I feel utterly exposed, incredibly vulnerable, like the very walls of my supposedly safe space have been irrevocably breached, and I have absolutely no control over what happens next. The familiar, quiet cabin suddenly feels like a cage.
Saint doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t need to. His presence speaks volumes as he keeps his gaze on me while he steps aside to allow me to pass. Without warning or an invite, he follows me inside, then shuts the door with a startling slam. The sound of the lock echoing in theotherwise silent room seals us in. His hand moves quickly, with a chilling efficiency, as he continues to the next lock, a sharp twist of the dead bolt, the thud reverberating through me. Before I can even process what’s happening, he grabs me and pushes me against the door. The sudden force of his body presses against mine, pinning me to the solid wood, trapping me, and I can feel the radiating heat from his skin, the raw, barely leashed power in his touch, in the taut muscles of his chest against my own.
He grips my jaw with one firm hand, his fingers digging into my skin just enough to make my breath hitch, and then his mouth crashes against mine in a hard, possessive kiss.
There’s no gentleness, no hesitation, no tender exploration. His kiss is a claim, a brutal, undeniable reminder of the power he holds over me, a force that both terrifies and thrills. And despite the fear thrumming through my veins, I feel myself melting into it, my body betraying my mind, responding with a desperate hunger of its own.
I don’t know what it is about this twisted game we’re playing that I love so much, this push and pull of control and surrender. But rather than shove him away, rather than fight him, which is what every shred of my responsible, married self screams Ishoulddo, I moan, a low, guttural sound, and pull him closer, my hands instinctively gripping his shirt, clinging to him like a lifeline.
I think it’s the reckless, careless danger surrounding Saint’s actions that draws me to him, the thrill of walking so close to the edge. He takes risks that Shephard never would, not in a million years. He puts me in uncomfortable, exhilarating situations, pushing my boundaries, shattering my complacency.
And he clearly enjoys every single second of it. His pleasure is almost as intoxicating as his touch.
Saint pulls back, tearing his mouth from mine with a soft, wet sound, and presses his forehead to mine, his eyes still burning into mysoul. His breath is warm against my face, a ghost of a whisper. “Get in the shower and wash him off.”
The command, delivered in that low, intimate tone, hits me like a physical blow. It’s so shockingly, surprisingly insulting, so utterly possessive and demeaning, that my immediate response is pure, unfiltered defiance. “Fuck you,” I snap, the words spitting from my lips before I can even think.
He grins, a flash of white teeth in the dim light, a predator’s smile. Without a word, he grabs my wrist, his fingers firm but not bruising, and pulls me with a deliberate, unyielding force in the direction of my bedroom, toward the bathroom. “Don’t worry, I will,” he murmurs, his voice dark with promise. “But not until you wash him off.”
He gets me all the way to the bathroom door, the porcelain gleam of the sink visible, before I try to defend myself, to regain some agency, some shred of dignity. The rational, self-preserving side of me wants to run from him, to escape this intoxicating vortex he’s created. But the overwhelming majority of me is consumed by a morbid curiosity, a thrilling anticipation of where this will lead, how far he’s willing to push. I pull my wrist from his grasp, the gesture more symbolic than effective. “You’re insane,” I whisper, my voice laced with a genuine awe and terror.
He pulls me into the small bathroom, the space suddenly too confined, too intimate, and then, with a shocking tenderness amid his strength, he grips the back of my head, his fingers tangling in my hair. “And you fucking love it,” he says, his voice a low, gravelly rasp, right before his mouth comes down on mine again, harder this time, more desperate. And like the whore that I am, I kiss him back with just as much urgency, just as much desperate need, my own body demanding the punishment and the pleasure.
He’s unbuttoning my jeans while he kisses me, his fingers quick and adept, surprisingly gentle, making short work of the button. When he gets them unzipped with a soft rasp of metal, he tears his mouthfrom mine, his breath ragged, and kneels in front of me. His dark eyes burn into mine as he expertly removes my jeans and then my panties, pulling them down my legs, urging me, silently, to step out of them. My balance is precarious, but I obey, stepping out of the small heap of denim and lace. Then he’s standing again, pulling my shirt over my head, stripping me bare under his relentless gaze.
He reaches into the shower, turns on the water, and then looks at me, his gaze intense, expectant. “Get in, Petra.” The command is soft, yet absolute.
I love that he doesn’t call me Reya in this moment. When he says my name, myrealname, it makes it seem like he really is jealous, truly possessive. That raw, masculine jealousy inexplicably emboldens me, fuels a defiant thrill. I step into the shower, the cool spray hitting my naked skin, just as he starts to remove his own clothes, shedding them with a fluid grace.
I know he locked the front door. I saw him do it. But Shephard could still come back. What if he forgot something? What if he realizes I’m not in the living room, that I didn’t grab my laptop? If he forgot something and came back ... The thought flashes through my mind, a fleeting spark of terror, a necessary adrenaline rush.
My thoughts are broken, fragmented, as Saint steps into the shower with me, his warm, naked body pressing against mine in the confined space. He grabs the showerhead and pulls it off the holder with a soft click. He places it between my legs, aiming the nozzle, and I gasp, a sharp, involuntary intake of breath, because the water is still stunningly cold, a frigid shock against my most sensitive skin.
“What are you doing?” I ask, my voice thin, almost a whimper, shocked by the sudden, visceral intensity of it all, the sheer, brazen audacity.
He presses his mouth to my ear, his breath hot against my wet skin, the words a low, guttural growl that vibrates through me. “Washing him off your cunt so I can eat it.”
His words, crude and utterly depraved, make me physically shudder, a deep, involuntary tremor that racks my entire body. I lean my head against the cold, tiled shower wall, surrendering to the sensation, to his sheer will, and in that moment, in the face of his desire, I forget all about Shephard. All about my husband, about the lies, about the life I’m betraying.
Right now, it’s just ...Saint.
Chapter Seventeen
Saint, Saint, Saint. He is a beautiful specimen.
The sun beats down, a warm, benevolent weight on my skin, as I watch him navigate the boat across the glittering expanse of the lake. He’s a natural, his movements fluid and strong, utterly at ease behind the wheel. He’s shirtless, his back a canvas of lean muscle, glistening with a fine sheen of sweat. Every flex, every shift of his shoulders, is a stark, captivating display of power, a visual rhythm that makes my breath catch in my throat. He’s so undeniably sexy out here, untamed and free.
And in return, I, too, feel free. I lean back against the cushions of the boat, the worn fabric warm beneath me, and try to lose myself in the pages of my book, a psychological thriller that feels far less unsettling than my own life right now. But my eyes keep drifting, drawn inevitably to Saint. He glances my way often, his gaze a hot brand on my skin, and occasionally, as he moves past me, adjusting a line or checking a gauge, he leans down to press a quiet, lingering kiss to my hair, my temple, the corner of my mouth. Each touch is a silent claim over me.
“Need any help?” I ask, my voice a little breathless, as he passes by again, his hand brushing my arm. The words are automatic, a reflex from years of partnership, of being the one who always offers.
He laughs, a low, dismissive sound that isn’t unkind. “Relax, Petra. You work too much.” He says it with a casual ease, a simple observation, and the words resonate with a surprising depth. I remember Shephard’s voice, the subtle barbs, the undercurrent of judgment when Idon’twork, when I try to rest. “The well’s looking a little dry,” he said, a veiled accusation, making me feel guilty for not churning out content, for not always being productive, for my artistic struggles. Saint, with that simple sentence, offers a liberation I didn’t realize I craved. He sees my exhaustion, not my failure.
The sun is getting hotter, and I can feel the beginnings of distinct tan lines forming where my tank top ends. With a decisive shrug, I pull my top over my head, exposing myself to the wide-open sky. I feel Saint’s eyes on me immediately, a familiar heat, and he lets out a low, appreciative groan, a raw, visceral sound that hums through the air. But he doesn’t say anything annoying, anything that feels cliché or objectifying, none of the cheap compliments or possessive remarks most men would offer. He just watches, his gaze intense, possessive in its own way, and utterly silent. It’s more powerful than any words.
After a while, the wind whipping his hair, the sun glinting off his shoulders, he finally comes to sit down next to me, the boat swaying gently beneath us. He props an elbow on his knee, his body angled toward me, his presence a warm, magnetic force. The silence stretches between us, comfortable for him, electric for me. I can’t hold back the question that’s been gnawing at me, a persistent ache in my chest.
“Do you regret this?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper, gesturing vaguely between us, meaningthis—the affair, the betrayal, the secrets we share.
