Chapter twenty five
Saint
“Did you go to prom?”
I had been tracing slow, lazy circles on her thigh as we lay naked in silence. The question was so out of place that I almost laughed.
“No. Why?”
“I wanted to know what you did as a teen. Why not?”
“Didn’t go to high school.”
She propped herself up on one elbow, looking down at me.
“What do you mean you didn’t go to high school?”
I shrugged. “Took classes at home. My father didn’t exactly want me socializing.”
She shook her head. “Of course he didn’t.”
“What about you?” I asked, watching her.
“I went. Worst night of my life.”
“Why?”
“Because my date was an idiot who thought drinking half a bottle of cheap vodka before we even made it inside was a great idea. He threw up on me. That was five days before I shot Zack.”
Silence took over again. I was thinking about the fact that she went to prom and committed murder all in the same week.
“What did you study in college? You went, right?” she asked suddenly.
“Yes, to USF. Business.”
Her brows lifted slightly. “Me too.”
She toyed with the edge of the blanket. “Did you actually like it?”
I thought for a moment. “Strategic management. Learning how to predict outcomes, how to manipulate them. That was the only thing that ever interested me.”
Her lips curled slightly. “I liked business ethics. Corporate corruption. The dirty side of money.”
I laughed under my breath. “The kind of shit that runs my world. I think you want to be a queenpin. That’s why you dislike the thought of being a mob wife.”
“Shut up, Lucifer, and tell me something random. Let’s pretend we’re normal people,” she said.
I let my head tilt toward her, our eyes meeting in the dim light.
“I like Sherlock Holmes.”
She blinked. “What?”
“Sherlock Holmes. The books. The movies. The shows.”
She made a face. “You—murderer, kidnapper, crime lord—like a detective?”
“He’s methodical. Brilliant. He sees things others don’t.”
She shook her head, clearly not expecting that answer. “What’s your favorite one?”
“The Hound of the Baskervilles.”
Her nose scrunched. “I have no idea what that is.”
“You should read it or watch the series on PBS.”
“I won’t.”
She rolled onto her back, staring up at the ceiling. “But I like the one with Benedict Cumberbatch.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because I like morally gray heroes.”
“Oh, wouldn’t I be considered morally gray?”
She laughed, a full belly laugh. “No. You’re villainous.”
I let out a slow breath, dragging my fingers down the length of her thigh, liking the way her body reacted to my touch. “I don’t kill women or children.”
“Oh, congratulations. That doesn’t make you a good person, Saint.”
I smirked, my fingers trailing lower, teasing, testing. “Never said I was. But it doesn’t make me a villain either.”
“Okay, Saint. But I like morally gray.”
I went silent, her words echoing in my mind. Was I really the villain to her?
The bed shifted. “Why is your face balled up like that? Are you mad. Are you… jealous?”
I didn’t answer. I was both. She was fucking up sherlock Holmes for me.
I could feel her eyes on the side of my face. “Oh my God. You are jealous. Over a fictional character. If it makes you feel better, I don’t like the actual person, just the character he plays. That Sherlock’s sexy.”
I moved before she could react.
Rolling over onto her, I caught her wrists, pinning them above her head. Her breath hitched, her eyes widening slightly as my body pressed her into the mattress.
“Say it again,” I muttered, my voice low, dangerous.
She licked her lips, then with a wicked grin, she opened her mouth.
“Sherlock Holmes is—”
I lifted her leg, opening her pussy to me. I slammed into her, burying myself deep in one thrust. She was soaking fucking wet, but she still managed to grip me tight.
She gasped, her head pressing back against the pillow, but she didn’t break eye contact. “Sherlock is sexy…” she drawled.
I thrust again, harder this time, making her body jolt beneath me.
“You want me to fuck you angrily, Aria?” I growled.
“Yes, please!”
Leaning in, I traced her areola with the tip of my tongue before biting into her nipple, eliciting a sharp gasp from her.
“Come on, Saint, fuck me hard,” she demanded.
I left her breast, splayed my free hand across her belly, and drove into her, giving her exactly what she asked for—over and over—until I painted her inside with my DNA. Dick still hard, I kept fucking her.
She panted beneath me, her body trembling as I kissed her shoulder, biting and sucking my way up to her neck, leaving marks on her brown skin. She was in a frenzy, trying to match my rhythm, pushing against my weight until her body stilled, her nails nearly tearing through my skin as she came. Sweet moans and whines escaped her lips, her breasts heaving as she struggled to catch her breath.
When her breathing returned to normal, she laughed. “I never watched Sherlock.”
I stared down at her, my dick still in her.
I stared down at her, my dick still buried inside her, and shook my head. “Why couldn’t you just ask me, ‘Saint, fuck me hard’?”
“I’m not making shit easy for you.” She laughed more.
And then, despite everything, I laughed too.