Page 77 of Wicked Vile King
I'm afraid to hear it, but I have to know.
He snaps a strap on my bathing suit. It stings like a rubber band when it hits my shoulder.
"Take. It. Off," he commands.
"W . . . what?" I stutter before he dips his head and stoops, literally getting down to my level.
"Take it off, pet," he tells me, "or say goodbye to your clothes."
I want to argue, or demand his help, or beg, but I'm not dumb enough to think any of it would work. Plus, the way he's looking at me right now makes me feel powerful, like I'm the only thing in the world that matters to him.
Slowly, I slide the straps of my bathing suit from my shoulders as he stands there, staring at me. I roll the suit down my breasts, the fabric catching on my nipples, as I carefully watch his expression. He shows nothing though. He just stands there, his blue eyes blown to black in the dim light.
I continue undressing, dragging the swimsuit down over my belly button and then off completely. It lands with a wet, sopping sound on the floor.
Saint stands there a moment longer, still staring at me, before he kneels before me and runs two fingers through the blood and cum dripping down my leg. He brings his fingers to his mouth and licks them clean with apop.
What.
The.
Fuck.
"Mmm," he says, his eyes closing with his groan, "you taste like perfect, bloody ruin, pet."
Then he stands, grabs my face between his large hands, and slams his lips down onto mine. He thrusts his tongue into my mouth, forcing me to taste us too.
It's indecent.
Vulgar.
And so freaking hot.
His kiss brands me, searing my lungs and scalding my tongue. It makes my knees weak and turns my bones to Jell-O. When he finally steps away, he walks straight over to the locker room entrance and disappears into the darkness. The light comes on in the locker room a moment later, and he walks back out, looking as self-assured as ever.
What the hell?
"All the lights reset when the power goes out," he tells me. "Next time, you just have to flip the switch."
He walks past me and slaps my ass. I yelp at the burn.
"Now get dressed," he tells me, "before I rethink being benevolent."
"Benevolent?" I ask as he heads toward the boys' locker room.
"Yes, pet," he says back to me with a smirk. "Benevolent because I'm only fucking you one time today."
Ohmygod.
I skitter into the locker room, swooping to gather my swimsuit as I do. I change quickly, trying to not think about Saint or the last half hour or whether he's out there waiting on me. But unfortunately, without Saint to occupy my thoughts, the thing my brain keeps going back to is babies.
Babies born to eighteen-year-old girls. In insane asylums. In the mountains. In New York.
He finished inside of me, and I may have been a virgin up until today, but I know how babies are made. And I can't have a baby with Saint Laurier. Let me clarify. I can't have a baby period, but Idefinitelycan't have a baby with Saint.
That would be wrong on so many levels, not the least of which is that we're both being currently incarcerated in a glorified mental institution, and that I have plans for college—or, at least, I used to have them and I think I still do—and the fact that he is a trickster, a liar, and a thief with an impressive superiority complex and zero normal people feelings.
Baby + Saint = a very, very,verybad idea. Like an apocalyptic, Ragnarök-level bad idea.
