one reason. Is that why Saint brought her down here? To show me what’s headed my way?

God only knows what perverse things that man will subject me to. Is Saint once again showing me kindness by being cruel?

I can’t stand to hear anymore, so I lower myself onto the lounge and lie on my side, covering my ears. When the vibrations stop, I know he’s done.

My cheeks are damp with tears as I suddenly feel so betrayed. After he tended so kindly to me today, I thought that maybe he wasn’t all bad. But here he is, lying post-coitus with some random woman.

This room may be my prison, but it’s mine.

“I promise…you will talk.”

His parting words today echo loudly, and I succumb, just as I always do, which is exactly why he did what he did. This is once again a lesson.

“Make her leave,” I whisper, heavy with despair. I can’t stand to have her here.

I’m not even sure if he heard me, but when I hear him utter something in Arabic, I know that he did.

“You’re not serious?” she wails, clearly horror-struck there won’t be any snuggling.

“Get out,” Saint replies, in case she is lost in translation.

The woman turns banshee as she shrieks in Arabic, but I tune it out. Before the hatch closes, however, what I hear confuses me even more so. “You could only come when you looked at her…so f**k her next time!”

I tremble violently, curling myself into a ball, afraid and so perturbed. What does she mean? He could only come when he looked at me? Why? He doesn’t even like me as every chance he gets, he’s hurting me…like right now.

“Good night, Aнгел.”

And I reply the only way I can.

“Good night…мастер.”