SAINT

I watched her, feeling a pull I couldn’t explain. Evie was leaning into me with a mix of innocence and want that was impossible to resist.

She was trying to please me; I could see it in the way she focused on every small movement, the way her lips trembled slightly as they brushed my skin, and her fingers exploring like she wanted to memorize every inch of me.

She wasn’t uncouth, not like the girls I knew, not practiced in any way, but that raw, messy, untrained hunger was dangerous. It had me wound tight, pulse racing, stomach coiling with heat. I had to remind myself to breathe, though every fiber of me wanted to lose control completely.

She moved closer, lips brushing my skin again, tentative at first, testing, and then bolder. God, the way she wanted me...it wasn’t polite, it wasn’t careful. It was… claiming. When did my little angel become this bold.

My hands twitched, wanting to wrap around her, touch, press, and hold. She leaned her forehead against mine and let her eyes flutter shut, and I swore the air between us throbbed, pulsing like some dangerous, forbidden heartbeat only we could hear.

“Saint…” Her voice, soft and trembling, broke through the haze of want.

“Yeah?” I whispered, low and rough, trying to keep my voice steady but failing spectacularly. The heat in my chest threatened to drag me under, to make me lose all rational thought.

Her lips found mine, light at first, teasing, and I groaned low, letting my fingers press against the small of her back.

Every shiver that ran through her made me ache for her, made my blood burn hotter, and made my pulse spike in ways I hadn’t felt in years. I couldn’t... wouldn’t stop. She was mine, right here, right now, whether we’d decided it or not.

And then I saw it, tears glimmering in the corners of her eyes, hands pressed together like she was praying. My chest caught in my throat. What the hell?

“Hey…” I rasped, my voice rough, almost breaking under the heat of everything that had just happened, under the weight of her presence and the unspoken need curling between us. “It’s fine. Really. You don’t…” I trailed off, because I couldn’t put into words how her simple devotion was unraveling me.

“No,” she whispered, barely audible, small and urgent. “We… we need to. God’s watching. I… I have to ask forgiveness.” Her hands, delicate and trembling, rested lightly against my chest, and somehow that small, tentative contact anchored her in a way that made me ache.

I could feel her pulse, her warmth, the slight tension in her fingers, and I felt stupid.

She closed her eyes, murmuring soft prayers, low whispers that seemed to hang in the air. The words were faint, but the intent, the raw emotion behind them, filled the room and pressed against my skin in ways nothing else ever had. I stayed still, letting her, because I couldn’t stop the curiosity, the fascination, or the ache that knotted through me.

I shifted slightly, adjusting my slacks without breaking the moment, letting my fingers trace along the line of her back. The slope of her shoulders, the subtle curve of her spine. Her vulnerability, her quiet surrender, was intoxicating and maddening, and it drew me closer even as I fought not to lose myself entirely.

“Saint…” Her voice trembled, barely more than a sigh, and it made something deep inside me tighten.

“Yeah?” I whispered, my own voice low and dangerous, caught between the need to protect her and the need to feel her closer, to claim the heat she exuded without shame or hesitation.

“Who… who are you running from?” The question was soft and hesitant, but the look in her eyes—aching, searching—cut straight through me, and I felt a pang of guilt that mingled with desire, with the restless tension that refused to abate.

I shook my head, swallowing the words I didn’t want to say. “None of your business,” I murmured, though my pulse betrayed me, throbbing hot and fast.

Her shoulders slumped slightly, but she didn’t pull away. “Oh…” she whispered, and something tightened in my chest. I wanted to close the gap between us, pull her close, and claim her entirely, but I also wanted to hear her, to see her, and to feel her warmth against me.

“Come lie beside me,” I murmured, hand reaching for hers.

She hesitated, a tiny flicker of doubt crossing her face, but then she allowed herself to fall against me. The second her body pressed into mine, I felt that familiar possessive fire, that aching desire to keep her close, to hold her, to let no one touch her but me.

I pulled her closer, chest to chest, letting my lips brush the crown of her head. My hands roamed along her back, tracing her curves, memorizing her warmth.

She shivered slightly, small trembles that made me ache even more, and I pressed into her, needing to feel every inch of her body against mine.

“You’re… dangerous,” I whispered into her hair, my lips brushing her temple.

“Maybe you are too,” she teased softly, breathless, and the sound made me growl low in my throat. I pressed my lips to her hairline, letting the warmth of her skin ignite the fire coiling inside me.

Minutes stretched between us, each second alive with soft gasps, whispered words, quiet shivers, and the electric hum of something primal.

Her hands traced along my chest, then my sides, bold and shy all at once, and I pressed closer, rolling slightly, feeling her tremble and respond. Every small gasp, every tiny whimper made my chest tighten, made my hands greedy, and made my blood roar.

“You make me lose control,” I admitted, voice rough, low, and dangerous.

She shivered again, pressing into me. “I like that… I like it when you… can’t control it.”

I pressed my lips to her temple, holding her tighter, letting my fingers trace the lines of her body, memorizing every inch, feeling her tremble, feeling the tension coil and uncoil between us.

“I can’t… I don’t want to leave without knowing I’ll see you again,” I whispered, voice thick with need.

“You will,” she murmured, pressing against me, and I could feel her heartbeat against mine, frantic and soft. I held her closer, letting the warmth seep into me, filling the hollow spaces that only she could touch.

Her lips found mine again, soft at first, teasing, then harder, more insistent. I groaned into her mouth, tangling my fingers in her hair, pulling her closer, needing to feel her, consume her, and claim her.

“I want you to be mine,” I murmured low against her lips, voice raw.

“Ohhhh,” she whispered against me, trembling. “I… I want to be yours.”

“I want… I need to see you again,” I confessed, voice rough, desperate.

“You will,” she whispered again, pressing against me, and I could feel her heartbeat calm slowly against mine, the warmth settling deep, the ache coiling into a satisfying, dangerous tension.

And just as the haze of sleep and satisfaction settled in, breaking the last thread of reality… a loud, piercing voice cut through the room.

“BLOOD OF JESUS!”