Saint #2
It’s not typical for my veins to buzz when I’m about to lash antiseptic over an open wound, but fuck, I’m wired.
My pulse is thrumming and my dick is straining against my zipper. Must be the adrenaline of a fight. Because it sure as fuck can’t be the fact she’s cuffed and waiting.
Voices from the television fill the cabin when I step through the front door.
Keira is curled on the couch, wrists pulled in front of her, a blanket tangled on her lap. She looks almost relaxed, until her eyes land on the blood flipping from my fingers.
Her gaze widens a fraction, but her voice stays cool. “You irritate someone else today?”
When I shrug out of my coat, pain bites deep as the movement pulls at the raw cut.
Next, I peel off my shirt with a sucked-in wince, the fabric sticking to half-clotted blood. As I turn toward the kitchen, something glints on the floor.
An array of forks, spoons, knives…even a spatula and a plastic whisk.
All arranged carefully to spell out: Fuck you.
“What the hell is this?” I glance over my shoulder at her.
She lifts her bound wrists, eyes narrowed. “A ‘Fuck You’ spelled out in cutlery is the only language a low-life criminal like you understands.”
A low, involuntary smile tugs at my mouth despite the pain. “So, you thought about me all morning.”
“Yeah, I thought about all the ways I could hurt you with them. Fair’s, fair.”
I cross to the cupboard, gather up the first-aid kit, and snag a bottle of whiskey before dropping into the wooden chair at the kitchen table.
The gash sits on the back of my bicep which is too awkward in its position to fix one-handed.
“Harrington,” I say, unscrewing the whiskey cap. “Get over here.”
She raises her cuffed wrists again and gives me a sugary-sweet smile. “Read the sign, Tallon. It says ‘fuck you’.”
While the word fuck rolls off her tongue with enough sass to tingle across my scalp, I take a long swig of whiskey to dull the rawness.
“I’m not asking,” I say, thumping the bottle down. “Move. Now.”
She lifts her wrists with a theatrical flutter. “Sorry… I’m all tied up.”
“I’ll take them off.”
“I’m enjoying the movie.”
I let out a low grunt that isn’t quite a laugh.
“Fine. Stay put. But once I’m sorted, I’ll rope your ankles, drag you into the heath, and let ya see how long your attitude lasts alone out there.”
She stands with a dramatic sigh, blanket falling away, and pads barefoot toward me. “What you’re actually saying is that you need my help.”
“Nope.” I lean back in the chair, letting her see just how unbothered I want to look. “If I needed help, my brothers would be here.”
She tilts her head, eyes narrowing. “Then why aren’t they?”
“Because,” I say, holding her gaze as I reach for the key, “I’d rather deal with ya alone.”
She stands a few feet away, close enough that I can smell her clean hair and the faint sweetness of the whiskey from last night.
I hold the cuff key loose in my fingers and let my gaze trail over her. “Be a good little Harrington and come closer. I can’t unlock ya from over there.”
Her pupils blow wide, all inky and framed by sparkling irises.
She hates that.
Good.
“You’re a prick,” she snaps.
My mouth almost curves to a grin as she walks toward me, one angry, graceful stride at a time until she’s within reach.
I take her hands, turn the key in the lock, and the cuffs fall open. Before she can step back, I catch her jaw in my fingers and yank her face closer to mine, her breath brushing my mouth.
“There’s a lot of bad words coming out of this mouth of yours today.”
Her breathing deepens, chest rising against the charged air between us.
“It’s your fault,” she whispers.
I release her and get to my feet, moving forward so she instinctively backs up so her ass hits the counter. She braces both palms behind her, eyes never leaving mine.
I plant a hand either side of her hips on the counter and cage her in. Blood’s still running down my arm. Neither of us mentions it.
“Anyway,” she says, rallying fire, “I can say whatever words I want.”
“Then say it again.”
She blinks. “What?”
“Say fuck you,” I murmur. “Again.”
She licks her lips and my mind scrambles. “Fuck you, Saint.”
I feel it everywhere. In my throat, my gut, and low behind my zip where I’ve been half-hard since she crossed my kitchen in nothing but my shirt.
“Again.”
“Why?” she breathes.
“Because I like the way it sounds coming out of your mouth,” I say quietly, leaning in to notice her breath quicken. “Almost like you’re imagining me fucking ya.”
The pulse in her neck jumps beneath her skin.
“As if,” she whispers.
Her thighs shift against the cupboard door.
I pull her into me, one hard swipe of my arm around her waist, her chest colliding with mine.
Her breath stutters against my throat, her hands flattening against my chest.
She doesn’t push. Her palms just sit there over my heart, and I can feel her nipples through the flannel, drawn up tight against my bare chest.
I dip my head, letting my lips hover just above hers, not touching in any way.
My thigh slides between hers because there’s nowhere else for it to go. Her breath comes apart completely and her hips tilt with one small, involuntary roll against my leg. She senses herself do it and goes rigid with the shame of it.
“You look at me like you’re not scared,” I murmur, tightening my hold until her heartbeat thunders against my ribs. “Like you’ve somehow forgotten I’m the bastard who dragged ya out of that gala. Like you crave something you shouldn’t.”
Her gaze drops to my mouth. A mistake. A bad fucking mistake.
I angle her chin up with my thumb.
“So tell me Harrington, now that you know who I really am… When I kiss ya again…”
My voice drops an octave, turning gravel-thick.
“…will you be as into it as ya were the last time?”