Eden

Before I realize it, he’s backing me up toward the bed. The back of my knees hit the mattress, and he gives me a little shove so I fall backwards. Then, he’s taking my clothes off and throwing them over his shoulder before yanking his own t-shirt up and away from his head.

It’s kind of sad—how the worst boys have the most epically beautiful exteriors.

“Saint,” I gasp when he presses my knees apart. “Do you really think this shit’ll work on me?”

He skims a hand between my legs, gri

It’s a threat, but I feel a perverse thrill course through me.

“You’ll stop if I tell you to,” I murmur as he strokes me with mind-boggling skill.

“Then say it, little masochist. Four letters. It’s easy as fuck.”

“I hate you,” I grit between clenched teeth, and he responds with a smug look that tells me he thinks I’m full of shit. “You won’t last either.”

He laughs right in my face then places a kiss on the tip of my nose. “A few minutes of recovery is all I’ll need. You? You’ll break, little masochist. Eventually.”

I want to tell him he’s wrong, but I’m already writhing beneath him and he’s only used his fingers so far.

I might be in trouble.

Suddenly, he removes his hand from between my legs and grabs my ankles, spi

“First things first, though,” he says, a sudden edge to his deep voice. “You’re going to make it up to me for that shit you pulled with Liam tonight.”

“I don’t understand,” I murmur, even though I’m 99.9 percent sure I know exactly what he wants.

Sure enough, he fists his dick and rubs the head against my lips. “Open.”

I do. I can’t help myself. When he gets like this, I’m putty in his hands.

When my mouth is open, he pushes his length inside. He goes in deep, towards my throat.

“Have you ever deep-throated?” he asks, his voice slightly strained.

I shake my head the tiniest bit as I fight not to gag on him.

“Relax.” He places one hand on my throat, gently massaging there. “Don’t fight it, and it’ll be easier.”

I try to do as he says, and I have to admit his tender caresses and soothing tone do help. I breathe through my nose and it’s like my throat loosens bit by bit, so he pushes in deeper and deeper.

“Good girl,” he groans.

I wish I could see his face, but it’s not possible from this angle. His thighs are tensed around me, though, and I can tell he likes this. He pulls back slightly and sinks in again. He repeats the process a few more times, extending his strokes with each pass until he’s thrusting into my open mouth. It’s strangely exciting doing this, and I’m a little surprised that I don’t hate it. He begins picking up speed, and I gag a little bit at first, but then force myself to relax. I let out a startled cry when he leans over down and begins fingering my clit, and I almost forget not to bite him.

Soon, he’s found a steady pace. He’s not as rough or fast as some of the other times I’ve gone down on him, but I can tell he’s holding himself back. My heart flutters a little bit. This is supposed to be my punishment, but he’s being so mindful not to hurt me.

When I start to squirm, he pulls back, panting.

“On your hands and knees.”

I cough a little as I roll up and wordlessly move to obey. Once I’m set, I hear the rustle of clothing as he takes his jeans off completely, and then the bed dips as he climbs up behind me. He wraps his fist around my hair, and I know he’s done being gentle.

He slams into me without warning, and I scream as mind-numbing pleasure explodes through me. The sound of his body slapping against mine echoes through the room, the only other noise apart from our grunts and moans. I’d be knocked down from my hands to my elbows if it wasn’t for his hold on my hair keeping my head up.

My orgasm builds quickly, and Saint sends me careening over the edge. I cry out as he thrusts into me, over and over, forcing my release to drag out until it’s nearly painful. He lets go of my hair and I collapse forward, but he grips my hips hard and keeps going.

“Tell me the truth, Mallory,” he whispers against the nape of my neck.

I bury my face into his bedspreads, breathing in his scent, and let out a desperate whimper.

“Still won’t say?” He abruptly pulls out of me, slaps my ass, then flips me onto my back. Lining himself back up with my entrance, he slides in again.

I’m already so tender, I wince.

“Saint—”

“Tell me the truth,” he rasps, grabbing my hips. He’s so tense, his muscles straining, and I realize he hasn’t come yet. I’ve never seen him hold himself back like this. He’s dead serious about me telling him what he wants to know.

But I won’t. I won’t give him a fucking thing.

Meeting his cold gaze, I press my lips together and shake my head.

His eyes glint, and I almost believe he wanted me to defy him.

“You really do bring the worst on yourself, don’t you?” He thrusts forward, slamming home.

Saint continues to fuck me for hours. Whenever he comes, he uses his tongue or fingers until he’s hard again, but I never get a break. After every orgasm he coaxes from me, he orders me to tell him who killed Jon Eric.

Each time I refuse.

Which is why, eventually, I’m unable to hold myself up.

I’m so exhausted, I can do nothing but lay back and take it, but I can tell that Saint’s almost at his limit, too. He’s breathing heavy, his bronze skin slick with sweat, and his muscles tight.

“Fuck, Mallory … just tell me!”

I can’t even shake my head, I’m so wiped. My silence makes it obvious what my response is, though.

He throws his head back and roars, “Fuck!”

Pulling out of me, he rips the condom he’s wearing off and strokes himself until he ejaculates on my stomach. I shiver and bite my lip, but I’m unable to do much more.

With a groan, Saint collapses onto the bed next to me.

“Goddamn it. You’re so fucking stubborn.”

I laugh weakly. “Tapping out?”

He turns his head to look at me. “Doesn’t mean this is over.”

Releasing a sigh, I say, “You’d be much happier if you just let this go, trust me.”

“I’d be much happier if you were more obedient.”

I don’t know how he does it, but somehow, Saint manages to push himself up into a sitting position. Turning to me, he wipes my stomach clean with a towel he snatches from the floor, then grabs me around the waist and drags me to the top of the bed, resting my head on the pillows and tucking me under the covers. He lays down next to me and wraps his arms around me, holding me tight against his body.

“Saint—” I murmur, but he shushes me.

“Go to sleep,” he orders, his lips pressed against my hair. “We’ll pick this up in the morning.”

I want to argue that no, we won’t, because he should just fuck off, but I’m so tired. I can tell him to fuck off in the morning. For now, I give in to my desire to slip into oblivion, lulled by his warmth and even breathing.

Something pulls me from my deep, almost coma-like sleep. I’m not sure what it is, maybe it’s the air against my back or the hum of music playing somewhere in the distance, but I immediately realize I’m alone. Opening my eyes, I turn to look over my shoulder. Saint’s gone. I touch his spot and find it’s still warm. Turning to look at the digital clock on the nightstand, I see that it’s nearly three in the morning.