Page 3 of The Tenth Circle (Vicious Saint: Prelude)
I shove him off me, and it works for a second before both my wrists are being squeezed together above my head.
“Get off,” I demand.
He laughs.
I struggle in his grip. “What the hell is so funny?”
“Besides how little you pay attention?”
He removes one of the hands he’s got above my head, only to have it sliding up my leg again.
So I kick the asshole.
Said asshole blocks the assault with ease, and this time when I’m restrained, he makes sure to squeeze my wrists until they hurt.
“I said get off!”
That’s when nails dig into my skin, making me wince.
The psycho must’ve sensed my reaction, because he eases his hold, and I can see a glimpse of his eyes staring at me in the dark. Not enough to interpret what he’s thinking but enough to know he’s curious.
Dammit, I wish I could see more of this guy, but hate that I want to even more. It’s why when he releases me and his fingers travel back between my legs, I don’t bother trying to fight it.
We stare at each other through the darkness, the striking blue in his irises making it a smidge less difficult.
I swallow, knowing if this guy doesn’t look away now I may be the one answering to his alleged “Royal Cock”.
But would I be? There was no lulling or shushing to be found for those bitches. He’s actually being considerate.
Of my feelings.
Of my vagina.
Not so much my wrists and overall well-being.
Way to go Montgomery, you’ve managed to become both an idealist and an idiot in a whopping five minutes.
Ugh, it’s just been so long since I lost my virginity, and that was a less than five minute trainwreck. This already feels so much better than Salvatore Demario.
No, no, no. I blink away the crazy, knowing I need to stop this before it’s too late and he’s…
Inside my fucking panties.
Goddammit when the hell did he unbutton my jeans?
The moan ripping through my lips is nothing short of desperate when his fingers find my clit without any barriers, working it with skill.
Skill you know comes from being a certified fuck boy.
And you’re certifiably fucked.
“So you do want me touching you. Hm?” He’s back to playing cocky.
Why bother answering?
My body is already writhing and he knows it.
With eyes rolling and fluttering I press the back of my head against the wall, allowing myself this small mercy before my better judgment kicks into gear.
“That was fast,” Crazyman muses when he slides a finger inside me with zero resistance.
ZERO. ZILCH. NIENTE. NADA.
My body is a traitor.
“Shut up,” I hiss, but even that seems futile.
As if picking apart some pieces of a science experiment, he says, “Must’ve been a long time since you were taken care of.”
More like never.
But even more like not now .
“Stop,” my voice cracks, sounding so needy and unbelievable it’s pathetic.
“You sure?” he asks, pumping his fingers inside me a few times before slipping down my jeans.
Yes.
No.
Yes.
Fuck.
“Yes,” I manage.
“Even if I can promise you won’t regret it?”
Of course I’ll regret it. I have no idea who this guy is or what he really looks like to research local sex offenders.
“Even if you promise I won’t regret it. Okay?!” The words go from curt to erratic, needing him to stop before I change my mind.
When my jeans and underwear pass my hips I know I’m ruined. Either he’s gonna love what he finds or hate what he finds.
Either way it’ll hurt.
Hands squeeze my thighs, making me wiggle again.
But he says nothing.
So I say nothing.
Cellulite and all can be felt in this guy’s hands, which wouldn’t usually slight my confidence, but he just froze in place and that’s alarming.
You know…unlike getting fingered by a stranger in a glorified closet.
Still. Idealists are not cruel.
Therefore they do not deserve to be rejected by psychopaths.
“Please stop…” Discouragement oozes through each syllable, until warm breath hovers close to my vagina, followed by the sound of a long drawn inhale.
Then a moan.
“What are you…?” Once again my words are silenced, but this time by the tip of his tongue along my flesh, careful and precise as if wanting to savor the taste. It takes everything in me not to find the strands of his hair and pull him into me for more.
Tingles shoot all the way down to my toes, and when he repeats the process they zoom right back up to where we’re connected.
“Please…” This time when I beg, it has nothing to do with stopping, and boy does he know it because I can feel his smile against my skin.
Still, Crazyman says nothing.
All of a sudden, there’s space between us, and I hold back the urge to stomp my feet in protest.
“Ask me,” he repeats the demand for the umpteenth time, distancing himself until I can no longer feel his warmth or towering presence.
“Seriously? This again?!” I yell into the dark, pulling up my jeans and fastening them at lightning speed.
“Ask me.” The words come from my left and make me jump.
They’re colder, louder, meaner—a telltale sign the other him is back and approaching fast.
Whatever, Crazyman. You win.
But you both better take this shit home right after.
“Fucking fine. Are you a sinner?”
The mood has already shifted by the time he reaches me, the heat of his body absorbing every bit of cold as he leans down to say, “Of course not, I’m a saint.”