When I could finally sit upright, I swiped at the tears with the back of my hands and pushed away from the receptable, not realizing I was resting against Saint’s legs until he asked, “feeling better?”
Tilting my head back, I looked up. He was leaning over, his gentle eyes on me. I shook my head. “Yeah, if you can call death a living emotion,” I grumbled.
The corners of his mouth twitched. “Can you stand?” I nodded. “Long enough to take a shower?” Again, I nodded. “Come.” Grasping my arms, he helped me up, flushed the toilet then moved to the shower stall.
The white bathroom was fit for a king, with a shower large enough to fit three people, a standalone white bathtub sitting on silver claw-like legs in the middle, and a vast mirror that spanned one wall above two sinks carved into granite countertops and massive windows. After he had the water running, Saint approached me and began unbuttoning my shirt.
“I can do that, you know,” I mumbled but made no move to take over.
“I do,” he replied, his green gaze locked with mine.
Something about his expression made me regret what I’d almost done tonight or that he’d just seen me puking like a drunken sailor. “I’m sorry for being such an idiot,” the words tumbled out before I could stop myself.
He paused on the last button, seemed to think twice about what he wanted to say and nodded. Lowering my eyes to the floor, I didn’t push him for anything more, just grateful that he’d come for me. Somewhere in my buzzing mind, I wondered how he’d known about the party, how he’d known I’d be there or whether he’d called my dad.
When he slid the shirt off my shoulders, his thumbs grazing my skin brought me out of my musings with a gasp as my breath hitched in my throat. Swallowing to ease the dryness, I snuck a look at him. He cocked a brow as if aware the effect he was having on me. I clenched my fingers, wanting desperately to touch him. He released the side zipper on my skirt and watched while it glided down my legs to pool at my feet, leaving me in my matching black underwear, a gift from my aunt.
Even though it was sexy, I blushed. Holy crap.I’m standing in Saint Sinclair’s bathroom in nothing but my undies.A lot more skin than I would’ve liked, laid bare to his eyes. For all the fierce bravado I’d displayed since he walked back into my life, I mentally tripped. Impatient to jump into the shower and hide from him, I startled when he spoke, breaking the silence.
“Sometimes, I forget you’re just seventeen,” he said, his tone low and throaty, his eyes lifting in a slow trail up my body to meet mine—the green irises so dark it was almost black. He ran a gentle finger down my neck, between my breasts to circle my bellybutton before his hand rested on my hip. I shivered, goosebumps following his touch. “You’re stunning,” he murmured, his tone velvet.
The compliment caught me off guard and the air suffocated in my chest. I gulped a few times and his gaze dropped to watch the movement in my throat. My skin burned under his touch, eager for more. “I—I.” My voice shook, my body trembling, my nipples rising to meet his attention. “I’m a mess,” I whispered, blushing from the humiliation of my act a minute ago.
He slid a finger under my chin and lifted until I looked at him once more and the flush seeped from my skin. “Nothing to be embarrassed about.” Even though he didn’t preface his words with a smile, the warmth in his eyes made me sigh into his touch. “Beauty lies in being perfectly normal, Levana.”
Wrapping my arms around myself, I let out a short laugh. “Does it,” I asked, conscious of my curvy body with its thick thighs and big breasts. “If I were, then perhaps I wouldn’t be hankering over still being a virgin, would I?”Oh hell, why are you such an idiot. I regretted the words the second they left my lips.
As if I’d broken the spell, he inhaled sharply, turning away. “Take a shower. I’ll leave something for you to wear on the towel rack,” he muttered, sounding cold, unfeeling. Then he was gone.
Silently kicking myself, I stared at the closed door for a second before my shoulders felt like they’d taken a stomping from a ten-pound hammer. The dismissal stung way less than it had done the first two times. Maybe I was getting used to it, it still hurt though. Saint Sinclair and I would never happen. He was into high-heeled, slim, flawless women who knew how to carry themselves in the presence of a man. As for me, I was just a bratty teenager chasing after her sexy teacher. Whether I believed it or not, I had to accept the man wasn’t into me. Time to give up my endeavours to face facts.
Tears pooled in my eyes, and I gritted my teeth against the emotion.Don’t let him hurt you again, I warned. Granted, the first time, at the ritual, had been unintentional. He hadn’t known who I was, and it was forgivable when he found out I was the school kid he’d threatened with prostitution whether in jest or not. The second time, he was aware I’d already orgasmed with his mouth, which in my mind, made it easier for us to have something more. Still, he rejected me.
With a resigned sigh, I stripped off my underwear, grabbed his mouthwash and stepped into the shower, turning the fancy faucet to full power. The spray hit me like a thousand tiny spears to my flushed skin, clearing the fog left by the alcohol. I wondered what would’ve happened had Saint not arrived when he did. Would Wes hate me come Monday? Would he seek revenge? What did he think about Saint coming for me? Would he tell others about it? I suffered a mild panic attack.
God, what a nightmare. Leaning my palms against the wall, I let the hot water soothe my nerves. I stayed there for a long while, hoping Saint would forget my blunder and take me home. The sooner this night was over, the better. Come tomorrow, I planned to go back to being plain ol’ me. Education first, sex later.
Beauty lies in being perfectly normal.
Out of the blue, Saint’s words echoed in my head, playing Russian roulette with my decision. Ignoring it, I focused on showering. Then, in a further taunt, his scent enveloped my senses. I savoured the citrusy freshness of his soap and shampoo as I washed my body and hair. God, the man smelled so good, I could practically eat him. Laughing, I rinsed off and did a quick swirl of his minty mouthwash to rid my mouth of the arid taste left by the puke. When I stepped out, I was feeling a lot better than I’d done going in.
Grabbing a towel from the rack, I was drying myself off when the door opened, and Saint walked in. “What the—” I balked, scrambling to cover my naked body with the towel.
His lips widened in that familiar smirk. “You’re not shy now, are you, Levana?” He was baiting me, and I glowered at him. It had no effect. Sometimes I wondered if he had it in him to feel any emotion. “Do you want it?” He held out his hand. “Or would you rather use the towel?”
I wanted to roll my eyes but refrained, took the neatly folded white t-shirt, and slipped it on. Oversized and loose, it fell mid-thigh. Satisfied it covered the essentials, I untied the towel, pulled it out from under the shirt, and began drying my hair. All through this, Saint stood at the door with his eyes on me. It would’ve been easier to ignore him if he didn’t look so damn gorgeous. Somehow, I managed.
Unsure if it was the heat from the hot shower, the effort taken to dry my long hair, the alcohol remnants still floating in my stomach, or a combination of all three, the towel fell as exhaustion claimed my body. Feeling dizzy, I took a minute to breathe.
“Sit,” Saint’s soft command had me glancing up. He was pointing to a seat in front of the large vanity. I frowned, and he added, “I’ll dry your hair.” My head stopped mid-shake when his jaw tightened. “I wasn’t asking, Levana.” His weird way of caring baffled me.
Wordlessly, I took a seat and a second later the hair dryer I hadn’t noticed before, switched on. Saint might be a large man, but his fingers were a gentle heaven as he alternated between drying and finger-brushing my hair. I studied him in the mirror for a bit. Fascinated by how the same man could come across as a dictator in one breath and caring in the next.
Without meaning to, I found myself wondering about his lovemaking skills. I already knew he could make a woman beg for his touch and what he tasted like. How would the complete package end, though? How would she feel? Satisfied? I had no doubt. Hungry for more? Probably. I closed my eyes, remembering his touch, his head between my legs, his mouth on my pussy, the ache leading up to my orgasm, that mind shattering moment when it finally came.
“Oh, God,” I groaned out loud.
Realizing it was the only sound I heard, my eyes flew open. The dryer was off, and with one hand resting on my shoulder, Saint was watching me in the mirror. A tremor ran through my body. Aroused, I clamped my thighs tightly. Without panties to absorb the wetness, I felt the slickness coat my pussy lips and internally moaned. I bit my lip and his eyes darkened. The ache between my legs intensified, crying for relief. I fisted the hem of my t-shirt, my eyes imploring him to do anything to me. My gaze dropped to his perfectly shaped lips, wishing to feel its thickness cover mine.
