Page 30 of Savage Saint

Nope. Not yet.

Whatever breakdown my brain is trying to schedule can wait until I’m home, preferably after twelve hours of sleep and with a cold raspberry soda in my hand. That, or a double shot of rum.

Either works right now.

Opening my eyes, I reach for the first bottle on the built-in shelf. Body wash. Good enough.

It’s a thick gel, falling into my palm in a huge dollop that’s easy to work into a rich lather. One that makes me pause when the scent hits me. My hands stop. I can’t help but inhale deeply and let the delicious scent soothe my fragile senses.

Dark. Clean. Masculine.

Familiar as of six in the morning.

It’s Saint in a bottle—woodsy, leather, and rum. The only thing missing is the faintest undertone of motor oil. Turning the label to face me, it’s from a brand I’m not familiar with. Maybe it’s bought in bulk, and this aesthetic glass bottle is refilled.

Maybe all the men here smell the same.

My brows furrow and lips purse; I don’t like that last thought at all.

“Ignore it. It’s your head messing with you.” Good talk, Genesis. Tomorrow, this won’t matter. I pour a little more and wash myself with it, running my hands down my neck and breasts, ignoring the sensitive tips before slipping my fingers between my thighs. I’m slick, and choose not to acknowledge how swollen my clit is nor the way his face comes to mind when my middle fingers slip inside to the first knuckle.

In and out, a little deeper, until a moan slips. “Fuck.” The sound is a little breathless, and I do this twice before there’s a knock on the door. Just a gentle tap, but it’s enough to make me gasp and stop while a blush spreads across my skin. “Yes?”

“I left the clothes on the bed. We’ll be downstairs when you’re ready,” Maria calls out, and I press my forehead against the wall. Pray that she didn’t hear me.

“Thank you.” For the rest of my shower, I keep my touch strictly innocent. I’m washed, pink-skinned from the heat, and battling to keep my eyes open. The double jets have worked me over in the best way, and I feel clean.

A little horny at the worst possible moment, but clean.

I need help.

Large black towels hang near the shower, and I grab one, wrapping it around myself before using another on my hair. I squeeze the excess water from my curls, knowing the knots will be a pain to detangle when I’m finally home, but there’s nothing I can do about it.

Outside in the main bedroom, I find the promised clothes on the bed. There’s a folded plain black T-shirt and a pair of basketball shorts sitting neatly with a new pair of socks, price tag still on them.

They’re clean. Huge. And the back of the shirt reads Santos in an Old English font.

He gave me his clothes.

Another tidbit I’ll decipher later. Much later.

“No underwear, though.” My eyes drift toward the pile in the bathroom containing mine, and I shake my head. Absolutely not. I’m never putting anything I wore today on my body again. “I guess beggars can’t be picky.”

The towels come off, and the shirt comes on, swallowing me. The hem falls low on my thighs, the sleeves nearly reaching my elbows, and I still need to get the bottoms on. They’ll never stay on, drooping down my hips then straight to my feet, the length sitting midway down my calves.

I look ridiculous.

Once, twice…three times, I roll the waistband before yanking the drawstring tight enough to keep them in place. The socks fit, the band disappearing into the long leg of the shorts.

It’s an attractive look, that’s for sure.

I’m clean.

Fresh-faced.

It’s a win.

My wet hair is dripping down my back, soaking the back of the shirt, but at the moment I don’t have the energy to care. Instead, I find the hamper in the bathroom and place the towel inside before heading for the door. I need to find Maria to help me get rid of my clothes and shoes.