Page 80 of Savage Saint

Lifting a hand to her face, I tuck a curl behind her ear, let my fingers linger for a few seconds, then bend down to press a kiss to the same cheek. Just one. Nothing else. I straighten, and she’s staring at me like she forgot whatever question was sitting on her tongue.

Good. Let her be as off-balance as she makes me.

Taking her small hand in one of mine, I step back and lift our joined hands over her head. “Turn.”

Her brows rise, but she does. Let me guide her. Once. Twice. Again.

Each slow rotation gifts me a different view: bare legs, toned stomach, round ass, the way the material clings to her cunt—how the plum sports bra holds her breasts high.

A low hum of approval leaves me, and she blushes. The flush spreads from the apple of her cheeks and down her neck, making me want to bite her.

She’d look beautiful with my mark.

Genesis stops in front of me, her nipples hard. Pocket Doc likes my attention. “Are you done?”

“No.” At my blunt reply, her lips twitch. I release her hand long enough to take the bag from her shoulder and set it on the entry table near us. Then, I shrug out of my cut, placing it next to her things before reaching for the hem of my shirt.

I’m left in a white wife-beater, more of my ink exposed.

Genesis’s gaze catches first on the all-seeing eye at the base of my throat, the tattoo usually hidden except for the edge beneath my collar. I watch her take it in now, fully visible, and the interest in her expression sharpens. Her eyes drift lower after a minute. Down to the Dominican flag inked across the right side of my chest, most of it disappearing beneath the thin cotton of the tank, and her pupils darken with interest.

“Santos, what are you—” Her protest dies as I tug down my shirt over her head, her face appearing through the collar with a shocked expression, curls slightly messier than before. Pocket Doc glares, and I ignore it. Focus on adjusting the shirt over her shoulders.

It dwarfs her. Looks like an oversized dress.

Cute.

“Behave.”

“What is this?”

“It’s windy outside.” Complete bullshit. She knows this; I can almost see the argument brewing behind those expressive eyes, and I tap her nose with a finger. “Let’s go.”

She doesn’t take it off. Instead, her fingers curl into the fabric near her stomach, and I catch the small inhale she tries to hide.

Genesis likes my scent, something that pleases me more than it should.

I slip on my vest, grab her bag, then her hand again, and walk her out of the apartment. She’s very obedient until we reach the parking lot and stop in front of my bike. Her eyes move over the machine slowly before lifting to mine.

“I’ve never been on one of these.”

“You’ve never been on a motorcycle?” That surprises me. Bikes and scooters are everywhere here—you can’t go anywhere without seeing one or both.

“Not like this one.” She gestures toward the bike. “Scooters are one thing. They don’t count.”

“Why?” I’m amused by her reaction. Curious about her train of thought.

“Because this thing is huge!”

“So am I.” Couldn’t help myself. There’s something about her hackles rising that I enjoy. The way her brows furrow, her lips pout, and she lifts her chin defiantly. I’ve noticed it since that day in Doc’s room; she doesn’t back down or have her buttons pushed.

She’s entertaining.

Genesis doesn’t disappoint; her eyes immediately narrow to thin slits. “I’ll follow you in my car.”

“No.”

“Santos, be reasonable.”