Page 20 of Saint

That was putting the cart before the wagon. I mean, yeah, we were technically married, and that was a bridge we’d soon need to cross, but meeting his folks when they knew nothing about me seemed far removed from the mountain of tasks I needed to tackle. Hell, I barely knew Saint.

“Um. Not yet,” I pushed out.

“Okay.”

Generic, controlled, and lifeless, every ‘okay’ response was heavily lacking. It dawned on me that ‘okay’ was likely his default response for everything—except when he’d called me baby. The pet name was made playfully. It shouldn’t have bothered me the way it did, but the flighty thought of being his baby restored life to my center.

“Would you fuck me?”

“Huh?” I dragged the expression, feeling the pulse he initiated below. My lips parted, protesting their connection. Unprepared for the nature of his query, I squeezed my thighs together. Up to now, I’d been doing all the talking. I damn sure didn’t expect him to posit a question of his own, much less that type of question.

“If I came to you in need, would you fuck me?” Raw and unfiltered, he clarified the basis of his question.

On this table.

In this dress.

In that beautiful ass house.

On the beach.

Yes.

Hell yes. Without a doubt.

“Um. Next question.”

Because I wasn’t admitting to that. I needed a few days in between all the events we’d recently experienced before I gave in and told that truth.

Saint’s expression remained neutral. That poker face seemed to be one of his strengths, but it was difficult to get a read on him because of it.

“Why can’t you answer my question?” he probed, still wearing that neutral expression.

“It’s too intimate.”

“Okay,” he breezed, focusing on the chef approaching our table.

Our appetizers arrived then, liberating me to be silent as I dug into a Caprese salad. I watched as Saint opened his rolled silverware and placed it alongside his plate of salad. When he was satisfied with the way it was all lined up, he lifted his fork before chancing a glance at me.

“Is it good?” he asked, staring as I greedily piled my mouth with tomato and mozzarella. Satisfied with my nod of appreciation, he shifted his gaze to his plate, where he dug into his food.

I didn’t hear him speak again until he’d cleared the plate–like really cleared it. Not a single drop of food remained.

“I had some more of your things brought over from your condo. There’s a new phone back at the house for you as well,” he announced.

“Thank you,” I stated my gratitude to yet more unacknowledged silence.

When we made it back to the house, I noticed my car in the garage. In the bedroom, I located my keys on the dresser, along with a brand-new phone. The closet was filled with at least half of my clothes. Immediately, I was grateful for that. At least I wouldn’t have to reconstruct my extensive wardrobe with clothes from Demure’s warehouse.

Fresh out of a shower, I distributed my frame across the bed and opened the new cell phone, setting it up with my information. There weren’t many notifications since I was technically still supposed to be on Komodo Island. I opened the first one I noticed from the unsaved number.

The message held two photos of me dressed in the white gown from earlier in the day. In the first picture, Saint had captured my artificial display of joy with proficiency. Though the circumstances weren’t ideal, I looked like a proper chic bride. My verdict on the second photo wasn’t as kind. There was a whisper of sadness tucked behind my expression. Though it wasn’t the look I intended, my true feelings about my current predicament managed to slip through the cracks of what should have been a demure pose.

Setting the phone aside, I fought against the will of tears that sought to make their presence known. My circumstances had been uncanny and imperfect, but I vowed to make the best of the situation. For the next 364 days, I’d be someone’s wife. It wasn’t ideal, but I was safe, he was kind, and at least he was something pleasant to look at.

With ease, I recollected the way Saint’s body hugged his black tux. His scent, like an orchestral harmony, as it sexually harassed me. His line up, sharp enough to slice into my helpless heart. His voice, smooth and suave as he prompted the rosebud between my legs to flourish. His goatee, like a flawless feather made especially for a position between my legs. Yeah… My husband was favored by the man upstairs.

Thoughts of him in such a manner wouldn’t benefit me. They’d only lead my feet to search the house in pursuit of the location of his bed. And being in his bed wouldn’t serve me. It would only lead to things being more confusing at the end of my year-long commitment. There were a million dollars on the line, and I couldn’t risk losing that for the sake of flighty feelings. I was getting that bag, feelings be damned. Tucking the temptation away, I returned my attention to my phone and responded to the girlfriend group chat.

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