let me out in a moment he could’ve taken control of.
I thanked him for that.
But that didn’t mean I wasn’t still pissed.
I did remember that.
“You want to know if I’m on the pill so you can take me raw?” I clarified.
His sharp gaze clocked my tone, the stiffness at which I was holding my body, and he moved even further away. Not completely. No, he still made sure to be touching me, hovering above my body, to make it known my snippy tone was not turning him off.
That only turned me on more, in fact.
That part I was oh so embarrassed of urged me to abandon this snit and let him do as his eyes were promising.
But that part wasn’t in control quite…yet.
“Don’t want anything between us,” he continued.
I pursed my lips. “Ah, you don’t want to have to wear a condom, for whatever reason men make up, and you want me to take responsibility for things, like unplanned pregnancy and any STI that you could be carrying.”
He bristled at that. In a big way. In a terrifying and not at all kind of hot way. “I’m fuckin’ clean,” he growled.
Again, that little non-feminist part of me really wanted to back down to his primal tone. But I knew better. I was a strong woman and a New Yorker to boot.
“I should hope so. But I don’t care. It’s not what I want from this. Condom.”
His eyes ran over my face, likely gauging how serious I was, if he were able to convince me otherwise.
He read me well.
His weight left me and I was able to breathe freely without the scent of him. I didn’t like that.
Before he got up, his hand fastened around my neck. Tight. Warning.
“Don’t fuckin’ move,” he demanded. He stayed a beat longer, tightening more, making his point before leaving.
I didn’t move.
Because I didn’t want to. And because I didn’t need to fight the order. I’d won enough. He could’ve used his strength against me right then. Made me forget about him forcing this, at least for the time it took me to orgasm. It’d come back. That familiar feeling of violation, of filth flowing through my blood. I’d hate him. Hate myself.
But he didn’t have to care about any of that. Most men didn’t. He sure as hell had showed me how little he cared for me, and how much more he’d cared for the garden. Emily’s garden.
All of this was running through my mind as I stared at his ceiling, lying on his floor, naked from the waist down, chest heaving, covered in sweat, and plastered with Saint’s scent.
The rustling of a foil packet sounded from somewhere close. Saint settled on top of me with furious eyes. He was pissed at me. That I wanted something between us. Distance. He was pissed I ordered him to do something, but he’d done it anyway.
He fucked me angry the first time.
I fucked him angry the other two.
I had a nightmare.
It was vivid. Violent.
Emily lay in bed with me, whispering while her organs spilled out over on the sheets. Her blood was still warm. Sticky. She smelled like expensive perfume and death. Leaves were tangled in her stained hair.
She didn’t tell me any secrets. Dead women rarely did.
I didn’t remember what she said when I woke up. There was no blood or rogue organs on the sheets, which was welcome.
The bed was empty. It smelled like Saint. His sheets were expensive. Egyptian Cotton. Dark gray, like the rest of his bedding. Luxe without being over the top. I hadn’t noticed the bedding earlier, for obvious reasons.
I hadn’t even noticed the fact I was passing out, sometime after the third round. I’d always been sure that was fiction made up by hopeful women. That there was a man out there to offer multiple orgasms so powerful your body expired.
But here I was, proof. And I would never tell a soul. Certainly not write it into my books. There was no hope or romance in those.
His room was tidy, obsessively so. Decorated in more grays, and dark wood. Expensive dresser. Art that wasn’t personal, but unique. Getting out of bed, not bothering to cover myself, I inspected one painting in great detail.
It was just a view of the woods. Nothing special. At least, it shouldn’t have been. But there was something enchanting about it. Sinister. Like Rose Madder was hiding in there, waiting for me, inviting me to walk right into the painting.
A familiar scrawl in the corner interested