Page 85 of Savage Saint

“Hi, handsome,” I coo, but I’m interrupted by a chuff. Reina is eyeing us. “Don’t worry, preciosa. I see you too.”

With Santos stepping in beside me, she walks over and lets me pet her too. Both sit at my feet and nudge my hand for more scratches, while their tails swish behind them. It’s surreal. Scary. Yet you can’t help but look at these animals and be in awe.

A whistle rends the air now, and both quickly move away, crossing back into the room they came from. Santos disappears for a few minutes, but when he comes back, he closes the door behind him before catching the back of his shirt on me and, once again, drags me.

This time to the center of the room where a large ring is set up.

“You didn’t let me say goodbye.” A little whiny. Annoyed.

“We came here to train.”

“I was making friends.”

“I’m the only one here that matters.” He turns and grips my hips, touch possessive, before lifting me onto the small landing at the edge where there are two steps leading up into the ring. I could’ve gotten up here myself, but manhandling me to his liking is apparently a specialty he’s determined to excel at.

“You know I have legs, right?”

“I’ve noticed. Shoes off before you step inside.” Those honey-colored eyes drop. Slowly. Taking me in, the heat of his stare feels like a caress. Asshole. Heat climbs up my neck; I slip off my sneakers, set them aside, and step through the ropes before he carries me inside. He joins me a second later. I feel him stepping in close and turn away to give myself a moment to calm down, but he leaves little room between us, my back to his front. “You can take the shirt off now.”

That deep rumble causes goosebumps to rise across my skin. I’m frazzled and blushing and turn around ready to—I stop dead in my tracks.

He’s bare-chested now.

No shoes.

Low-slung denim exposing the deep V at his hips beneath the waistband, every hard line of his stomach on full display.

When did he remove his wifebeater and leather vest?

Dios mio. So much temptation isn’t good for the soul when you’re trying to behave.

20

GENESIS

I’m trying to behave…

Yet my temptation is standing a few feet from me in all his over six feet of tattooed, bare-chested Dominican perfection. Bronze skin. Six-pack. Five-o’clock shadow. Smelling like comfort and lust rolled into one sexy package. When he’s looking at me with a hunger that mirrors my own.

Like this, I have the perfect view of his tattoos without his leather vest or shirt on. The Dominican flag is painted across his chest, large and proud; the details are beautiful—as if the wind were moving the fabric. Realistic. Bold colors. There’s a written line on his forearm I can’t quite make out, the letters in a clean cursive font.

Lower, and the jeans fall just right.

Low, highlighting the deep V before draping across muscular thighs and finishing right before his bare feet. They’re big, too, with clean nails trimmed short, which automatically draw my eyes back to his jeans.

Right over an area I try to avoid but is unmistakable. Impossible.

Santos De La Cruz is a large man everywhere. Thick. The outline is pressing hard against the denim, and a full-body shiver runs through me as I bite back a needy sound. Because I find myself very much attracted to my kidnapper—the man who held me at gunpoint and promised death if I failed.

And now, as I look at him, that promise is morphing into something equally devastating: painful pleasure.

He’d break me in two, and I’d still smile at him. A truth that should terrify me, and yet I don’t hide it. My gaze slowly moves up his body until it reaches his face, and what I find is cocky amusement—a smirk that pulls a low gasp from me.

“You done, Pocket Doc?” The question is smug.

“No.” I match his tone, adding a hint of challenge. Unapologetically, I check him out again.

Santos shakes his head, but that damn grin is still there. “Shirt off, Genesis.”