Bane (Sinners of Saint 4)

And having that choice? It felt good.

“I can smell your pussy on your breath.” He licked his lips, his hot tongue almost touching my mouth.

“Yeah?” I croaked.

“Yeah.” He stared down at my mouth, his eyes heavy, his lashes thick. “It doesn’t smell like green apples or rain. It smells like a needy cunt, my favorite food category in the entire world. And I can’t have you.”

The way he said that made me want to laugh. Like he’d made a promise. Like I was forbidden. Maybe to him, I was. I couldn’t fault him for that. People said that I was damaged. Fragile. Complicated. They weren’t wrong.

“But you want to.” I slid the tip of my nose down the length of his, and he let out a shaky breath. Our knuckles touched every time I pushed my fingers into myself, and he stroked his cock, roughly pulling the PA as he ran his hand over the tip. My hand briefly brushed the velvety length, and my eyes rolled in their sockets. One time, our fingers lingered together a second longer, sending jolts of electricity to the back of my skull.

“I need to,” he said.

“What do you have to lose, then?”

“Too fucking much. Come for me, Snowflake.”

We were thrusting, panting, breathing into each other’s mouths without crossing an invisible line. The room around us was cluttered with cardboard boxes and beverages and industrial fridges, and yet, my soul felt light at that moment. A shudder ran through my spine down to my toes when my orgasm hit me for the second time in a week. I felt it bone-deep, slicing through me, reminding me what sex was all about.

Pleasure. Power. Control.

“Shit, I’m coming, too,” he panted. We were so close. Physically and otherwise. I pushed against him at the same time his cock began to jerk in his hand, and he found his release. He yanked my shirt up and came all over my scar, strings of white cum decorating the word I wished I could forget.

And yet, I didn’t feel dirty.

Our eyes met, his cum between us, my fingers wet with my arousal. He took my hand, brought it to his hot lips and kissed my knuckles, never breaking eye contact. The way he held me—clutched my fist in his, almost brutally—showed me how he felt. He was no longer calculated, good-natured Bane. He was the savage I’d heard about. The man I was supposed to fear.

“The queen is the most powerful piece,” he hissed. “Don’t let the pawns bring you down.”

I wanted to ask him if he was my king.

Because I knew how to play chess very well.

But the answer was crystal clear to me.

Roman ‘Bane’ Protsenko was my knight. The piece of the chess game that needed to be moved sooner than the pawns, the bishops, and the queens.

The piece that could have saved me, had he just approached me on that beach the day he’d seen me with Emery.

The day Emery had pulled me close and whispered into my ear, “And for my next trick, baby, I’m going to take your virginity.”

I TOOK MY MOM OUT for lunch the next day.

The entire time, she stared at me across the table like I had an ulterior motive, or some shit. We were at a seafood restaurant, sitting on the balcony overlooking the golden, pulsating sand and endless ocean. She had the lobster, and I opted for fish tacos and a scowl from hell. I couldn’t erase it even if I tried, which, for the sake of full disclosure, I didn’t.

“What’s going on?” she asked with her mouth full when my frown deepened. I flicked my Wayfarers down and watched the water with the kind of longing only surfers could relate to.

“Nothing’s up.” Other than my cock every time Jesse breathed in my direction. Naturally, I chose to omit that from my answer. Mamul and I were close. But not, thank God, that close.

“Is everything okay?” She patted the corners of her mouth with a napkin.

“That’s another version of ‘What’s going on?’ I’m still fine.”

“I’m just wondering why you took me out for lunch,” Mamul said honestly, pushing her half-full plate toward me and patting an invisible bump in her flat belly. She took another sip of her wine. I was about to tell her just what it was about, when she added, “Oh, Roman. Please tell me you didn’t get anyone pregnant.”

“Fuck, Mamul, are you ever gonna stop asking that?”

“Don’t curse.”

“Don’t be insane, then.”

“You still haven’t answered my question.” The entire conversation was in Russian. At least I had this going for me. My mom didn’t know my dick was for hire—or, if she did, she hadn’t said anything—but she was always worried I’d end up getting people pregnant. I was half-tempted to tell her I needed to buy shares at Durex I was being so safe. I finished the last bite off my plate and took whatever she’d left. I could hoover two more plates without batting an eyelash. I washed the food down with my beer.