Chapter 8 #2
"Sorry, I'm—"
His hand grabs my ass. Squeezes.
"Just want to dance, baby. You look lonely."
I shove him back. "I'm married." I hold up my hand. My ring shines in the strobe lights. The rock is huge. You couldn't miss it from space.
Unfortunately, this asshole doesn't seem to care.
"Don't see your husband here." He crowds my space, and I can smell the stale beer on his breath.
"I said I'm married." My voice is louder now. Firmer. I push against him.
"Come on, don't be a bitch about it—"
He doesn't get to finish.
Saint appears behind him, and before I can even process it, he's grabbed the guy by the collar and thrown him to the ground.
The music keeps playing, but the people around us back up, creating a circle.
Saint drops on top of him, fist connecting with his face. Once. Twice. Three times.
"She said she's married," Saint says, voice deadly calm. He hits him again. "To me."
Blood sprays across the floor.
"Saint—" I start, but I'm not trying to stop him.
I'm watching. Heart racing. Breathless.
He stands, grabs the guy by his shirt, hauls him up. The guy's face is a mess—broken nose, split lip, eye already swelling shut.
"Apologize to my wife," Saint orders.
"I'm sorry—" the guy slurs through broken teeth.
"Say it to her."
The guy turns to me. "I'm sorry, ma'am. I didn't know—"
"Get the fuck out of my sight," Saint says, shoving him away.
The guy stumbles off, supported by his friends.
The crowd disperses. The music continues. Like nothing happened. I expect security to come, but they don't. Something tells me they know better.
Saint turns to me, knuckles bloody. "You okay?"
I should be horrified. Should be disgusted that he just beat a man half to death over a grope.
Instead, I'm turned on.
Ridiculously, shamefully turned on.
My panties are so wet, I'm surprised I'm not dripping onto the club floor.
"I'm fine," I manage, feeling breathless.
He steps closer, studies my face. "You sure? Because you look—"
"I'm fine," I repeat. Then, quieter: "That was..."
"What?"
I meet his eyes. See the violence still simmering there. The possessiveness. The pure, unfiltered need to protect what's his.
And I realize something.
Saint is a monster. A killer. A psychopath who just hospitalized a stranger for touching me.
But maybe—maybe that's exactly what I need.
A monster who's mine.
"Let's go home," I whimper. I'm flushed, and the booze has gone to my head. I don't want to be here anymore. I want to be somewhere private.
"I thought you wanted to dance."
I roll my eyes, grab Saint's jacket, and pull him closer to me. My lips brush his ear as I whisper. "If you don't fuck me in the next ten minutes, I'm going to lose my mind."
He doesn't need to be told twice.
We're out of the club and in the car in as much time as it takes me to do a slow blink.
We don't make it home.
Saint pulls over in some dark parking lot, and I'm climbing over the center console before the engine's even off. I need him.
Now.
"Gemma—"
I straddle him. "I need you inside of me, right now."
He groans, hands finding my thighs, pushing the dress up. "Fuck, baby. You are so hot." His words stroke the fire inside of me even higher. I've never been this desperate for a man before, but it's like the alcohol has turned off my brain, and my body is in control.
"You made me this way," I say, panting into his mouth as I rock my core against the bulge in his jeans.
"Yeah," he agrees, reaching between us to free himself. "I did."
He pulls my underwear aside, and I sink down onto him in one smooth motion. We both gasp.
"Fuck," he breathes. "You're soaked."
I shiver as he wraps one hand in my hair and presses the other hard around my thigh. "Did I do this to you, baby?"
I whimper.
"Did watching me beat the shit out of that guy make you hot? The blood? The destruction?" His teeth press into the smooth column of my neck, and I gasp.
I'm riding him hard and fast.
No finesse. Just need. My movements are sloppy, but I don't care. I'm lost in the sensation of him inside of me, and the dirty words he whispers into my ear.
The car rocks with our movements. Saint's hands grip my hips, guiding me, helping me take him deeper.
"That turned you on," he says, voice strained. "Watching me beat the shit out of him."
I don't answer, and he pulls my head back slightly. "Answer me."
"Yes," I moan.
"You liked it when I hurt people." It's not a question.
"Yes."
"Fuck, you're perfect." He pulls me down for a kiss, brutal and claiming. "Mine. You're fucking mine."
"Yours," I agree, because in this moment, it's true. I am his.
"Now, come," he demands, his thumb pressing on my clit.
I do just that. I clench around him, crying out his name as I spasm and fall into the abyss. He follows seconds later, spilling inside me with a groan.
We collapse together, both breathing hard. His forehead rests against mine. His hand has left my hair, and he's caressing my back as he cradles me to him. I melt. This is nice. It's the tenderness I need post sex.
We don't speak. Not for a while anyway.
Finally, he chuckles. The deep rumble of it rocks me slightly.
"What exactly are you laughing at?" I ask, pretending to be irritated.
"That dress," he says eventually, "was a good choice."
I laugh, breathless. "Told you."
"Don't get cocky."
"Why not? You like it."
He does. I can see it in his eyes. The way he looks at me now is different than before. There's desire in his eyes. Want.
Things have changed.
I want to stay like this. Connected and cradled, but Saint has other ideas. He lifts me off of him, disconnecting himself with a groan.
"It's late. We should get home."
I nod, fixing my panties, as Saint tucks himself back into his pants and starts the car.
We drive home in comfortable silence, his hand on my thigh the whole way.
When we reach the compound, he walks me to the bedroom door.
"Get some sleep," he says. "We have work tomorrow."
"Work?"
"Planning the next strike."
He nods, releasing my hand. "You aren't coming to bed?" I ask.
He shakes his head. "I have some work to take care of."
I must pout because he leans in, pulling my bottom lip between his teeth. "Be a good girl and rest," he tells me. My blood heats at his words, and I lick my lips. He groans.
"I'm serious, Gemma. Sleep. There's time to play later."
He ushers me inside before leaving, and I press my back against the door.
For the first time since this marriage started, I'm not counting down the days until it ends.
I'm looking forward to tomorrow.
To the partnership. The game. The twisted thing we're building together.
I'm looking forward to him.