I turn. A guy, maybe mid-twenties, already too close.
"Sorry, I'm?—"
His hand grabs my ass. Squeezes.
"Just want to dance, baby. You look lonely."
I shove him back. "I'm married." I hold up my hand. My ring shines in the strobe lights. The rock is huge. You couldn't miss it from space.
Unfortunately, this asshole doesn't seem to care.
"Don't see your husband here." He crowds my space, and I can smell the stale beer on his breath.
"I said I'm married." My voice is louder now. Firmer. I push against him.
"Come on, don't be a bitch about it?—"
He doesn't get to finish.
Saint appears behind him, and before I can even process it, he's grabbed the guy by the collar and thrown him to the ground.
The music keeps playing, but the people around us back up, creating a circle.
Saint drops on top of him, fist connecting with his face. Once. Twice. Three times.
"She said she's married," Saint says, voice deadly calm. He hits him again. "To me."
Blood sprays across the floor.
"Saint—" I start, but I'm not trying to stop him.
I'm watching. Heart racing. Breathless.
He stands, grabs the guy by his shirt, hauls him up. The guy's face is a mess—broken nose, split lip, eye already swelling shut.
"Apologize to my wife," Saint orders.
"I'm sorry—" the guy slurs through broken teeth.
"Say it to her."
The guy turns to me. "I'm sorry, ma'am. I didn't know?—"
"Get the fuck out of my sight," Saint says, shoving him away.
The guy stumbles off, supported by his friends.
The crowd disperses. The music continues. Like nothing happened. I expect security to come, but they don't. Something tells me they know better.
Saint turns to me, knuckles bloody. "You okay?"
I should be horrified. Should be disgusted that he just beat a man half to death over a grope.
Instead, I'm turned on.
Ridiculously, shamefully turned on.
My panties are so wet, I'm surprised I'm not dripping onto the club floor.
