BAD SAINT (All the Pretty Things #1)

Six-3

“I said strip,” Saint says, while my eyes widen.

“What? No,” I reply, shaking my head firmly. But this isn’t optional. When Saint stands rigid, I sniff, holding back my humiliated tears.

My fingers tremble as I draw the tank over my head and toss it aside. I quickly cover my breasts with my arm. I’m wearing a bra, but regardless, my ample breasts spill over the tops of the cups as the size is too small.

“Aнгел, you’re not done.”

My lower lip quivers as I look up at him, pleading. “Why?”

“I won’t ask again,” he warns, inhaling heavily.

The cross against my throat burns, announcing my sins, but what choice do I have?

With an arm still locked around me, I reach around with the other and unclasp the bra. With great difficulty, as I refuse to remove my arm, I finally maneuver myself out of it, and it drops to the floor with a victorious thud.

I’m kneeling before my captor topless, but this is only the beginning because when his wicked gaze drops to my shorts, I know I’m only halfway done. “Don’t be like them,” I beg softly. “You’re not like them. You’re different.”

“You’re right,” he affirms with a nod. “I am different. Unlike everyone else, I don’t want to f**k you.” My cheeks blister as I chew my bottom lip. “I want to break you. But it appears the two are clearly linked. So I ask you again…strip.”

“No, please, don’t,” I beseech. His detachment begins to scare me, which is exactly why he’s doing this.

This is a different form of torture, and it’s working.

“You have three seconds,” he warns, stepping forward, and I instantly leap to my feet. “One.”

“No!” I cry, backing away, but he only advances forward.

“Two.”

“Don’t do this, please.”

But Saint is way past my pleading.

“Three.”

He lunges forward, intent on stripping me himself, but I refuse him the honor. If he wants me naked, then so be it, but it’ll be my own hand.

“Fine!” I scream, baring my breasts to him as I spread my arms out wide. “Is this what you want, you sick bastard! To see me humiliated? f**k you.”

I tug my shorts down my legs, kicking them aside, anger overtaking me. My underwear are still on. For now.

Saint hisses and takes a small step back, but his retreat only spurs me on as I hastily advance. “At least I’m not the one hiding behind a mask! Look at you,” I mock, a fierceness spurring me on. “You’re pathetic! All you are is someone’s dog…jumping to command.”

I’m walking a very dangerous line, but I have nothing left to lose.

“You think you’re big and strong, but you’re not.” I saunter toward him, my near nakedness suddenly making me feel like a goddess, dancing under a full moon. “You’re a f*****g coward.”

Saint rushes forward, gripping my wrists, stopping me from moving an inch. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.” His grave tone reveals I’ve struck a nerve, and it inspires me to continue.

“You can’t even show me your face.” I laugh, mocking him. “If that doesn’t spell coward, then I don’t know what does.” Standing on tippy toes, I level him with pure hatred. “Maybe you’re afraid of what I’ll see. It’s easy to hide behind a mask…but being honest, that’s what a real man does. He doesn’t hide.”

We are caught in a deadlock as Saint’s heavy breathing and heaving chest reveals I’m moments away from being gagged forever. But so be it. “So it’s safe to say, you’re not a real man…Saint.”

Oh…shit.

The already small room grows impossibly small as Saint shoves me backward and does something which rips the air from my lungs. He claws at the bottom of his ski mask and tears it from his face, throwing it across the room.

Time stands still.

My brain is unable to process the sight before me because for eight days, I’ve only been given a glimpse into those hypnotic eyes, but now that I’m faced with the entire picture, I don’t know where to look first.

I start with his hair; the long, wild, dirty blond locks that frame his chiseled face. I instantly think of the surfers down at Venice Beach because his thick waves appear sun kissed and windswept, embodying the perfect mussed style.

His eyebrows are thick and dark, giving shape to those unusual green eyes and also emphasizing those angular cheekbones. His upturned nose only adds to his arrogance. His mouth is a succulent pink. His top lip is not overly thick, but it is slightly bowed in shape. However, his bottom lip is plump and undeniably fierce.

His sharp jawline complements his cleft chin. He has thick, unkempt stubble, but it only adds to his hardness.

I stagger backward, as Saint is entirely wayward and rebellious, but more than anything…he is absolutely epic. A bad boy every mom warns their daughters about.

Unable to help myself, my gaze drifts down his hardened body as I know what lies beneath that long-sleeved shirt. Now that I have a face to go with his body, I am utterly speechless. I never thought he would look like a freaking…supermodel—a bad boy, no, scrap that, a bad Saint, as he isn’t groomed or pretty. He is rough, hard, and totally sinful—a perfect look for everything he encompasses.

He allows me to eat him up, clearly knowing the effect he has on people. But that only lasts a second before he swoops forward and drags me toward him. It’s the first time we’ve been this close unmasked, and it seems unfair that his good looks are only emphasized, up close.

Without the ski mask, he seems taller, and his shoulders broader somehow. “I’m not afraid…” he whispers in response to my claims. His wicked lips are in full view for me to see when they twitch, a lopsided smirk leaving me winded. “But you should be.”

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, Aнгел.”

A small mewl, that betraying b***h, 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 n*****s instantly pearl. “You’re very responsive. Are you sure you’re a virgin?” he says, insulting me.

“Go f**k yourself,” I say. Saint chuckles deeply.

“Choose your words wisely, Aнгел.”

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 n*****s 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 n****e 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 n****e.

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 s*x.

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 n****e 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 s*x. It’s the wake-up call I needed, and I instantly buck my hips back, reality hitting hard.

What the f**k have I done?

“Don’t touch me!”

“Shh, shh,” he hushes calmly, wrapping his arm around my waist to stop me from moving. But I wriggle wildly as I can’t believe I allowed this to get so far.

I just allowed my kidnapper to fondle me, and I liked it…I liked it a lot. I’m ashamed and humiliated, but more than anything, I am so turned on. Guilt overcomes me, and I hang my head in shame.