SAINTS: Saints and Sinners Duet Book 1

by Henry, Sophia

  I’m not expecting the force at which he ravishes my mouth. His tongue lashes mine. His lips are hard, almost bruising.

  When he pulls back, I’m breathing heavy, my breasts bouncing in his face as I heave on his lap, coating him with wetness.

  I lift up, and he obliges my depraved request, sliding the barrel over my slit.

  “Yesssss,” I moan, letting my eyelids flutter closed as I rub against it. The metal is hard, yet warm from our hands.

  He watches my reaction as he does it again, only this time, he pushes the barrel into me. I buck forward, my chest hitting his chin. My eyes roll to the back of my head and excitement blasts in my core. He slides the barrel in and out, flicking my clit with his thumb. The pressure on the swollen, sensitive part between my legs is too much and not enough at the same time.

  I grab his hair, squeezing it in my fists, and scream out, “Oh my god, Kirya!”

  Suddenly, the gun hits the floor. He grabs my hips and fills me with something much thicker. He thrusts in and out, faster and faster, pounding my pussy with his engorged cock while rubbing circles over my clit.

  I’ve never seen him so feral, so completely unrestrained, as he is right now, fucking me on his throne. Suddenly, there’s a shift in the air and everything blurs—Power. Sex. Love. Passion. Danger.

  Electricity buzzes through my veins, alive with the knowledge I bring him this much pleasure.

  When he explodes inside me, it’s so intense I can barely breathe. He buries his face in my neck. “You will be the death of me, Stasya. And I will die with a smile on my face.”

  17

  Kirill

  “I chose to be with you, Kirya. That means I accepted this life and everything that comes with it. We are equals, yes?” Stasya asks, dropping an earring onto the silver tray on her dresser. “I’m not talking about being on your level in your organization. I don’t want anything to do with your business. But I will not be treated as a prisoner. Not if you really want me in your life as a lover and partner.”

  “When have I ever treated you as a prisoner?” I ask.

  “Unless I’m within these walls, I’m never alone!” She sets the second earring on the tray and throws up her arms. Her feet slide across the wood floors as she strides to the window. “I can’t even take a walk without Slava lurking behind me.”

  “It’s for your protection, Stasya. Not because you are a prisoner,” I explain, for what feels like the millionth time. “Do you understand how devastated I’d be if something happened to you?”

  She silently stares out the window of our bedroom, observing whatever’s happening below on Gorky Street. I continue, “I couldn’t go on. I’d put the Stechkin to my temple and fire it.”

  No answer. I tell her I’d kill myself if anything happened to her and she doesn’t answer.

  “Jesus!” I pull my hair sharply. “Sometimes I think I need to fuck some sense into you.”

  She scowls at me. “Fucking doesn’t change anything.”

  That’s where she’s wrong. I cross the room quickly, grabbing her shoulders, and lifting her to her feet.

  “It does,” I say, staring into her blazing eyes. My cock swells with each with each heavy breath she takes. “Every time I take you, another piece of the invisible wall you have up dissolves away. I own you with every kiss and every thrust. I own your heart. Your soul. Your pussy.”

  Her hair is straight today, different from her usual big bouncy, hair-sprayed curls. It feels smooth as satin as I slide my fingers through it. My fist closes at the roots and I tilt her head back. She gasps, then tightens her jaw defiantly.

  “I know you like being owned, Stasya. I can tell by the way your nails dig into my back when I’m fucking you. I can tell by the way you scream my name when I go harder. If you didn’t like being mine, you wouldn’t be wet and ready to accept me every time I touch you. You can say no, but you don’t.”

  “Can I?” she asks. “Can I really say no?”

  Round and round we go. She knows how much I love her. She knows I’d jump in front of a bullet to keep her safe. If it makes her feel better to rage at me every time she feels out of control, I can talk her down from the ledge.

  “Sobakin knows I control Vanya, so the threat to your safety is probably over. If you’re only here because you think I’m holding you captive, go.” I release her abruptly, step back, and point to the door. “I want you to be here because you see yourself by my side forever. But if you choose to leave, don’t curse my name if you get kidnapped.”

  “There you go with your guilt trips and threats, Kirya.” She mimics my voice. “‘Go on, leave me, but you’ll get killed if you do.’ You keep reminding me that I have no choice!”

  “I have no threats for you, Stasya, just truth. I’ll always keep an eye out for you because I love you. I thought you knew that. I thought you could see that in every fucking thing I do to make your life better. If you’re looking for someone to beg you to stay, I’m not that man. I don’t beg. I command.”

  She’s silent for a minute, her lips and chest heaving as she contemplates her next move.

  “What’s your command for me this time, big pine? If you own me, what do you want from me right now?”

  This is why I love this woman. Sometimes I think she likes angry sex more than any other mood. I have no complaints if she wants to vent her grievances then seamlessly move from fight to fuck.

  “Suck me,” I say, quickly unbuttoning my jeans and freeing my erection.

  She doesn’t hesitate, dropping to her knees and taking my cock in her tiny hand.

  Every time she takes me in her mouth, I feel like I could come within seconds, but I’ve gotten really good at holding off. The longer I get to feel her mouth and hands on my dick, the better. I brush her hair out of her face so I can see her eyes while she swallows me. When I start to come, she directs me into her mouth. I close my eyes, allowing her to control me as I jerk and spasm.

  When I finally open my eyes, I swear I’m the luckiest man on earth. The most gorgeous woman kneels between my legs with my cock in her hand and cum dripping from her chin.

  “You taste so good it’s as if enjoying you is a sin. I shouldn’t like it, but I do,” she says, licking her lips.

  “I taste like sin. That has to be one of the best compliments I’ve ever been given.” I pull her to her feet and rush her to our bed. I climb over her, lean down, and lick my juices off her face.

  Her eyes sparkle as she laughs. “How do you do it, Kirya? How are you both angel and devil? Good and evil? Saint and sinner?”

  “‘Every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future.’” The quote explains me perfectly. Trying to do the most good for others led me to a lawless life. The criminal on the outside doesn’t define who I am inside.

  She tilts her head. “Did you just make that up?”

  “No! It’s a famous quote. Oscar Wilde.”

  She covers my mouth with her hand and looks around the room with wide eyes, paranoid that someone will burst in at any moment. “You mustn’t speak like that, Kirya. The walls have ears,” she whispers. “If they hear you quoting non-Soviet authors, you’ll be sent to the gulag.”

  I lick her palm and she immediately pulls back in repulsion, frowning as she wipes it on my shoulder. I laugh and tickle her. “Why the look of disgust, Stasya? I thought you liked my tongue.”

  She smiles like she has a secret. Or maybe it’s her way of protecting the last layer of modesty because she likes all the things I do to her with my tongue. Either way, I’m about to test my theory.

  I roll her onto her back and lift her nightgown, taking a moment to appreciate the smooth, fair skin of her lithe body. When I take hold of her waist, she lifts her pelvis toward my face, beckoning me to taste her. I press my lips to her stomach, kissing the soft skin above her belly button.

  “Where is that tongue, Kirya? The one that barks orders and quotes classic literature in the same breath.” Her stomach presses against my lips every t
ime it rises. I inhale her sweet lavender scent.

  “I’m multi-dimensional,” I tease, lifting her legs over my shoulders. “Just like you.” I stop to kiss the inside of her thigh. “You are so sweet and kind.” I slide my hands from her waist, under her ass. She lifts ever so slightly, her wet pussy gliding across my chin. “But you like the power you have at my side. You like being different—special.”

  Despite the divine scent that makes me want to dive right in, I turn my head and lightly bite her other thigh. She cries out softly and squeezes my face between her legs, putting my mouth directly where she wants it.

  “Everyone likes feeling special.” She gasps.

  “That’s true. But it’s especially true for you because no one has ever made you feel that way, have they?” Holding her open, I lick her folds slowly, before swirling my tongue around her clit. “You never got any attention.”

  “You gave me attention,” she whispers, watching me intently. “You always made me feel special, like I was worth something.”

  “You are worth something. You are worth more than a million Fabergé eggs.”

  It’s the last thing I say before plunging my fingers into her and flicking her clit with my tongue. I’ll never get tired of making her moan with pleasure.

  Afterwards, Stasya lays on my chest, exhausted and satisfied. My eyelids droop, ready to plunge into dreamland.

  “You’re not a sinner, my love,” Stasya whispers. “People may judge you harshly or be afraid of you, but I know the truth. I know the good inside you.” She places her hand on my chest, directly over my heart. “Everything you do is to make life better for others. I know that above anyone.”

  18

  Stasya

  After months of paying attention, I’m finally comfortable weaving through Cherikovsky’s underground. Though, Slava is still at my side, pulling me right or left, steering me away from things I shouldn’t see. And I appreciate it.

  People who say knowledge is power, were never part of the mafia. The less I know, the safer I am.

  Today, I’m lucky enough to stroll the halls on Kirill’s arm. He’s been so busy bringing on new hockey clients, I rarely see him during the day, but he cleared his lunch hour because he had a surprise for me.

  “Are you ready?” he asks with a sparkle in his eyes.

  “Yes!” I clap my hands together, wondering what could possibly be behind the door that has him so excited. The market itself is booming, but underneath is a sad place—a third world country of its own. The only consolation I have is that it provides money, food, and shelter for the thousands of people who work here.

  As he opens the door slowly, I lean forward, hoping to catch a glimpse of something.

  Tables lined with sewing machines make up the front half of the room. At each machine, there’s a person hunched over, working diligently. Not one head lifts when the door opens and Kirill and I walk in.

  I move through the room, past the machine tables. The next station has women hand-sewing individual garments. Along the back wall are reams of fabric stacked to the ceiling, in every color and texture imaginable.

  “Welcome to the place where your clothing will be made,” Kirill says. “For now. Once your line gets off the ground, we’ll have to have a warehouse, of course.”

  “Wait? Are they really working on my designs, Kirya?” I ask, stopping to peer over a woman’s shoulder. She’s sewing crystals onto the pockets of a denim skirt I designed.

  My hands fly up to cover my mouth and I spin around, watching the people working. That’s when I spot the racks. I dash over to them and grab the first piece I reach.

  It’s one of the first dresses I ever put on paper.

  “Will that be Anastasiya Antonov’s signature piece?”

  “That’s not my name.”

  “Not yet.”

  The thought of being his wife makes me absolutely giddy.

  “My favorite part about sharing an office with you is watching you work, Stasya. I see the passion you have for your drawings, the designs. I heard you and Svetlana talking on the phone a few weeks ago. When she said multiple people complimented her on the pieces you made her and wanted to know where she got them. And it gave me this brilliant idea.”

  “To sell my clothes?”

  “Absolutely!” he replies. “You will be a business owner.”

  “Kirya, I appreciate this so much,” I begin, choosing my words carefully so I don’t sound ungrateful, “but you know that I don’t want to be involved in this illegal market.”

  “I know, kotyonok, but it’s a good place to begin. And it will give you the business experience you’ll need to open a store in New York.”

  “New York? You’re just teasing me now!”

  “I’d never tease you about such an important dream, Stasya,” he says earnestly. “But I won’t force you either. If this isn’t something you want, just let me know and I’ll let it go. You can do it for fun, or for yourself and friends.”

  “Of course I want this! I want a store in New York and I want to have my clothes available all over the world!”

  He looks at me with reverence. “There’s only one thing I want in this world.”

  “What’s that?”

  “To see you happy.”

  Warmth floods my cheeks. I’ll never take his compliments and kindness for granted.

  He slides his hand over my head and through my hair, before cupping me behind the ear. “You are my rock, Stasya. Together, we are changing lives of Russians for the better.”

  Kirill is the most generous man I’ve ever known. Always thinking of others before himself.

  When I first thought about the choice he gave me, I was confused. I understood his duty to protect me, but him wanting me for more blew my mind. He could have any woman in Moscow, why in the world would he choose me? He never gave me any indication he liked me in any way other than someone who was like family. Or maybe he did, and I was too thick to see it.

  “I think you want more than that from me,” I tease, fingers crawling up his chest.

  He wraps his arms around me and pulls me close. “Oh, that’s not a want, my love, that’s a need.”

  19

  Kirill

  Stasya’s been working long hours, creating new designs, overseeing the production of her clothes, and building her inventory before she opens her booth at the market. Because there’s still so much to do before it will be ready, I didn’t think she would agree to take a break.

  Thankfully, she’s smart enough to know the rest will rejuvenate her for the hard work ahead.

  “This is our stop,” I say as we approach Peredelkino Station.

  She scoots closer to the edge of her seat, waiting impatiently for the electrichka to come to a complete stop. She’s been glowing ever since I told her I was whisking her away for an overnight trip to the country.

  It’s a much-needed break from the city for both of us. As much as quiet time to connect with Stasya excites me, I’m even more excited for the surprise I have for her.

  “If you move one more inch, you’ll be on the floor,” I tease, pinching the denim covering her outer thigh. She glances at me with a bright smile that reminds me of when she was a girl—carefree and happy. Back in the days when Vanya was always home and her father directed most of his alcohol-induced anger toward her mother.

  She’s finally wearing the blue jeans I bought her a few weeks ago. After her initial shock at seeing the price tag, she refused to wear them, claiming I spent far too much money. She argued she could get six pairs for the same price at Cherkizovsky. The girl who thought jeans that cost me over one hundred American dollars were too casual for the city saved them for this trip, to milk goats and chase chickens.

  Maybe she’s trying to prove a point. A hundred dollars is expensive for something you wear on a farm.

  I don’t give a fuck what she wears—expensive jeans to milk goats, fur coats to ride a horse. She’s worth every single penny I spend on her. Maybe some
day she’ll realize that. Maybe she’ll realize she doesn’t have to live the Soviet way anymore. I can’t expect her to change overnight. The mindset is so ingrained, it’s even hard for me to shake, and I was raised to rebel against communism.

  Which tells me everything I need to know about her. She is the same wonderful, kind-hearted soul I’ve always known. She is not a money-hungry woman, looking for someone to provide for her. Though, I wouldn’t blame her if she were. I don’t blame one person here for wanting things we’ve been deprived of for so long.

  If Stasya told me she wanted to take a bath in diamonds, I’d make it happen.

  I slide my hand through her long, blonde hair, until my fingers brush her white button-down shirt. There are faint brown spots scattered across the collar.

  “Is this mine?” I ask, brushing my thumb over the stain.

  She turns to face me quickly, inadvertently knocking my hand away. “Oh, Kirya, I’m sorry, I didn’t ask.” Her words gush out, as if she’s afraid of my reaction. “You have ten identical shirts in your closet, so I didn’t think you’d mind.” She plucks the fabric at her chest and holds it out. “I even took one that was old and stained, just in case.”

  Taking her chin between my thumb and forefinger, I lift her face. “Shhh, kotyonok, it’s okay. I’m not mad.”

  “Are you sure? I—”

  “The last time I saw you in that shirt, I was making you breakfast after I fucked you raw. So, no, I’m not mad.” I look at my lap where my dick swells under my jeans, and her eyes follow. A small smile lifts her lips when she sees how excited I am at seeing her in the shirt she loves to wrap herself in after sex.

  I don’t have the heart to tell her the stains on the collar are splatters of blood. She’s already seen violent parts of my life, so there’s no need to bring up stories that will repulse her—especially here, when we’re trying to relax.

  For someone who didn’t even want to wear jeans at first, they’ve become a staple in her signature casual look. Her classic beauty makes her look like a model plucked from an American fashion a magazine.