by Monica James
“Ahгел, this ensures your safety. With me dead, I won’t be forced to hand you over to the man I despise most in this world. The man who destroyed my life. The man who made me into the monster I am today,” he acknowledges with a bittersweet tone. “Nothing means anything to me anymore. I’m dead inside.”
His admission and seeing him bleed have something in me relinquishing, and I whisper, “You’re r-right. I do…” We’re caught in a deadlock. It takes my breath away. And so does my confession because it changes everything. “I do…belong to you. And I hate it. So I can’t hurt you. No matter how badly I want to, I can’t, and that makes me pathetic. A coward. No wonder Drew chose me. I am a fucking weakling.”
Tears of anger sting because all along, I’ve blamed Saint for my situation. But, in reality, it’s my own fault for not seeing through Drew’s lies sooner. I never should have married a stranger I barely knew, but I was desperately chasing my happily ever after and ignored the signs.
I should have known someone like me doesn’t deserve a fairy-tale ending, no matter how badly I wanted it. No matter what I’ve accomplished, deep down, I’m still that young girl pinned beneath Kenny, trying to break free.
“No, ahгел,” Saint says, snapping me from the darkness. His sentiment touches me in a way I could never imagine. “That makes you human.”
It happens in the blink of an eye.
Saint releases his grip on me, and I cry out in relief, my arm growing limp. He seizes the knife and tosses it across the hut. I don’t have a chance to ask if he’s all right because he’s on me, pressing kisses down my throat, over my breasts, and down along my stomach.
This is happening so quickly, I don’t have time to think. But when he lifts the hem of my tank and circles my navel with his tongue, I forget about everything and just feel. His heavy stubble is soft against my skin, and I arch backward, parting my legs to accommodate him.
This is wrong, so very wrong, but I quash down my good sense and lose myself in his touch. His fingers are frantic as they unsnap the top button of my shorts, then unfasten the zipper. When he yanks my shorts down and grips the top of my underwear to pull them down too, what he’s about to do has me shutting my legs quickly.
His arm snaps out as he holds my upper thigh in place. “Open your legs, ahгел.”
My cheeks blister. “I, it’s okay, you don’t have to.” I stumble over my words because I’m embarrassed.
He lifts his head unhurriedly from between my legs. His long hair hangs mussed around his face, his lips red and succulent. He is a commanding beast, and the sight has everything tingling. “I know I don’t have to. I want to.”
When he tugs at my underwear again, I push lightly at the front of his shoulder. He peers down at my hand, one brow raised higher than the other. “I don’t like that,” I confess softly, a complete buzzkill.
“Don’t like what?”
Cringing, I’d rather pull out my fingernails than tell him, but my self-respect is long gone. Taking a breath, I avert my eyes and admit, “Oral sex. I don’t like it.” I never have, and being stranded on an island without a shower and proper toiletries has me disliking it even more.
When he’s silent, I risk a glance his way. He seems to be mulling over my revelation.
“Don’t take it personally,” I quickly add, not wanting to ruin the moment. “It’s just, in the past, I haven’t enjoyed it. The guys who were down there made me feel like they were trying to eat me alive.”
I’m expecting him to respect my wishes, but this is Saint we’re talking about. “Oh, I promise, you’ll enjoy it this time.”
Before I can protest, he’s sliding my shorts down my legs and tossing them aside. He sinks back on his heels, examining every inch of my body. He reaches forward and slowly removes my underwear. Even though I have an overpowering urge to cover my modesty, I allow him to strip me because it’s clear this is happening.
Every part of me blushes as he runs a hand over his mouth, his eyes fixed on my sex. I really wish I had running water as the dip in the pond today barely allowed me to wash as well as I wanted. “I—”
But my objection never sees the light of day because he leans down and kisses the inside of my ankle. I’m highly strung, but I try my best to relax when he begins to kiss his way up my calf, gently spreading my legs apart as his lips slither up my inner thigh.
He takes his time, using his mouth and tongue, but when he edges toward my sex, I clam up. His hands are either side of my hips, stroking softly. I tense, expecting a tongue to prod my heat, but instead, he settles between my thighs, using the tip of his tongue to draw what feels like the alphabet up and down my leg.
This is different and new, and goddamn, when he squeezes my hip and sweeps his tongue from my knee to inches from my sex, I groan. He’s teasing me, and I like it. I know he doesn’t like to be touched, so I clench my fists by my sides, squashing down the urge to thread my fingers through his long hair.
He continues to take unhurried licks, and the slow tempo suddenly drives me insane. I want more.
The coarseness of his facial hair adds to my heightened response, and I open my legs wider. But he doesn’t take the bait. Instead, he switches from inner thigh to inner thigh, worshiping every inch of my skin. Before long, I grow even wetter than I already am and burn to feel his lips on my heat.
I arch my back off the ground as his touch sets me on fire. He holds me firmly in place, and his dominance just adds to my craving. “Please…” I whimper, peering down at him, mesmerized by the way he looks between my legs.
He inhales, a low hum escaping him before he lifts his head and reality smashes into me. We lock eyes, and it’s evident that he knows we’ve just crossed a line. But that line was bound to be crossed because this spark between us has always been there.
He slips two fingers into his mouth, eyes never leaving mine as he sinks them into me. I bow my hips and arch my neck, a sated moan filling the air. He moves them in and out of my sex leisurely, sighing in approval.
I am a wanton fiend as I rock into his rhythm, my body undulating with each stroke. The noises coming from me express what he’s doing to me, and I’m helpless to stop. He circles his thumb over my clit while I cry out, my needy body flooding.
It was never this way with Drew, or anyone else for that matter, but I suppose these circumstances aren’t normal, so my body’s response seems appropriate, considering where we are. He increases the tempo, plunging in deep and fast while I buck my hips.
I am lost to him, the feel of his fingers inside me almost too much, but I want more. Though I’m afraid to ask because the last time this happened, he left me dry. “Oh, god,” I pant, clenching and unclenching my fists.
I’m slick and ripe and ready, but when Saint withdraws, I’m overwhelmed by panic. No, not again. Before I can protest, he slides down my body and comes to rest between my legs. He hooks one of my legs over his shoulder, while he bends the other out, opening me up to him, and lowers his mouth to my sex. The moment I feel his hot lips on me, I instantly arch into him, making a liar out of me because I want more.
He groans against me, the vibration rocking my core.
He uses his tongue, sampling in and around me, and hums when I cry out softly. He uses his index and middle finger to part my flesh, opening me up in a way that has my cheeks flushing a bright crimson.
He delves in deep, flicking his tongue, and I whimper because I’m certain my heart is about to burst from my chest. He suckles, licking up and down my entrance, then tugs on my clit. I rocket off the floor, grinding deeper into his mouth.
He explores me completely, leaving no part of me untouched. He bites, sucks, and licks. He does everything to make this feel good for me. And it does. His stubble adds to the heightened touch because the wetness of his tongue and the coarseness of his beard are a perfect combination, and before long, I am rocking against his face, begging him to give me more.
“You’re melting in my mouth,” he groans against my
sex, slipping his middle finger into my heat as he continues to lick me.
His words combined with his actions are a dangerous combination because it’s sensory overload. Stimulating both my mind and body, he moves his head from side to side. His lips caress my heated flesh, and I moan, undulating with his touch.
I never liked oral sex, but this is something else entirely because this…I like. I like a lot. My body is coming alive.
He drags me toward him roughly, his hands resting on my hips as he controls the rhythm. I’m powerless to stop it and flop like a rag doll, using the leg over his shoulder to draw him closer. He is ravenous, eating me with a ferocious need. He leaves indents on my leg when he grips my thigh, spreading me farther.
My hands are still bunched by my side, but Saint does something that changes the course of everything. As he buries himself deeper, he slowly reaches for my clenched fist. The touch is hesitant at first, but when I unfurl my hand, he gently and cautiously interlaces his fingers through mine.
The touch is virgin as it feels like this is a first for us both.
He may know his way around a woman’s most treasured part, but when it comes to affection, Saint is treading uncharted waters. He attempts to sever the connection, but I squeeze his hand, moaning loudly as the genuine sentiment has sped up my orgasm.
It comes out of nowhere and tackles me low. “Oh, god,” I whimper, bouncing on his face and his tongue.
We suddenly grow desperate, both our movements echoing the other as we fight for domination. I want to come, and he wants to make me come. But a small part of him is holding out, drawing out the gratification so I explode in messy tears.
His fingers, tongue, and lips all work in unison as they stroke me deeply. I want to touch him, feel his golden, muscled flesh under my fingers, but I know, for now, this is all he can offer me. And that’s okay.
My breaths are winded and his are hoarse as he guides me toward the finish line. The slapping of my flesh is music to my ears, but what he says next…I don’t stand a chance.
Squeezing my hand, he confesses, “It means…angel.” He exhales against my sex, slapping my swollen clit with his tongue.
I scream, stunned by his words and his actions, and come so hard, tears leak from my eyes. My body bows off the floor, and I writhe wildly, certain I’m about to burst into flames. My heart races, the blood whooshes through my ears, and my eyes squeeze shut. I have never come this hard before. When he lets go of my hand, I instantly miss the connection.
He takes every last tremor from my body, and when I grow lax, he kisses my sensitive flesh before untangling himself from me. I’m Jell-O, and I doubt my legs will work anytime soon.
I catch my breath, uncaring that I’m spread open to him because I need a minute to return to earth. I hear a rustle and then something warm being placed over me. Cracking open an eye, I see that he’s placed his T-shirt over me to cover my modesty.
My mind is mush.
When he attempts to rise, panic overwhelms me, and my high soon fades. “Stay.” My voice is hoarse from screaming. He appears surprised as I don’t think he expected to stay and cuddle.
He is truly a dark beauty. His hair is wild, his lips are swollen, and his chest is glistening with perspiration. I know I’m being greedy, but I don’t want to be alone. Not after what we just shared.
He wrestles with what to do. I don’t want to force him, so I turn on my side and arrange his shirt as a blanket. I get comfortable within seconds, my eyes slipping shut. I haven’t felt this relaxed in weeks.
On the cusp of sleep, I vaguely hear Saint lying down beside me, sure to keep his distance, but that’s okay. His sated breathing is the sound I fall into a deep sleep to, and so are his monumental words…
“It means…angel.”
I asked, and he delivered, so the question is, what happens now?
I fucked up. I never should have touched her, but I couldn’t help it. She is poison, a toxic combination to my body. I haven’t touched a woman like that for over two years, but it was never like that with anyone else. When I was “normal,” I never wanted someone as much as I want her. I don’t know what to do because each day, the thought of letting her go evokes a possession I thought long dead. I’m so fucking screwed.
Day 16
I WAKE SORE, but I hurt so good.
I have no idea of the time, but as I crack open my eyes, I see that it’s well past dawn. I slept in, which is a first. Stretching, I see Harriet Pot Pie sitting quietly on her makeshift bed, an egg awaiting me. What I don’t see, however, is Saint.
He no doubt left early, not wanting to have the awkward morning-after talk.
I don’t know what last night means. It escalated so quickly, and before I knew it, I was giving in to my desires. It wasn’t just a physical connection for me. When Saint reached for my hand, uncertain and afraid, it did something to me. And the name he’s been calling me is a term of endearment. Why?
I don’t expect us to ride off into the sunset together. Saint has a darkness. He confessed as much to me last night. He clearly hates Popov as it seems he is the man who robbed Saint of his humanity. Saint thinks he’s dead inside, but I disagree.
I’m left with so many questions, but at the forefront is why.
Deciding to find him, I stand slowly, my legs complete Jell-O. I reach for my shoes, underwear, and shorts, and slip into them. Reaching for his shirt, I draw it up to my nose and inhale deeply. It smells like pure sin.
With Harriet Pot Pie in hand, I scale down the rope, my balance better as I’m getting used to my home being in a tree. We trek through the terrain, and when I hear a fire crackling on the beach, my heart begins to beat quicker.
Pushing through the trees, I make my way onto the sand. There are coconuts and fresh fish, but no Saint. Shielding the sun from my eyes with my hand, I scan the shoreline, but he’s nowhere to be found.
“Hey.”
“Sweet baby Jesus!” I yelp, clutching my chest. Saint’s deep laughter floats through the air.
Craning my neck, I see that he’s indeed not on the shoreline because he’s perched in a tree. A thick, low hanging branch offers the perfect place to sit and write in his journal, which is what he’s doing right now.
Sitting with his back pressed against the trunk, he has the journal resting in his lap. When we lock eyes, my cheeks immediately flush. Memories of last night crash into me, and I gnaw the inside of my cheek to mute my moan.
“I think a storm is coming,” he says, thankfully breaking the silence.
Now that I’m semi-coherent, I look at the heavens and see that he’s right. The sky is laden with swirls of gray, and the sun has decided to sleep in as well. Overall, an energy pulsates through the atmosphere.
Closing the journal, he jumps from the tree branch with ease. I instantly back up while he ignores my insanity. “Are you hungry?”
I nod, passing him the egg.
He pockets the journal before walking over to the fire to prepare our breakfast. “I think we should find higher ground for tonight. Maybe the cave? Let’s grab whatever food and water we can and wait out the storm. I have a feeling it’s going to get rough.”
“Okay, if you think that’s a good idea,” I say, wringing my hands behind my back. The prospect of being caught in another monster storm makes me nervous. But so does seeking shelter in a cave with Saint. There is nowhere to go. No escape. This could end ugly.
We are silent, both mulling over what’s headed our way.
As Saint cooks the fish, I grab a coconut and attempt to crack it open like I’ve seen Saint do. I’ve tried countless times in private but failed miserably. I had the good sense to grab the pocketknife, so I reach for it and stab the three holes in the coconut. When I feel one give way, I make a small hole and bring it to my lips.
The juice of the coconut quenches my thirst, and I offer some to Saint, but he shakes his head. My knife rivets his attention, and when the green to his eyes spark to life, I know he recalls when
I pressed it to his throat last night and the events that followed.
The memories slam into me also.
Needing to distract myself, I make my way over to a tree, count to three, and smash the coconut against the trunk. Examining it, I sigh when it didn’t even make a dent. Saint makes it look so easy. I try again, each strike helping me forget the way my body undulated under his touch.
“Here, give it to me.”
I jolt, startled as I didn’t hear him approach me. Gingerly, I pass it to him and step aside. His muscles bulge when he slams the coconut against the tree, the unmissable sound of it splitting into two following. I notice him flinch slightly as if he’s in pain, but he extends his hand, indicating he wants to use my knife.
I pass it to him without hesitation.
A small cut where I pressed the blade into his throat is red and a little puffy. I wonder if he should put some ointment on it so he doesn’t get an infection. I’ll suggest it after we eat.
He severs the coconut into two, using the knife to dig out the flesh. He passes me a piece, and I thankfully accept. When he places a portion into his mouth, a trickle of juice slides down his lip. He instantly laps at it with his tongue while I stop mid chew, transfixed by the sight.
Saint is aware of my gawking, but I can’t help it. I attempt to distract myself by looking elsewhere. But it’s no help as I take in the inked feathers running down his arms. And then the blood red roses on his chest. “I like your tattoos.”
He smiles. I wish he’d stop doing that because it just adds to the appeal. “You don’t have any?”
I shake my head.
He has seen me naked to know that I don’t, but I guess we both need this small talk. The fact he’s seen me naked has my cheeks heating yet again.
He offers me the remaining flesh of the coconut. I accept as it’ll give me something to stuff my mouth with other than gibberish.
We sit by the fire, eating our fish in silence. There is an unspoken current between us because it seems neither of us knows what to say. I want to ask him about last night, but ask him what exactly? He got me off, is that all it was?
