Saint #2
She lets out a frustrated grunt. “Fine. We’re even on that score. Forget it. The show’s over. Stop looking at me and close the damn door on your way out.”
“Are ya going to shower with your dress on?” I ask, smug as fuck.
“Maybe,” she snaps, still clawing at the zipper with an arm that clearly isn’t built for contortion.
The wet satin only tightens around her breasts as she twists, her cleavage bulging, her nipples pushing hard little points through the fabric, and Christ, this is a whole new satisfying kink.
I let her struggle for another second because, let’s be honest, she deserves a dent in that Harrington pride. Plus, the sight of her writhing in my bathroom is a sight to be-fucking-hold.
“Go away!” she grits.
“Don’t order me around.” I join her side. “Be a good girl and stay still.”
She freezes. Her shoulders go rigid, her breath dragging in and catching. “Do not think for one second I’ll ever be your good girl.”
“Fine. Be a good little Harrington then.”
She glares at me through the mirror. “You’re enjoying this way too much. I get it… You’re a Tallon… I’m my father’s daughter. We’re at opposite sides of the battlefield. But this is a whole new level of torture. Even for you.”
“Is that so?” I cock my head. “Wanna trot back outside and find a warm shower out there?”
Her lashes flutter shut for a beat, and then she exhales a deep sigh.
“You can argue with me,” I tell her, “or you can stop dragging this out. I’ve got stuff to do and you’re eating into my time.”
She mutters a curse under her breath and blinks at me. “It would be helpful if you’d unstick my zipper.”
“Say please.”
“Are you for real?”
“Are you testing my generosity?”
Keira huffs a cute laugh and my pulse kicks. “Let’s strike a deal. You sort out my zipper, and I’ll refrain from choosing cutlery that’ll hurt you.”
When I chuckle, I can’t tell if she brings out the best or worst in me. This conversation shouldn’t be happening. In fact, this whole situation needs to be locked down.
“You can’t hurt me.” When my fingertips skim the bare skin on her shoulder, a soft sigh escapes her.
Goosebumps chase my touch across her shoulder blade. I follow them down the ridge of her spine to the top of the zip, and her breath stumbles on the way out.
The zipper is a disaster. Her hair is twisted into the teeth, strands knotted and soaked. It’s a miracle she didn’t rip half of it out already.
I reach down to my ankle, hitch up the leg of my jeans and take my knife from its holster.
Keira goes utterly still. “Is that really necessary? Don’t you have scissors?”
“This won’t take long.”
I fist the length of her hair in one hand and bend her forward over the counter. Her ass presses back into my cock with nothing between us but wet satin and denim. I’m rock hard against her, and she goes completely still, feeling every inch of it.
“Don’t move,” I tell her, and my voice comes out hoarse.
She doesn’t. But her hips move back a fraction. Half an inch, no more, and she’d swear on her mother’s life it was an accident. Doesn’t matter though because I feel it everywhere.
Inching back a step, I force the knife through the tangled mess. She doesn’t move, her breathing shallow, her eyes fixed forward.
When I find her reflection, her gaze snares mine, and in that second she bats her lashes and breaks eye contact.
When the last piece of hair comes free, I test the zipper, though it still won’t budge.
“This dress is done for,” I say. “Put your hands on the counter.”
Her forehead creases. “Why?”
“I’d rather not have your blood all over my bathroom.”
“Cut me and I’ll cut you back,” she says, acting all brave when I’m the one holding the knife.
“Already going back on your word, just like your da,” I mutter.
She scowls. “No, the agreement mentioned cutlery. I never said I wouldn’t defend myself.”
I slip the jagged edged blade under the seam at her hip and with a firm, controlled pull, I draw the knife upward. The fabric parts in whispering tears.
The flat of the blade rides against her skin the whole way. Cold steel over a hot flank. She sucks a breath in through her teeth and holds it.
Keira grips the counter harder as a wave of goosebumps showers her skin all over.
Cut after cut, the dress peels off her. The satin sags away from one breast, and I catch her nipple drawn up tight in the mirror before I make myself look back at the seam.
My pulse is thrumming somewhere it shouldn’t be.
Despite drawing her teeth in between her lips, she still lets out a soft whimper that I’m guessing she didn’t want me to hear. And that right there, shoots adrenaline straight to my bloodstream.
So I lower the knife and drag my knuckle down the last inch of the seam instead. Skin, not fabric. She whimpers again, louder this time, and her thighs press together.
One final slice and the dress drops in ruined pieces at her toes.
Now she’s standing there in nothing but stockings and rain-damp skin, her back rising and falling, breath coming in short, quick bursts.
The glass gives me all of her—bare tits, tight nipples, the flat of her stomach, the shadow between her thighs above the lace.
My cock aches so hard it’s gone past pleasure, and my fist is still full of her hair.
Fuck.
One pull. That’s all it would take to have her bent over that counter with my mouth on her.
She’s a Harrington. She’s leverage. She’s a woman I want to ruin, and I’ve never wanted anything more in my life.
I let go of her hair and step back before my hands make the decision for me.
When I lower the knife, my gaze catches on a small mark near the top of her hip. A tattoo. Just a single inked L with a faint heart curving off it.
Lucien.
For some reason, his name pisses me off. I’ve had plenty of ink done over the years, but never once did it cross my mind to brand myself with a woman’s initials. That kind of permanence belongs to a different type of fool.
The fact she gave him skin puts a hard pressure behind my ribs that has no place to go, so I drag a hand through my hair and make myself look at her face instead.
I clear my throat because the room is too small for me and her to be standing in at the same time.
“When you’re done,” I say, “turn right in the corridor. I’ll leave something out for ya to wear in my room.”
“Okay.” She walks across the room and grabs a fluffy white towel, covering herself with it.
“Stay in my bed tonight,” I add, forcing the words out. “I’ll take the couch.”
I walk out, giving myself enough space and air to breathe that isn’t laced with the scent of her.
Christ she’s a nightmare.
I should be putting her on the couch. On the fucking floor, if I had any sense. Instead, I’ve given her my bed, and now I’ll spend the night knowing she’s wrapped in my sheets.