Page 28 of Saint Valentine

“Because if any of the men at our wedding look at you the way I know they will... with you in this—there’ll be a bloody Valentine’s Day massacre.”

I laughed. “Well, I’m getting it. It’s my wedding, after all.”

Before I could even blink, he grabbed the dress, yanking it down in one swift motion.

The front tore.

I gasped.

“No,” Saint growled, his voice a low rumble. “You’re not wearing this.”

My cheeks burned with a mix of anger and humiliation.

“Did you just rip a fucking dress off of me?”

Suddenly, I was moving.

He dragged me back into the fitting room and slammed the door behind us.

He pushed me against the wall, his body pressing into mine, keeping me in place.

“Don’t move,” he ordered, glaring down at me.

Then he went about tearing at the dress, ripping it apart until it was ruined, leaving me in only the white compressing foundation underneath.

He was panting hard, his breath hot against my skin.

“You’re mine,” he growled, his hands gripping my hips, “and I’ll be damned if I let anyone see you looking like you were in that dress.”

I opened my mouth to protest, to remind him that I was being forced to marry him.

That this wasn’t real.

But before I could—he kissed me.

It wasn’t a kiss that said, “I love you.”

It wasn’t even a kiss that said, “I care.”

It was a kiss that said, “You belong to me.”

It was a kiss that made my head spin.

A kiss that made my body feel like molten silk.

I didn’t want this—I shouldn’t want this—but his mouth on mine was a drug.

It was everything I hated—and everything I wanted.

And it felt really fucking real.

He kissed me so thoroughly that for a split second, I considered marrying him of my own free will just to keep him from ever kissing someone else like he kissed me.

I’d kill a bitch, I thought.

When he finally pulled back, both of us were breathing hard.

Our bodies were pressed together, our hearts pounding in sync.

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