Page 47 of Soulless Saint

I ditched the mat and water, following behind Becca only a minute after she left. The cooler air outside the studio felt easier to breathe and I listened for her, swinging my head to either side of the hall. Across from me, in the women’s changing room, I heard the creak of a knob twisting and water spurting over tile. I grinned.

The changing room I entered was identical to the men’s one, except this one was stuffed full of yoga bags and water bottles and clothing neatly hung on hooks and folded on the benches.

Steam rose from the back of the space, where two banks of three showers with curtained doors filled a tiled area. The curtains were all open save for one.

The stall at the very back.

What was it about dangerous criminals?

Is it the cocky smirks? The tattoos? The confidence? The fact that they knew their way around a vast amount of weaponry?

Or was it just the unfiltered rawness of them?

Whatever it was, it managed to make Kaleb St. Vincent both one of the most frustrating men I’d ever met, but also one of the hottest. Like panty melting, dripping through two layers of skin tight fabric hot.

I drew the shower curtain closed in the empty change room, stripping down naked to find the evidence of my arousal lining the seamless thong I was wearing beneath my yoga pants.

My greedy cunt throbbed as the air hit it and I bit back a groan, roughly tugging everything else off, tearing my hair from its high ponytail to let it cascade around my shoulders. I flicked the tap on, twisting it to the highest heat setting it would allow, as if I could wash the Saint off with nothing more than scalding water and thoughts of polo wearing, messenger bag toting, good boys.

There was one other thing I could do to banish him from my thoughts, though. My thighs pressed together as I bent my head and entered the stream of hot water, letting it plaster my hair to my face. Class wouldn’t be over for another twenty minutes at least. I chewed my lower lip, water slipping over my closed eyelids as my hand snaked low, finding my warm, slippery clit.

I clenched my teeth, breathing through them as I began to swirl my fingers, turning to lean my back against the wall. All images of college frat boys with crew cuts and loafers fled, replaced with imagery that had me holding back moans.

A bicep flexing with a long sleeve shirt tucked into the crease of an elbow.

Wicked sneers on sharply bowed lips.

Tattoos arcing over eyebrows.

…running down toned waists to vanish beneath dark wash jeans.

Sun-kissed brown hair and the scent of spiced rum and cherry cigars.

…of leather and warm amber.

A four leaf clover charm pressed between white teeth.

The taste of whiskey and honey on my tongue.

I let out a little gasp, circling my clit faster, dipping my fingers into myself like an artist wetting a brush, ready to paint a fucking masterpiece.

I shuddered against the wall, my breaths coming short and shallow as my core tightened and I braced my other hand against the wall, spreading my legs wider.

The shhh of plastic rushing along a metal bar snapped me back to the present. I opened my eyes to a waterlogged view of Kaleb standing with his fist clenched in the shower curtain, a ravenous hunger in his stare as he took in every inch of me.

I opened my mouth to tell him to get the fuck out, but no words evicted themselves, stubbornly squatting there behind my lips like the little traitors they were.

My chest heaved, and his gaze caught on my pebbled nipples. He let out a low sounding breath, his cheekbones flaring.

“Kaleb,” I started, my bracing hand dropping from the wall to cover myself, to cover my scar, as he continued to stare.

He cleared the gap between us, putting himself beneath the stream of scalding water. In one quick movement he had my wrist wrapped in his right hand, torn away from my chest so he could continue to marvel at me. He leaned down, using his free hand to run the pad of his thumb gently along the underside of my breast, over the puckered flesh of the scar that hugged its curve. I shivered at his touch, expecting to find disgust in his stare, but finding something else instead.

Wonder.

And something else.

A sort of recognition that could only come from someone who knew the same level of pain. Of fear for their own life.

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