My orgasm builds quickly, and Saint sends me careening over the edge. I cry out as he thrusts into me, over and over, forcing my release to drag out until it’s nearly painful. He lets go of my hair and I collapse forward, but he grips my hips hard and keeps going.
“Tell me the truth, Mallory,” he whispers against the nape of my neck.
I bury my face into his bedspreads, breathing in his scent, and let out a desperate whimper.
“Still won’t say?” He abruptly pulls out of me, slaps my ass, then flips me onto my back. Lining himself back up with my entrance, he slides in again.
I’m already so tender, I wince.
“Saint—”
“Tell me the truth,” he rasps, grabbing my hips. He’s so tense, his muscles straining, and I realize he hasn’t come yet. I’ve never seen him hold himself back like this. He’s dead serious about me telling him what he wants to know.
But I won’t. I won’t give him a fucking thing.
Meeting his cold gaze, I press my lips together and shake my head.
His eyes glint, and I almost believe he wanted me to defy him.
“You really do bring the worst on yourself, don’t you?” He thrusts forward, slamming home.
Saint continues to fuck me for hours. Whenever he comes, he uses his tongue or fingers until he’s hard again, but I never get a break. After every orgasm he coaxes from me, he orders me to tell him who killed Jon Eric.
Each time I refuse.
Which is why, eventually, I’m unable to hold myself up.
I’m so exhausted, I can do nothing but lay back and take it, but I can tell that Saint’s almost at his limit, too. He’s breathing heavy, his bronze skin slick with sweat, and his muscles tight.
“Fuck, Mallory … just tell me!”
I can’t even shake my head, I’m so wiped. My silence makes it obvious what my response is, though.
He throws his head back and roars, “Fuck!”
Pulling out of me, he rips the condom he’s wearing off and strokes himself until he ejaculates on my stomach. I shiver and bite my lip, but I’m unable to do much more.
With a groan, Saint collapses onto the bed next to me.
“Goddamn it. You’re so fucking stubborn.”
I laugh weakly. “Tapping out?”
He turns his head to look at me. “Doesn’t mean this is over.”
Releasing a sigh, I say, “You’d be much happier if you just let this go, trust me.”
“I’d be much happier if you were more obedient.”
I don’t know how he does it, but somehow, Saint manages to push himself up into a sitting position. Turning to me, he wipes my stomach clean with a towel he snatches from the floor, then grabs me around the waist and drags me to the top of the bed, resting my head on the pillows and tucking me under the covers. He lays down next to me and wraps his arms around me, holding me tight against his body.
“Saint—” I murmur, but he shushes me.
“Go to sleep,” he orders, his lips pressed against my hair. “We’ll pick this up in the morning.”
I want to argue that no, we won’t, because he should just fuck off, but I’m so tired. I can tell him to fuck off in the morning. For now, I give in to my desire to slip into oblivion, lulled by his warmth and even breathing.
Something pulls me from my deep, almost coma-like sleep. I’m not sure what it is, maybe it’s the air against my back or the hum of music playing somewhere in the distance, but I immediately realize I’m alone. Opening my eyes, I turn to look over my shoulder. Saint’s gone. I touch his spot and find it’s still warm. Turning to look at the digital clock on the nightstand, I see that it’s nearly three in the morning.
Where is he?
A light breeze ruffles my hair and I roll over to find the French doors to the balcony are open. Saint’s standing out there, leaning against the wrought-iron railing, a joint between his lips. He’s staring out into the night with a creased brow, appearing deep in thought.
Slowly, I climb out of the bed and make my way to the doors, stopping to tug on Saint’s t-shirt that he’d tossed across the room earlier.
I stop at the threshold and murmur, “Everything okay?”
He tenses before glancing back at me. His lips melt into a small smile.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.”
I shake my head and step out to him. “No big deal. What are you doing out here?”
He turns to look back out toward the ocean. The sounds of the waves gently lapping at the shore is soothing. It feels peaceful out here, despite everything that’s been happening to me lately.
He shrugs. “Can’t sleep, per usual.”
“Did you not sleep at all?” I ask, baffled. With the amount of energy we probably burned, I can’t believe his body wouldn’t just give out on him.
He laughs. “I got a few hours, don’t worry about me.”
I release a sigh of relief, though I’m not certain why his sleep habits should be a cause of worry for me. I don’t like that I’m feeling things for him I never wanted to feel.
And yet, I actually give a fuck about him, though I’d never dare say so out loud.
Silence falls between us as we gaze out into the darkness. It feels like there’s this chasm between us, filled with our secrets. Instead of growing bigger, however, it’s almost like we’re both standing opposite each other on the edge, waiting to see who’ll plummet into the abyss first.
I want to know his secrets. I want him to tell me, which is wildly hypocritical of me since I don’t want to share my own in turn.
Still, hypocrite or not, I ask, “What did you mean by ‘last time’?”
He lets out a puff of smoke. “You’re not going to let that go, are you?”
I glance toward him and shake my head. “No.”
I expect him to be his usual dick self and brush me off, but he surprises me when he turns and wraps his arm around my waist. Pulling me closer, he dips his head and kisses me. It’s slow and gentle, completely different from our frantic kisses from earlier that left my lips bruised and swollen. He’s lulling me into a state of relaxed lust, and I almost forget about my question until he slowly breaks away from me.
He brings his hand up and runs the back of his fingers down my cheek.
Then, in the softest voice I’ve ever heard him use, he says, “I was talking about the last time we got rid of a body.”
8
I don’t remember going back to bed, but that’s where I find myself the next time I wake up. It’s morning, and sunlight streams through the open balcony doors. Saint isn’t out there this time, though.
As I lie against the pillows, I stare up at the ceiling and recall his confession. Jon Eric wasn’t the first body he and Liam disposed of, and I don’t know how to feel about that. I don’t remember if he told me anymore than that because everything after he said that is blank.
Shit, did I pass out or something?
The rational part of me knows I should be horrified, yet when has the rational part of me ever been in charge when it comes to Saint?
Instead, I just want to know more.
Pushing the covers away from me, I climb out of the bed and move to find my clothes but freeze when I realize they’re nowhere in sight. Instead, a silky blue robe is hanging over the back of a plush armchair near the balcony doors. I walk to it, grab it, and shrug it on. It’s easily the most luxurious thing I’ve ever worn, and I don’t even want to think about how much it probably costs.