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Leaning forward, he grabs a hold of my throat, squeezing hard but not enough to hurt. His balls crash into my ass cheeks with every powerful piston of his cock.
“Saint, please. Fuck. F-fuck. I need to come. Please, I need to come!” I don’t know if I’m telling or begging him. Either way, there’s no stopping it.
The orgasm slams into me, and within seconds Saint pulls out of me, grunting out a roar as long, hot streams of cum hit my ass.
Panting hard, my eyes open to find him staring at me with admiration.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
He doesn’t answer, lifting me by the waist and carrying me to the top of the bed, where he places me gently on my side.
“Keep your knees up and don’t move.”
I do what he says, watching him pull on a pair of boxer briefs before the dim night light from the hallway illuminates the room. The door closes, and darkness descends around the room once again.
My stomach drops, panicking he’s going to leave me here like this. Mrs. Watson would literally have a heart attack if she found me like this in the morning.
Several minutes pass, and my shoulders begin to ache now that the distraction of pleasure has subsided, and I wiggle my arms and hands, thinking of a way to get free.
Relief floods me when my door opens and closes again.
He’s back. Saint came back.
Something warm and wet wipes gently against my pussy then at my ass. I bite back a moan at how good it feels on my sore skin, which will surely be bruised in the morning. Especially from the bite marks he left.
After cleaning me up, he unlocks the cuffs, freeing my hands. Rolling onto my back, I soothe my sore wrists, stopping when I feel something metal but smaller on my left wrist.
It’s a bracelet.
“Happy belated birthday, Angel.”
Sitting up, I reach across him to switch on my bedroom lamp so I can get a proper look at it. My mouth opens on a gasp when the light illuminates the room.
The bracelet is custom-made white gold, with white diamond flowers twisting around it like waves of branches, the stones sparkling magnificently in the light. Centered in the middle is an infinity symbol, with a delicate ruby in the shape of a rose set in the middle, as if holding the infinity symbol together. It’s the most beautiful piece of jewelry I’ve ever seen.
“Saint. It’s…it’s beautiful.”
He turns the sparkling bracelet around so I can read the small engraving on the back.
But he who dares not grasp the thorn should never crave the rose.
“Anne Bronte?”
He nods.
“Do you know what the rose symbolizes in my world?”
“I think so, but I’d rather hear it from you,” I answer honestly, unsure if the story I heard about the Thorns and Roses is true.
“It’s a symbol of great sacrifice and honor.”
“The same as that tattoo on your heart?”
He nods, pulling me back to his chest.
“Our society was made up of a council by the leaders of the five families. The rose, meaning a woman, was chosen for every son when they came of age. Once married, she was never to be harmed. The daughter of a boss could have been sent across the world to her new husband, and the family wouldn’t have so much as blinked an eye. It was deemed a great honor to be chosen. It wasn’t always like that, though. Throughout the years, the tradition became tainted. Women were used as bargaining chips and payments. Roses were being kidnapped before marriage and murdered or married in vengeance if another organization suspected the union was chosen out of a love match. Wars broke out, and soon, societies began to turn on one another. One by one, they fell until only one remained.”
“Yours?”
