He glances to the fire escape across the hallway. “I can be out of here and onto the street in thirty seconds flat.”
Funnily enough, I don’t doubt him on that. In fact, I’d put money on that being the reason he rented this particular apartment.
“And then what, huh? You going to smash every bone in some guy’s face ‘cause he got too close to me?”
“Yeah.” His face is perfectly neutral when he says it. For some reason, that makes it hotter. “Might break a few fingers and snap a radius or an ulna, too. If he’s unlucky he’ll meet my boot and I’ll crack a few ribs.”
“So, multiple broken bones for anyone who touches me, huh?”
“Yep, and an extended stay in the hospital.”
“Charming.” I allow disdain to drip into my voice, but I’d be lying if I said my dick wasn’t way, way into this fucked-up conversation.
*
I go back to his place the next night, and the next. Work is chaos. It’s crazy. The formal announcement has been made and my plan is coming to fruition. Lives are being changed. Wealth is being distributed. Anarchy reigns. It’s shaking the core of the planet. I can’t leave the house without seeing my face splashed all over the place. On billboards and bus stops. On magazine covers and every social media outlet in existence. To say I’m trending would be the biggest understatement of all time.
It's a lot.
It’s…nice, I guess.
It gets me through the days, to the night. I live for the night. I live for the shadows. I live for the second darkness draws in. When it does, I feel like he’s close. Like he’s almost in reach. Every day, I wait as long as I can.
In the mornings, I tell myself I won’t go to his place. I tell myself I’ll make him wait. Make him want. Make him go as crazy as I feel. By midday I’m jonesing. Badly. By the afternoon, I can hardly hear what people are saying to me. I can see their lips moving, but that’s about it. Once I get home, I shower and get ready for him. I take as long as I can. I dress with care. I dress with his eyes and his hands and his smile in mind.
Yesterday, I wore a leather catsuit, unzipped to my navel.
“Jesus,” he said, when he saw me.
“You like it?”
“Yeah,” he breathed.
“Is that your thing? You like boys in leather? That your type?”
He did that thing where he looked at me, and made me feel completely naked, like he’d stripped off all my skin and could see through my bones. I tried to take a step back, but he circled his hands around my waist, locking me in place up against him.
“I don’t have a type,” he said. “I guess I’m just attracted to people who don’t give a shit what others think of them.”
When he said it, it felt like a tiny balloon had been inflated in my chest. I know he probably didn’t mean it like that. I bet he’s already forgotten he said it, but to me it felt like it might be the best compliment I’ve ever been given.
Afterwards, he went to the bathroom, while I got dressed. Thank fuck for that, because let’s just say it’s a lot sexier getting a leather cat-suit off than it is to get it back on. I watched him as he walked. He was buck naked. Some people seem different when they don’t have their clothes on, they seem more vulnerable or something, it makes their walk seem strange, more furtive, or uncertain. Not so with Saint. He’s exactly the same. He has exactly the same confidence without his clothes as he has with them on. He moves the same way. A sexy as fuck swagger, I think you’d call it. I watched the way the feathered ink on his back moved when he walked. I followed the lines all the way down his back. I swear, I had to stop myself from drooling at the sight of his ass. It’s meaty and muscular, wrapped up nice and tight in smooth olive skin.
God, I want it.
I want it so much, I’m starting to feel like I might not be okay if I don’t get it.
*
I’m about to head out, when Lacey drops in. She has a severe look in her eye that leads me to suspect she knows what I’m up to. It’s no coincidence she’s here this late, she’s trying to catch me red-handed and make me admit what’s going on in my life. I try to play it cool. We sit and chat and chill for a while. I try not to look at my watch, but with every minute that passes, it’s getting harder.
“Is it a guy?” she asks eventually. By now, I’m an hour later than I usually manage to hold out before I give in and head over to Saint’s. I’m feeling worn down, and exhausted and so horny, I’m struggling to see straight.
“Yeah. Okay, fine. It’s a guy.”
“Do I know him?”
“No.”
