Page 54 of Warrior

I release him and stand.

He grabs me and spins me around, kicking my legs wide. I gasp when he presses in close, and he thrusts inside me without an issue. His cum and my arousal make it easy. He grunts. His chest connects with my back, and his arms wrap around my torso. He somehow avoids the stab wounds, but the pressure barely aches.

The way he’s bear hugging me is stabilizing.

His teeth score my shoulder, and I cry out. I can’t go anywhere. He takes his fill, and only once he comes does he touch my clit. He rubs me to another orgasm, one that nearly takes out my vision again. The room goes silent, just the pulse in my clit under his fingers, and then everything tunes back in.

Our panting breath, my thundering heart. The tick of a clock.

Distance. As soon as he’s pulled out, I step away. I don’t look back at him, just pick up my clothes and hurry back to the bathroom.

13SAINT

Comingto see Antonio was a mistake.

The older man has been moved from the hospital to a rehabilitation center. When I arrive, a nurse directs me to the physical therapy room.

It’s about the size of a high school gymnasium, broken down into different sections. Some people are using weights, others are doing guided stretches. Along the far wall, on one of the exercise machines, sits Antonio. A trainer is right there beside him, helping form or coaching him through it…

And getting cursed out in Italian, by the sound of it.

I catch Antonio’s eye and wave.

He scowls at me.

The trainer tells him to go again, and Antonio slowly pushes his arms forward. Like a vertical bench press. He has two grips in his hands, each with a length of cord that feeds back into the machine. Where one might put a pin in the weights, at the center of it, a two-pound bar rises.

“Good!” the trainer says. “Two more.”

Sweat dots Antonio’s brow. He continues his Italian tirade under his breath, but the trainer seems to not mind.

The trainer, in a royal-blue polo and slacks, introduces himself to me. “Jared Brown. Physical therapist.”

Right, therapist. Not trainer.

“Saint,” I greet him. “How’s he doing?”

“Good.”

“You have experience?”

He lifts his pant leg, revealing a metal ankle. It disappears under the hem. “Real-world experience plus training. Antonio asked me the same thing.”

“Right.” I nod once, forcing myself not to focus on my embarrassment.

“That he’s talking through the exercise, even swearing, is a good sign,” he adds.

Antonio finishes his set, and Jared takes the handles back. He helps Antonio stand, and the older man glares at me.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

I raise my hands in surrender. “I came to check on you.”

“Bah.” He scowls. “You spent too much time at my bedside.”

“I don’t see it that way.” I shove my hands into my pockets, or else they’ll be balled into fists in no time. “Artemis?—”

“Artemis,” he interrupts. “Yes. Exactly.Artemis.”

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