Page 4 of Saint Baptiste 2

He shook his head and pulled back as an attempt to resist me when he knew got damn well I was irresistible. “You don’t. But?—"

I gripped the collar of his blazer and pulled him harder than before, forcing him on top of me. “I do.”

I immediately wrapped my arms around his neck, locking them there. He tried to pry them a part. I mean, of course, he did... he had to show some resistance. But he didn’t try hard he enough. If Saint really wanted to get away from me, he could. He just, he couldn’t give in to me too easily. I had been such a bad girl, and he was being too nice to me. Too gentle. I didn’t deserve that. I deserved to be punished.

He didn’t deserve me neither.

He deserved to be punished too.

But tonight, there was no room for ego.

No room for pride.

For either of us.

I needed him.

And he needed me, too.

“I see,” I whispered against his lips with a pause before slithering my hand between his legs to grab his hard dick. “And,” Pausing, I pinched my bottom lip between my teeth. “I feel...just. How. Bad. You. Want. To. Fuck. Me.”

He dropped his head with a deep breath, grumbled a few things in that Haitian Creole I loved to hear him speak, and fucking struggled to resist me. Despite how much shit Saint talked, he was weak. Evidence of defeat weighed heavy on his broad shoulders.

“But you can’t just fuck me, right? I don’t deserve it, do I?” I teased, as I slowly caressed his dick through the thin fabric of his slacks. “I’ve been such a bad girl, haven’t I? And bad girls should be punished.” I leaned up a bit and sultrily whispered into his ear. “So, punish me. Punish me and then... fuck this pretty phat pussy. Just the way you want to. How ever you want to. Every hole. Use me. Use them. They’re yours. All of them.” I paused and leaned closer to his ear to make sure my lips brushed up against his earlobe when I whispered, “All of me.”

With tears in my eyes, I begged for the dick. I needed him to give me something. I couldn’t leave Pandora’s wearing the same stains I wore when I walked in. I couldn’t walk out of the door with that... shit... on the surface. Even if that meant fucking a nigga who’d shoved his dick in another bitches mouth right in front of me.

I wore desperation like a fourth layer of skin where Saint Baptiste was concerned.

Tonight, I did.

‘Da nile’ is a river in Egypt, ain’t it?

If desperation was the fourth layer, denial was the fifth.

I wore both every got damn day. Not just tonight. It was easier for me to blame desperation on tonight after the day I had. On a day that I needed the ugly shit reburied, after realizing that only he could give me what I needed to bury it. I was pathetic.

I was a lot of things.

More than any of it, I was broken.

And only he could fix me. Back-to-back shots of tequila hadn’t. Three fine ass, big dick men couldn’t. But... Saint could.

Saint was a fucking magician.

I released him and laid flat on my back with my arms stretched out. Legs too. I presented myself to him, as if I was on a platter. Gave him space and opportunity to use me in any way he desired.

He didn’t move. Didn’t say anything either. The tension continued to rise, and I just laid there in silence, arms out, waiting for him to use me.

The sound of skin slapping, guttural moans, and echoes of pleasure from other rooms traveled through the cracks, spilling into our space. However, even that began to dissipate. Soon, there was just silence. The only sound I could hear was the racing of my own heart as we did what we did. Stared at one another. Well... As he did what he did. Stared into me, stealing pieces of me with every passing millisecond. My heart raced with every little piece he took. But... I let him. Because the longer we stared, the more I stole from him too. The more I took, the easier it was for me to extinguish those fleeting flames.

Eventually, they vanished, and he gave me what we needed.

I arched my back and moaned when he aggressively pulled my dress back down and attacked my nipples. Fuck. His mouth was so got damn wet as if he had been salivating. Literally hungry for them. I gripped the back of his neck when he roughly dragged his teeth along the left one, mercilessly tugging on it. It hurt so got damn good.

“Earlier... You told me I was afraid of something. What am I afraid of again, amou?” He asked before biting and pulling again. His tone was... husky. Low, rough, and almost as intimidating as those piercing eyes of his.

Amou.

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