Page 83 of Savage Saint

I let go of his leather, a small blush spreading across my cheeks. Not because of her, but because four other people are staring, too, and I’m suddenly very aware of the fact that I arrived wrapped around the president of the motorcycle club, wearing his shirt.

The vest and tank top do little to hide the power underneath. Santos is solid; a wall of muscle and heat I clung to while he handled the massive bike like it weighed nothing: every lean…every shift was controlled, powerful—effortless.

And I held on tight, my front pressed tight to his back.

He moves like a predator. Like everything around him bends according to his will.

I wanted to bite him. Still do.

Especially when he turns his head, hard eyes flashing at the two women, and the tattoo of a cross on the back of his neck is visible. My teeth ache—actually ache with the urge to climb up his large body and bite him over it hard enough to leave a mark.

“Diosito, help this girl out. Must keep composure.” The words are muttered low, but I catch the quick quirk of his lips before his face settles back into annoyance. It doesn’t help that his scent still surrounds me; it’s embedded into every fiber of his shirt and now my skin.

Woodsy. Boozy. Leather.

My core reacts, and I clench hard. Have to bite back a needy sound.

The ride here is still humming beneath my skin, adrenaline thrumming through me, and suddenly I understand why women find this lifestyle—the men in control—appealing.

I should’ve turned him down. This is bad.

“Santos?” I murmur low, and his gaze shifts down to me, honey-colored eyes softening a bit. He looks more relaxed, his body less rigid than when we rode in. “Why are we just standing here?”

“Hmm?”

“Why are we here? They’re not moving, just staring.”

“More like being nosy.”

My brows rise. “That’s the explanation you’re going with?”

That earns me a shrug. “It’s the truth.”

“If you say so.” My eyes flick momentarily back to the woman. She’s still glaring. “She looks more than nosy. More like hostile.”

At that, his body goes still again, the corded muscles in his arms tensing. His gaze slides past me, and whatever trace of warmth had been there is gone. “Janelle.”

The woman straightens at the sound of his voice carrying her name, the wounded expression disappearing into something I can only describe as manufactured sweetness. It’s practiced.

“Yes, Santos?” she answers, tone cloying, and I immediately dislike the way she says his name. Which is ridiculous and something I completely ignore.

“Fuck did you just call me?”

Her expression drops, and the others outside tense. Fast. I also don’t miss how the other woman beside Janelle tugs on her arm.

“S-Saint. I meant Saint.”

“It’s Presidente to you. Remember that.” His tone is cutting and final, abrasive in a way that almost makes me smile. Janelle’s face tightens, embarrassment flashing beneath the heavy makeup, and for reasons I refuse to decipher, satisfaction curls warmly inside my chest. Especially when he points behind them. “Inside.”

“But I heard you're giving self-defense classes⁠—”

“Not for you.” That’s it. A warning, gritted out.

She looks at me one more time, resentment sharp enough to cut, before turning toward the clubhouse with her friend trailing behind. I wait until the doors close to greet the other club members, but they’re either busy getting on a bike or walking away in the opposite direction. I do catch a small smile from Rizos; he looks back briefly before disappearing around the corner.

Once we’re alone, I look up at him. “So Santos is off limits?”

He meets my gaze, the tightness in his expression softening. “Only people who matter can use that name. Now come with me.”