Page 81 of There Are No Saints

“Say it, Mara. Tell me you belong to me . . .”

I want to say it.

I want to give in.

His hand is stroking, rubbing, exactly the way I like. Better than a man has ever managed before. Better than I can do it myself . . .

The pleasure is a need, a demand. An itch that HAS to be scratched . . .

“SAY IT,” he snarls.

“No fucking way,” I hiss back at him.

He finishes the tattoo with a vicious slash down the bone.

I shriek. Every muscle of my body tenses, including my thighs clamping hard together. That’s what makes me cum, as much as Cole’s fingers pressed against my clit. The orgasm is a blazing shock that rips through me from chest to groin, in one continuous loop.

I turn my head, biting hard on my own shoulder. Leaving a wreath of teeth marks.

My weight hangs from the cuffs, my body limp and wrung out.

I’m still twitching as the aftershocks spark through me.

Cole wipes the excess ink off my skin with the same green soap. The soap Logan uses.

“You didn’t hurt him, did you?” I demand.

“He’s not your concern,” Cole says, seizing my face once more. Forcing me to look at him. “You need to worry about whatIthink. WhatIwant.”

I look into his eyes.

“What happens if I don’t?”

“Then next time I won’t be so forgiving.”

I laugh out loud, standing up straight now, rattling the cuffs.

“This is you being nice?”

Cole looks at me steadily.

“Yes, Mara,” he says quietly. “This is me being kind. Being merciful. You need to understand that—because if you try to crack me open, you won’t like what crawls out.”

He unlocks the cuffs. I rub my wrists, trying to bring sensation back into my hands. Then, slowly, I walk over to the full-length mirror hanging on the wall. I stand before it, turning slightly so I can see the tattoo that runs from just under my right breast all the way down to my hip bone.

He branded me. Put his mark on me forever.

And it’s beautiful. Truly fucking beautiful.

Cole is an artist in every sense of the word. The composition, the smooth flow of the lines, the way the flowers and leaves follow the curves of my breast, my ribs, my hip bone. Perfectly formed to my shape, undulating with every twist or bend of my body. As I move, the tattoo comes alive.

A wild garden. A riot of ferns, foliage, and flowers, between which my little snake peeks out.

“Jesus Christ,” I breathe. “You really are talented.”

Cole stands directly behind me.

He’s taller than me, and broader. I fit entirely inside his silhouette, so he forms a dark halo all around me. As if he’s already swallowed me whole, and I’m inside of him.

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