Chapter 6
Gemma
I wake to sunlight streaming through the curtains and the unfamiliar weight of another body in bed beside me.
Saint.
He's still here.
In weeks of marriage, he's never stayed when I woke up. He comes at eleven, fucks me, and leaves. Even when he decides to sleep next to me, he's gone by the time I'm awake. Every single time. Even last night, after we sealed our deal, I expected him to go wherever it is that he goes.
He didn't.
I turn my head carefully, not wanting to wake him yet. Just wanting to look.
He's on his back, one arm thrown over his head, sheet tangled around his waist. The morning light catches on the dark ink covering his chest and arms, intricate patterns I've never had the chance to study before. Geometric designs, religious imagery, things I don't recognize. Art on skin.
I want to trace every one with my tongue.
And scars. So many scars. A long one across his ribs. Smaller ones on his shoulder. A puckered circle on his bicep that looks like a bullet wound.
Evidence of violence and survival.
My eyes travel to his face. In sleep, he looks younger. The hard edges soften. His dark hair falls across his forehead, and his full lips are parted slightly.
He's handsome. I've known this, but seeing him like this, vulnerable, unguarded, powerful even in sleep, something twists low in my belly.
This man agreed to help me.
Not because I'm his wife. Not because Antonio told him to. Not even because of the blowjob, though I'm sure that didn't hurt.
Saint is a man, after all.
He agreed because Adrian pissed him off. Because knocking my brother down a peg serves Saint's interests.
But it also serves mine.
Our desires align, and for the first time since this marriage started, we want the same thing.
And that realization, that knowledge that I have an ally, even a self-interested one, makes heat pool between my thighs.
I want Saint.
Not the obligatory eleven o'clock fuck. Not the transactional breeding sex.
I want him because I'm horny and he's attractive.
Before I can second-guess myself, I slide the sheet down. He's half-hard already, morning wood pressing against his thigh.
I climb on top of him, straddling his hips.
His eyes open immediately. Green and alert, no grogginess. A predator even in waking. The knowledge of that thrills me. Something about the predatory nature of Saint turns me on. Knowing that he's dangerous, a killer, and yet, under me, makes me wet.
"Gemma." His voice is rough with sleep. "What are you—"
I sink down onto him in one smooth motion, gasping as he stretches me.
"Fuck," he moans, hands flying to my hips.
I'm wet enough that he slides in easily. The stretch is perfect, filling me completely. He's big, and this new position has his cock hitting a slew of new places.
I brace my hands on his chest and start to move.
Slow at first. Rolling my hips, finding the angle that makes my breath catch. His fingers dig into my skin, but he doesn't try to control the pace. Just watches me with those intense eyes.
"This is new."
"You said mutual benefit." I lean forward, changing the angle. Deeper, adding delicious pressure to my clit that makes my eyes heavy. "I'm benefiting."
His laugh is dark. Amused. "By all means. Take what you want, princess." He folds his arms behind his head, the picture of nonchalance. "Don't let me stop you."
I wasn't planning on it.
I ride him harder, faster.
It's like Saint is my own personal sex toy, and I fucking love it.
The man who's been using my body for weeks is now mine to use.
His cock is perfect inside of me, and the drag of his pelvic bone against my clit is causing me to clench.
I'm chasing my own pleasure, using Saint's body, and the knowledge makes me quiver.
I get why men like dominance. It's heady.
I place my hands on my breasts, tweaking my nipples.
"Fuck. You're beautiful like this," he says, and there's something in his voice I haven't heard before. Not quite softness, but close.
"Shut up," I breathe, slamming my hips down. "I'm trying to focus."
He chuckles and shifts slightly.
His thumb finds my clit, circles it with just enough pressure to make my rhythm falter.
"Don't stop," he orders. "Keep riding me. I want to watch you come."
I do. I move faster, grinding down on him, taking him as deep as possible. The friction is perfect. His thumb on my clit, his cock inside me, the look in his eyes—
"Saint—" I can't keep up this pace. The lower part of my stomach is fluttering. I'm close.
"That's it. Come for me."
The orgasm hits hard, making me cry out. My body tightens around him, and I hear him curse. But I don't stop moving. I keep riding him through it, hips rolling even as pleasure sparks through me.
When I can breathe again, I lean down close to his ear. He's still hard, but I can feel him pulsing inside of me.
"Come inside me."
His eyes darken. "Gemma—"
"I want you to." I bite his earlobe. "Fill me up. Claim me. Do it."
That breaks him. His hands tighten on my hips, and he starts thrusting up into me. Hard. Fast. Taking back some of the control but still letting me stay on top.
"Fuck," he growls. "You're going to kill me."
"Good. I'd love to be a widow."
He laughs, the sound rough and strained. "Not yet, princess. I'm not done with you."
Then he comes with a groan, hips jerking up as he spills inside me. I feel the heat of it, the pulse of him, and something about that, about choosing this, about making him lose control, sends another smaller wave of pleasure through me.
I collapse onto his chest, both of us breathing hard.
We lie there for a moment. His hand comes up to rest on my back. Not quite an embrace, but close.
"Well," he says finally. "Good morning to you too."
I laugh. Actually laugh, and it's the first time I've felt any sort of lightness in months, maybe even years. Who knew good sex and a little control could work as well as anti-depressants. "Mutual benefit, remember?"
"I'm starting to see the appeal of this partnership." He licks a bit of sweat from my neck.
I sit up, still straddling him, and reach for the nightstand. There's a journal there, one I've kept since before the wedding. I grab it, along with a pen.
"Speaking of partnership," I say, flipping it open. "Let me tell you about the gallery."
Saint's eyebrow raises. "You're going to brief me while you're naked on top of me?"
"You have a problem with that?" I ask, quirking an eyebrow. "I could put on a suit, and we could go to the office if that's how you'd like to do business."
"Not even a little." He shifts, settling back against the headboard. Still inside me, softening but not pulling out completely. "Go ahead."
I open to a page filled with diagrams and notes.
"Adrian cleans money through art," I start.
"It's not just fake sales, though he does those too.
He hires actual artists. Emerging ones, people who need money and exposure.
Pays them in cash—dirty money. They produce the art.
Then Adrian has it appraised by people on his payroll who inflate the value.
Suddenly, he has legitimate asset worth millions that he can sell, insure, use as collateral. "
Saint's eyes are sharp, focused entirely on me now. Not my body—my words.
"How much money?"
"Millions. The new piece I'm thinking of is a massive abstract commissioned from a Cuban artist. Cost Adrian maybe a hundred grand to produce. Appraised at one point five million."
He whistles low. "And the artist?"
"Paid, happy, thinks Adrian's a patron of the arts. Has no idea his work is being used to clean blood money."
"Smart." Saint's hands slide up my thighs, but it's absent. He's thinking. "What's Adrian going to do with this particular piece?"
"Use it as collateral for a land purchase from another family. He's trying to shore up his territory, push the Russians back. This painting is the collateral for the deal. If it disappears…" I smile. "The deal falls apart. The Russians get pissed when they find out, and Adrian looks weak."
Saint's eyes gleam. "I knew you were smart, but this is—" He shakes his head. "This is exactly what I need."
Satisfaction blooms in my chest. "There's more."
I flip to another page. A diagram of the gallery basement.
"The vault is here." I point. "Climate controlled, reinforced walls. The security code is 1-9-7-8-3-2. It resets every six months, but Adrian's predictable. He'll use another date."
"Guards?"
"Two on night rotation. They switch at two AM.
There's a fifteen-minute window during changeover where the monitoring room is only staffed by one person.
He takes a smoke break at two-thirty. Every night.
Like clockwork." I flip to another diagram.
"Cameras here, here, and here. But there's a blind spot in the northeast corner near the loading dock.
The camera angles don't quite overlap, and it normally wouldn't matter, but we can make it work to our advantage. "
Saint is staring at me. "You have all this memorized?"
"I designed half of it. The rest I helped install." I tap the journal. "This is just my notes from before the wedding. I knew Adrian might change things after, so I documented everything."
"Gemma." His voice is different now. Impressed. "This is—a little insane."
I smile, feeling bold. Powerful. "I see systems. Patterns. How things connect. It's why Bianca wanted me in the business. At first, anyway."
The way he's looking at me makes my breath catch. Not like I'm a vessel for his heir. Not like I'm an obligation. Like I'm valuable.
"The painting's location?" he asks.
"Second floor, east wing. It's being held there until the deal goes through next month." I meet his eyes. "If you're going to do this, you need to move fast. Once it's sold, it's gone, and Adrian has the funds he needs."
His thumb traces my bottom lip. "You're sure about this? Once we do it, there's no going back. Adrian will lose his fucking mind."
"Good." And I mean it. "Let him lose his mind. Let him feel what it's like to have something taken from him."
Saint studies me for a long moment, and I hold my breath, worried he's going to back out. Then he nods.
"Alright, princess. Let's fuck your brother over."
I smile. Close the journal. "I have more details. Guard names, insurance protocols, everything you'll need."
"Later." He grips my hips, and I realize he's hardening again inside me. "Right now, I want to enjoy the rest of this mutual benefit situation."
Heat pools low in my belly. "Insatiable."
"You started it." He rolls us, pinning me beneath him. "Waking me up by riding my cock. What did you expect?"
"Exactly this," I breathe as he starts to move.
And as he fucks me into the mattress, his mouth on my neck, my hands gripping his shoulders, I realize something.
I'm not just surviving anymore.
I'm playing the game.
And I'm going to win.