“My second greatest love was always corrupting you, darling.” His fingers dig into the skin around the knife, the metal winking in the light. My favourite kind of weapon, and he acknowledges it with his possessive grip.
“Now that my work there is done? It’s been replaced with breaking your mind.” He fucks into me, not giving my lungs or brain a chance to recuperate, battling between grasping the oxygen needed for survival, and letting him know just how good it feels.
“I want those pieces fractured, only for me to mould them into my own. I want you to live forme.”
My head is shoved into the wall, the coolness of the tiles soothing the inferno that’s burning beneath my skin.
Saint’s name slurs from my lips, pounding into me with a force that threatens to disconnect my spine. If I could form a coherent sentence, I’d tell him he’s already achieved his wishes. That the only thing that kept me going those six years without him, was the delirious hope that one day he’d return for me.
In order for me to live for him, I had to fight my way back tomefirst. And then he would be my reward at the end.
My second wave hums within me, tears welling in my eyes each time Saint reaches the hilt, the room filling with the cries that threaten to run my throat raw the moment it peaks, tumbling me over the edge, and my entire body writhing beneath his punishing hold.
The man is my undoing.
My insanity.
My outright maddening obsession.
And in the same breath, he’s my equilibrium.
My emboldening.
He runs through the very core of me, through the emblems that make me who I am.
Responsible for every breath that aches, knowing my lungs are caressing against the spiked heart that beats for him.
My Saint and my sinner.
Mine.
“Who do you belong to, Saint?” I breathe through the aftermath, daring myself to hold his hellacious gaze over my shoulder.
The nightmarish chuckle that runs from him has every nerve ending sparking to life. “You, Indie darling. I’ll only ever fucking bow toyou.”
Then, he drops to his knees and worships me like a queen.
4
Saint
best of you - foo fighters
Age Sixteen
Shit.
Double shit.
This car cost my dad forty grand. The concrete wall and electric gate? Probably double.
I grunt as I step out from behind the wheel, my head pounding as I wipe the back of my hand against my forehead.
When I look down, my skin is streaked in red, and I touch my palm against the stinging flesh across my forehead. Yep, that’s blood.
My unfocused gaze travels to where the smoke rises from the engine, a hiss sizzling through the rain as the front looks like it’sthought twice but got caught too late backing out of a hydraulic press.
Triple shit.
