Chapter Ten #3
Saint sets his tea on the counter and then takes my cup from my hands and does the same. He slides his hands down my back until both of his hands are gripping my ass. Then he lifts me and sets me on the counter next to the stove.
He takes my hand gently, lifting it toward him as his eyes drop to my wrist. His fingers trace over the red marks left by the rope, and the contrast of his warm, tender touch against the remnants of restraint sends a shiver over me.
He lifts my other hand, repeating the same motion, his thumbs running back and forth over the sensitive areas where the rope dug into my skin.
There’s a softness in his eyes as he studies my wrists, a rare moment of vulnerability from him, and I can feel his concern. “Did I hurt you?” he asks quietly, his voice low, almost cautious, as if he’s afraid of my answer.
I shake my head, my voice steady. “I’m fine.”
He doesn’t look convinced. He tilts his head slightly, his brow furrowing as his eyes narrow with skepticism. “Be honest,” he urges, his gaze penetrating, searching for the truth.
“I’m fine,” I repeat, firmer this time. I can see he still isn’t entirely convinced, so I soften my tone, offering reassurance. “I’ll be fine.” I offer a reassuring smile, but I’m still somewhat coming to grips with the night. With how easily I’ve forgiven him.
I think it’s because I’m just now realizing what he’s given me. As both a reader and a writer, I tend to lean more toward the darker side of suspense and romance. The kinks some readers and writers are into can make even me blush.
But even the darkest of books have an audience that enjoys them. And even though as readers, we wouldn’t want to live out some of the fantasies we read about, it doesn’t mean we don’t enjoy reading those things.
I did not enjoy what Saint did tonight. But I do appreciate that he was trying to give me the experience he thought I was asking for in a safe way. Aside from being tied up, I was never in any actual danger. He just thought I wanted to feel like I was.
What’s strange is that it feels as if he did those things in a book and not in my real life. We forgive our characters for much worse than we’d forgive our friends and lovers for, and I feel like I’m lending him the forgiveness I’d lend a character rather than an actual person in my life.
This entire night has been surreal, but I feel his remorse and I can accept it and I can take what happened and I can use it. I will definitely be using it.
Knowing how Reya is feeling in that moment has given me a whole new level of respect for her fear. For the actual pain she endures.
The red marks are still fresh on my wrists, and I can feel the slight sting when I flex my hands, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.
They’ll fade in a day or two, nothing that would leave lasting harm.
I’ve endured worse in the heat of passion, moments where pleasure and pain blurred together.
He wasn’t trying to hurt me. He was following the script, playing the role we both fell into.
The game I started.
At least . . . I think I started it.
A part of me isn’t even sure anymore, but I know I want him here.
I know I don’t want him to stop. Every emotion I just went through is one I want to type into my laptop this very moment.
I want to describe Reya’s fear, the strength in the stranger’s hands, the way Reya’s voice betrayed her when she needed it the most.
I almost want to thank Saint for giving me that.
Almost.
“I think you might be crazy,” I whisper.
Saint laughs quietly. “Yeah, well. I’m still here, so which one of us is crazier?” He brushes a strand of wet hair off my cheek. “Petra, are you sure you don’t need some alone time? I would understand.”
“No. Don’t go.” I want more of him, more of whatever this is between us. More time with him. More attention. More gentleness, specifically.
But mostly, I want more experiences with him that will make me love writing again.
I would never want to repeat what happened earlier.
It was far too intense and raw, but the experience itself, it’s feeding a curiosity inside me.
I can’t help but think of other ways he could pull emotions out of me in a way that will help me believe I lived through them.
His gaze is more heated now, simmering with something unspoken, but I can tell he’s holding back.
There’s a restraint in the way he looks at me, like he’s waiting for me to make the next move, leaving the choice in my hands.
It’s a shift from before—earlier he had the control, guiding the scene, but now .
. . now he’s leaving it up to me. I can sense his hesitation, his awareness of how fragile this moment is.
I lift my hand slowly, and my fingers brush lightly over his lips.
His breath catches slightly at the touch, and the feel of his mouth under my thumb ignites a warmth that spreads from my chest down to my core.
I trace the outline of his bottom lip, savoring the softness, the subtle parting of his mouth under my touch.
His eyes darken with desire, but still, he waits.
I lean forward, closing the space between us, and press my lips to his.
His kiss is slow, gentle, as if he’s testing the waters, unsure how far I want to take this.
But I can feel the tension beneath his restraint, the way his body leans into mine ever so slightly, as if begging for permission to go further.
I decide to give it to him.
I slip my tongue into his mouth, deepening the kiss, and he responds instantly.
His arms wrap around me, pulling me closer, but still gentle, still careful, as if he’s making sure I know I’m the one in control this time.
The kiss grows more intense, more heated, and I can feel the fire between us building with every passing second.
There’s no longer any hesitation.
His hands slide down my back, his fingers pressing into my skin, and I feel my body arch toward him, craving his touch.
The restraint from earlier has vanished, replaced by something raw and real.
This isn’t about playing roles anymore. This is just us, Saint and Petra, two people caught in the heat of a moment that neither of us wants to escape.
He’s standing between my legs now, and his towel leaves very little barrier between us, so I feel him harden almost instantly.
I wrap my legs around him, and that’s when he takes my control of the kiss away from me. He cradles my head with his left hand and deepens the kiss, then pulls me to the edge of the counter with his right hand so that I’m mostly being held up by him.
I let my head fall back as he drags his mouth down my throat. I close my eyes, dizzy beneath his touch. I feel his fingers at the knot I’ve tied on the robe.
“Can I?” he whispers.
I lift my head and look at him, then nod quietly.
His eyes fall to my chest, and then he unties my robe. I lift up a little as he removes it and pulls it away. He tosses it over his shoulder, sucking in a small gasp of air as he looks at me, then runs his fingers down the center of my chest.
I can’t help but stare at his wedding ring as his hand moves to cup my breast.
Are my breasts prettier than his wife’s?
Am I prettier than his wife?
He takes my nipple in his mouth, and I fist my hand into his hair, pressing his lips against my breast even harder. He sucks and bites without a trace of the gentleness he’s been displaying since I got out of the shower.
The hungry side of him has taken over, and his mouth is suddenly all over me—moving between both breasts, then to my neck, then back to my mouth. I can barely keep up with the parts of me he’s focused so intently on before he moves on to another part of me.
He lifts me off the counter and holds me against him, one hand wrapped around my lower back and the other cupping my ass while his tongue is deep in my mouth.
I’m glad he’s carrying me right now, because I think I’m too dizzy to walk.
He drops me on the sofa, pulls his towel away, and then lowers himself on top of me. “Do I need a condom?” he asks.
I’m on the pill, and I know I’m good not to use one, but how do I reassure myself that he is? I barely know him, and my decision-making skills have not been great tonight. I’m naked beneath a man who made me cry from fear earlier.
My hesitation in answering him gives him what he’s looking for. “My wallet. Be right back.” He crosses the dark room, and I hear him rifling through the wallet. I even hear him tear the wrapper as he’s making his way back to me.
And then he’s back on top of me, condom in place, his mouth pressed against mine again. He returned so fast, I didn’t even get a good enough look at him to determine whether this is going to hurt.
I’ve never had that before—the kind of sex women have in the books I write. Every man I’ve ever been with has been of average size, so I’ve always had to imagine what it would be like to be fucked by a man who is so big, it actually hurts.
As soon as I wrap my legs around him, it’s clear that I won’t have to imagine it any longer. I can feel the intimidating length of him rubbing against my thigh.
When he repositions himself so that he can start to slide into me, I wince.
His mouth is feathering mine, back and forth. “Just say stop if you want me to stop, okay?” The gentleness in his voice coupled with the reassuring look in his eyes makes me putty beneath him.
He begins to push the rest of himself into me, and I close my eyes, savoring every second of this. I pay attention to the pain, to the pleasure, to the noises we’re both making. I imagine how I’m going to describe this when I write it all down.
Painful, yet satiating.
Sensual, yet animalistic.
We find our rhythm almost instantly, and I stop thinking about how I’ll describe this. All I can think about is how good this feels. Those thoughts are occasionally mixed with worry about the current state of my morals, but that worry is easy to pack away when Saint kisses me.
I could get used to this.
So used to this.
That thought terrifies me as my moans echo through the house.