No Saint (Wild Men, #6)

by Jo Raven

  But it’s not the first time he’s kissed me, talked to me, touched me. He keeps kissing me, hauling me against him, and I feel him, rock hard inside his worn jeans, the hard rod of his cock pressing between us.

  Surely you can’t fake that. He wants me now, his body as interested as mine is, hot and taut wherever we touch. Somehow he desires me, and though it’s confusing, I can’t deny I want him back, want to touch every inch of that muscular, inked body of his, and maybe even... even find out if Dena was right.

  About a piercing down there. Just the thought makes me throb between my legs, and heats up my blood, so that I kiss him harder, burying my fingers in the silky hair at the back of his neck, giving back as good as I get, moaning at the rasp of his tongue aggressively thrusting against mine.

  He feels amazing underneath me, his arms around me, his hardness between my legs, and I want more. My body is writhing with need, with pleasure. He’s all firm lines and angles, fitting so perfectly, pressed on me.

  Never felt like this before, never been so out of control. I didn’t think I could get so crazed with lust for someone but here I am, going out of my mind with need, every last thought flown clear out of my head. We’re rocking together, mindlessly rutting, and the clothes are in the way, frustrating barriers. I want to tear them off him, touch every part of him, follow his tattoos up his chest and down his arms, trace that terrible scar all the way up, find where it stops. How deep it goes. Listen to his heart and make sure it’s untouched, beating strongly in his chest.

  I draw back, these new thoughts slamming into me, distracting me, making me frown.

  Because they go beyond lust, deeper and wider, curiosity mingling with concern and a strange, unexpected affection that has no business being there.

  Ross growls something under his breath and attacks my neck with his mouth, rough tongue, soft lips and teeth, nipping and kissing and sucking, stopping my thoughts once more.

  And then he takes matters out of my hands, quite literally, when he pushes my skirt up my hips and dips his fingers inside my panties, all the while cupping the back of my head, keeping me close as he licks and kisses the sensitive skin beneath my ear.

  My head’s spinning. I press up against those questing fingers, torn apart by sensation—his lips on my neck, the rough pads of his fingers sliding between my spread legs, rubbing over my clit, has to be my clit because pleasure sparkles through me, making me gasp and buck.

  “Pretty,” he whispers, lifting his head and pulling me close, putting his mouth once more over mine—just as his fingers push into me, stunning me into a cry. The sound is lost against his lips, with his tongue working mine, until I’m assaulted with sensation on every side, battered down.

  His fingers, though... inside me. That’s the center of my existence right now, the crux of the universe, the very center of me being filled, slowly, completely as he pushes them deeper, spreading them.

  Then drags them slowly out, to the fingertips, before shoving them back inside. Driving me insane. Sending the pressure coiling and mounting until I’m clutching his shoulders, moaning, my eyes closing. As he fucks my mouth with his tongue and my pussy with those rough, big fingers, ratcheting up the need, the absolute urgency to come.

  I’m riding his fingers now, lost in my body’s demands, this unbelievable feeling of being filled up and pleasured, every touch of his mouth, tongue and fingers adding up, piling up, pushing the barrier higher until the pressure breaks and I shatter, all but screaming into the kiss as I come.

  Oh crap. Holy shit. I’ve never had anyone do this to me, and the one hook-up I had last year never went beyond drunkenly fumbling with our clothes and ending up with me realizing I didn’t want it and leaving. But touching myself was never like this, and I just never...

  Never thought it could be this good with a boy, especially not this one. No matter how sexy and handsome he is, and he’s plenty of both. I never saw myself sitting with him, let alone on his lap, letting him—no, needing him to touch me and do bad things to me.

  The sort of bad things that I like.

  And as I come down from my high, trying to catch my breath, I have a moment of disorientation. Is this really me, sitting on Ross Jones’s lap, his eyes hooded and lazy with lust as he watches me. Plus, his fingers are still inside me.

  Inside me, holy shit.

  I shiver when he slowly pulls his hand out of my panties and licks his fingers. I watch him do it, fascinated—and then I’m hit with a wave of embarrassment so big I almost self-combust. The urge to flee smashes into me like a brick wall.

  I struggle to get off him, only he’s still cradling my head and now his other hand—the one that was in my panties, in me, crap—is now coming to rest on my waist.

  “Luna?” His voice is raspy as if he’s smoked too many cigarettes, though he didn’t taste like them but rather like yummy, sexy boy. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing! Nothing. I just...” Don’t know what I’m doing, so frigging embarrassed I lost myself in him when I thought I had better control than that, when I thought I’d learned my life lessons at long last. “I should get going.”

  “What the fuck,” he mutters, frowning, his hand dropping from the back of my head to my hip. “Just wait a sec... I didn’t take you for a cocktease.” When I don’t reply, too busy panicking, his voice drops. “Tell me what the matter is. You fucking want me, I know you do.”

  And that somehow, that gentler tone, is the last straw. I back away from him, straightening my blouse, zipping up my skirt, then take a steadying breath.

  “This... what happened just now?” I gesture between us. “It means nothing. Nothing at all.”

  I need this to be clear, so he can’t use it against me. Can’t say I’m chasing after him, that I’m in love with him or something of the sort.

  Briefly I wonder if he still has that power, if he can still influence people and spread rumors to destroy me. I think of him alone on the garage roof, on his house porch, on the street asking me for help. He seems so... alone these days.

  “I know it means nothing.” His voice has gone even lower, his eyes hot. “You’re welcome for the best orgasm of your life, by the way. No need to thank me.”

  My cheeks burn because he’s an arrogant ass, but he’s also right. “Yeah, there’s no need.”

  He chuckles, an angry sound. “Un-fucking-believable. Keep telling yourself you don’t want me, sweetheart. I’m starting to think you’ve wanted me for a long time. Maybe that’s why you skipped town, hm? To stop the conflict in your head. Because I treated you badly, but you still wanted me. Am I getting hot?”

  “Fuck you, Ross.” I’m trembling with reaction. How can he know? How can he read me like that?

  Why can’t I deny it?

  “Well, see, that’s an issue. I’m the one doing the fucking around here, but I’m getting the feeling you’re backing out.”

  I can’t look at him anymore, sitting on his bike, sexy and dangerous with his spiky blond hair, his angry eyes and the bulge of his arousal between his splayed legs. He’s right, he’s so right and I need to get out of here now.

  “Luna,” he whispers, the anger draining from his voice, “Luna, you just... Ah fuck, just go.”

  I’m already turning away, but I frown at that, the slip, the slight crack in the words. Halfway through the empty garage bay, I stop and make the mistake of glancing at him over my shoulder.

  His unguarded expression hits me like a punch, and I realize that I may have often looked at him but that I’m really seeing him for the first time.

  There’s pain in his eyes, sharp like a thorn, and it keeps me fixed on the spot, unable to move away. This isn’t about what we just did, about sexual frustration, annoyance or vindictiveness. It looks more like sadness, and that’s what gets me, what hooks me and catches me.

  But then he notices me watching him, and in a blink it’s all gone from his eyes, the sadness, the pain. All that emotion, poof, gone as if it’d never been there in th
e first place.

  Did I imagine it?

  He smirks, a crooked dark thing, one side of his wide mouth turning up, as he dips his hand between his legs and starts unbuttoning his jeans. “Well, sweets, looks like I’m gonna have to take care of this myself,” he drawls, his long fingers snapping the buttons open one by one, slowly, teasingly. “You seem interested, though. Wanna stay and watch me jack off? I promise a spectacular finish. You can lend me a hand—”

  “No.”

  His smirk turns sharper, allowing a glint of tooth. “Suit yourself. Don’t wanna get your lily-white hands dirty, is that it? Don’t wanna roll in the filth with me? If my fingers were so good...” He runs his tongue over his lips, and a thrill runs through me, half annoyance and half desire. “... then imagine how my cock would feel inside you.”

  I can’t help a small whimper.

  He chuckles and he has every right to be amused. I’m still standing there like a fool, my heart banging around in my chest, my pulse way too loud in my ears. God, I want to see, I’m dying to see him bared, see him do what he just promised—release his cock from his jeans, jack off, lose control in front of me. Show me who he really is to quiet all the questions churning inside my mind.

  As if revealing his hard-on, the hard cock I felt pressed against me as we kissed earlier, will unlock the mystery that he is turning out to be, reveal his real thoughts and feelings. There’s a power there, I guess, at watching someone come apart, being at their most vulnerable as they give in to their bodies and pleasure, their release, unable to hold on to their facades and masks any longer.

  I try not to think about the fact he has that exact power over me, that not only he saw me come but that he gave me that release, held me as I rode its waves.

  I take a step closer, the throb between my legs returning as he shoves his jeans down just enough to dip his hand inside, curl it around his cock to pull it out—

  “Hello!” an unfamiliar voice calls out from behind me, so that I whirl around with a gasp. A man is standing at the other end of the bay, looking right at us. “Is the garage open? I know the sign says closed, but I heard voices and the gate wasn’t locked, so...”

  Ross curses.

  Grabbing my shopping bags from the floor, I rush out of the garage, out onto the street, not stopping until the garage is gone from sight. Only then do I slow down, try to examine my actions, my reactions.

  Here I am, being scared of what Ross might do when I’ve thrown caution to the wind. He makes me feel drunk, intoxicated, crazy with want.

  Why, God, why can’t I stay away?

  ***

  “What are you making?” Dad is hovering by my shoulder, smelling of wet earth after working in the garden all afternoon.

  “Aunt Emily’s famous lasagna, obviously.”

  “It doesn’t ... look quite right. Is it supposed to be so flat?”

  “Dad, you’re making me nervous. Hell, you’re probably making the lasagna nervous, too. Why don’t you just go away and watch TV or something?”

  He lifts his hands and backs away, an expression of exaggerated remorse on his face. “My apologies, great chef. Please continue. I won’t bother you again.”

  “God...” shaking my head, trying not to laugh and not to cringe when I look at what I’ve made. Who am I kidding? It doesn’t look one bit like Aunt Emily’s lasagna.

  But it should still be edible—and one has to learn somehow. Experimenting on family members is a tradition going back to the dawn of time. I bet it happened all the time inside the caves around the fires. Not everyone can get woolly mammoth stew perfect from the get go, right?

  Maybe I’d have made a better job of it had I not been thinking of Ross non-stop. I just can’t quit wondering about him, about how he drew me into the garage, how he held me, how he touched me, and that look on his face when he told me to go—

  “Luna!” Josh is sort of dancing around the kitchen, excited about a game on his phone. I’m not as much into games as he is. I swear, this kid’s brain is linked to a data cloud. “I got to level fifty. You’ll never catch up.”

  “Oh no, what will become of me?” I mutter, layering the grated cheese on top of the lasagna and checking the temperature of the oven. “There goes my career as a Roman gladiator.”

  “No, you’ve got the wrong game.”

  “I see. Which one is this one then? Is it the Star Wars one?”

  He makes a face like he’s tasted something sour. “Luna! It’s the car racing one.”

  “Gotcha. Well done, buddy. Ow.” Only I can give myself second degree burns from checking if the oven is warm. I stick my finger into my mouth. I may save it after all. “It’s warm enough.”

  Yeah, you guessed it. Even while bantering back and forth with Josh, my mind was back in that garage. Hearing again his angry words about being a cocktease, about wanting him. But before that, when I drew away and said I had to go, he hadn’t seemed really angry, just... hurt.

  I blink.

  Then make myself look at what I’m doing before I make a bigger mess out of it.

  He’s like a wild animal, I think. Lashing out when he gets a thorn in his paw. And that thorn seems to be little old me.

  Josh wanders closer to take a look at what I’m making, and snickers. “It’s so flat. Is it lasagna or an omelet?”

  “Oh shush.” With a small prayer to any god who might be hearing, I put my dish into the oven and close the door. “There. Should be ready soon. Set the table?”

  But Josh isn’t paying me any attention. He’s peeking out the kitchen window, and he gasps dramatically. “There’s someone outside!” And then opening the door, he sprints out.

  “Who? Josh, wait!” But he’s gone, and I hurry after him, suddenly remembering the guys who ambushed me on the road here twice. He’s gone like a bullet, and by the time I reach the side of the house where the tree swing is, he’s nowhere to be seen. “I said, wait! Josh!”

  Then I hear him. “Stay away from her. Stay away from us!” he’s yelling, and something crashes into the underbrush. “Leave my sister alone!”

  He’s throwing rocks at someone. I see him bend to retrieve another one, swing his arm back to throw.

  “Josh, stop. What are you doing?” I reach him right before the rock goes sailing into the air, force his hand down, not an easy feat. He’s strong for his age. “You don’t throw rocks at people, Jesus. Are you out of your mind? You could hurt someone.”

  “What?” He jerks his arm free, his face red, eyes glittering. “I was supposed to invite him in? He’s a bully and he’s the reason you left!”

  “Who are you talking about? Wait... Ross? Ross was here? Oh God, did you hit him? Is he okay?”

  Josh gives me a disgusted look. “You go off on me for making a bullying joke, but you’re okay with him? The guy who chased you away from us?”

  A glance around doesn’t show me any tall, muscular, annoying blond. “Did you hit him, Josh?”

  A shrug of bony shoulders. “I might have.”

  Crap. “Keep an eye on the lasagna. Tell Dad it has to come out of the oven in ten minutes, okay? Or it will burn.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’ll be back soon.”

  “You’re going after him, aren’t you? To see if he’s okay. So what now, you’re in love with him?”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about!” I snap and stalk off into the woods. “Go tell Dad what I said about the lasagna!”

  I don’t hear his reply as the trees close around me, my heart thumping hard as I trek toward Ross’s home, hoping he’s okay.

  ***

  “Ross?” The house rises out of the bushes and scraggly trees as the earth turns to marshy ground, the raised porch quiet and still. “Are you there?”

  I climb the creaking steps and half-expect to find him in the rocking chair, asleep like last time I was here, but the porch is empty, the old rocking chair and the bench littered with dead leaves.

  There’s
an air of desolation around the place, of abandonment and neglect. The garden is drowning in weeds, the paint is peeling off the wooden slats and the walls. The house door stands ajar, and inside there’s a sliver of darkness.

  Is this where Ross’s dad killed his mom? Where he attacked him and tried to kill him, too? The thought sends a chill into my bones even as I push the door wider and step inside the house.

  “Ross? You here?” My steps make the wooden floor groan and I stop, uneasy. “I just want to make sure you’re all right.”

  The old house grinds and squeaks around me, and I’m sure I hear the skittering of mice—or rats?—in the walls and ceiling. I sweep cold sweat from my eyes and decide it’s time to head back out. This was a bad idea, anyway. Maybe Josh only thought he hit Ross with the rocks, and since he’s not a corpse in the woods, he must be okay. Right?

  Uh God, if only I could stop caring—

  “Luna.”

  “Oh my god!” I stumble back, pressing a hand to my chest as Ross appears through a door I hadn’t noticed on my left. “You scared the crap out of me. Christ.”

  He’s standing a few feet away, in his black T-shirt and worn jeans, his feet bare. He’s holding a towel in one hand.

  “You’re skittish,” he says quietly, that rough, low voice of his that sends such mixed signals through my body—anger and fear and lust. “Is it the house or is it me?”

  “The house,” I tell him truthfully. “It gives me the creeps.”

  “Yeah. Come on, let’s get out to the porch.”

  Numbly, I turn and follow him as he ambles past, unable to stop myself from staring at his broad back, his tight ass, his long legs. I never knew a man barefoot in jeans could be so sexy.

  Ugh. I need to stop.

  The light is fading outside. He grabs a camping lantern and switches it on, places it on the wooden floor so that it casts golden light.

  “The lamp doesn’t work?” I glance up at the dusty bulb.

  “Electricity’s been cut since Dad went to prison. Water, too. I never went to pay the bills.”

  “But then how do you live?”

  “I told you. I don’t live here.” He sits on the bench and lifts the towel to his head.