“I’m fine,” I repeat, firmer this time. I can see he still isn’t entirely convinced, so I soften my tone, offering reassurance. “I’ll be fine.” I offer a reassuring smile, but I’m still somewhat coming to grips with the night. With how easily I’ve forgiven him.
I think it’s because I’m just now realizing what he’s given me. As both a reader and a writer, I tend to lean more toward the darker side of suspense and romance. The kinks some readers and writers are into can make even me blush.
But even the darkest of books have an audience that enjoys them. And even though as readers, we wouldn’t want to live out some of the fantasies we read about, it doesn’t mean we don’t enjoy reading those things.
I did not enjoy what Saint did tonight. But I do appreciate that he was trying to give me the experience he thought I was asking for in a safe way. Aside from being tied up, I was never in any actual danger. He just thought I wanted to feel like I was.
What’s strange is that it feels as if he did those things in a book and not in my real life. We forgive our characters for much worse than we’d forgive our friends and lovers for, and I feel like I’m lending him the forgiveness I’d lend a character rather than an actual person in my life.
This entire night has been surreal, but I feel his remorse and I can accept it and I can take what happened and I can use it. I will definitely be using it.
Knowing how Reya is feeling in that moment has given me a whole new level of respect for her fear. For the actual pain she endures.
The red marks are still fresh on my wrists, and I can feel the slight sting when I flex my hands, but it’s nothing I can’t handle. They’ll fade in a day or two, nothing that would leave lasting harm. I’ve endured worse in the heat of passion, moments where pleasure and pain blurred together. He wasn’t trying to hurt me. He was following the script, playing the role we both fell into.
The game I started.
At least ... IthinkI started it.
A part of me isn’t even sure anymore, but I know I want him here. I know I don’t want him to stop. Every emotion I just went through is one I want to type into my laptop this very moment. I want to describe Reya’s fear, the strength in the stranger’s hands, the way Reya’s voice betrayed her when she needed it the most.
I almost want to thank Saint for giving me that.
Almost.
“I think you might be crazy,” I whisper.
Saint laughs quietly. “Yeah, well. I’m still here, so which one of us is crazier?” He brushes a strand of wet hair off my cheek. “Petra, are you sure you don’t need some alone time? I would understand.”
“No. Don’t go.” I want more of him, more of whatever this is between us. More time with him. More attention. More gentleness, specifically.
But mostly, I want more experiences with him that will make me love writing again. I would never want to repeat what happened earlier. It was far too intense and raw, but the experience itself, it’s feeding a curiosity inside me. I can’t help but think of other ways he could pull emotions out of me in a way that will help me believe I lived through them.
His gaze is more heated now, simmering with something unspoken, but I can tell he’s holding back. There’s a restraint in the way he looks at me, like he’s waiting for me to make the next move, leaving the choice in my hands. It’s a shift from before—earlier he had the control, guiding the scene, but now ... now he’s leaving it up to me. I can sense his hesitation, his awareness of how fragile this moment is.
I lift my hand slowly, and my fingers brush lightly over his lips. His breath catches slightly at the touch, and the feel of his mouth under my thumb ignites a warmth that spreads from my chest down to my core. I trace the outline of his bottom lip, savoring the softness, the subtle parting of his mouth under my touch. His eyes darken with desire, but still, he waits.
I lean forward, closing the space between us, and press my lips to his. His kiss is slow, gentle, as if he’s testing the waters, unsure how far I want to take this. But I can feel the tension beneath his restraint, the way his body leans into mine ever so slightly, as if begging for permission to go further.
I decide to give it to him.
I slip my tongue into his mouth, deepening the kiss, and he responds instantly. His arms wrap around me, pulling me closer, but still gentle, still careful, as if he’s making sure I know I’m the one in control this time. The kiss grows more intense, more heated, and I can feel the fire between us building with every passing second.
There’s no longer any hesitation.
His hands slide down my back, his fingers pressing into my skin, and I feel my body arch toward him, craving his touch. The restraint from earlier has vanished, replaced by something raw and real. This isn’t about playing roles anymore. This is just us, Saint and Petra, two people caught in the heat of a moment that neither of us wants to escape.
He’s standing between my legs now, and his towel leaves very little barrier between us, so I feel him harden almost instantly.
I wrap my legs around him, and that’s when he takes my control of the kiss away from me. He cradles my head with his left hand and deepens the kiss, then pulls me to the edge of the counter with his right hand so that I’m mostly being held up by him.
I let my head fall back as he drags his mouth down my throat. I close my eyes, dizzy beneath his touch. I feel his fingers at the knot I’ve tied on the robe.
“Can I?” he whispers.
I lift my head and look at him, then nod quietly.
His eyes fall to my chest, and then he unties my robe. I lift up a little as he removes it and pulls it away. He tosses it over his shoulder, sucking in a small gasp of air as he looks at me, then runs his fingers down the center of my chest.
