There Are No Saints (Sinners Duet #1)(41)

Because he’d never miss fucking one of those new voices.

Sonia shrugs. “His name was on the guest list . . .”

Though I’d rather delay Shaw’s collision with Mara, his unexplained absence is worse.

I’m in a foul mood, more agitated than I’ve been in months. I keep wondering where Mara went, what she’s doing at this moment. And I could not give less of a fuck what York is yammering on about.

“This is your chance to put your mark on this city once and for all,” York says pompously. “Get your name out there.”

I smile thinly. “I’m not sure how widely I want my name to be known.”

“Then you shouldn’t be so damn talented,” York guffaws. “You’ve got a month to draw up your proposal—don’t miss the deadline. You know I’ll put in a good word for you.”

I suppress the sneer that arises at the idea that I need Marcus York to talk up my design.

Instead, I feel the buzz of my phone in my pocket and I snatch it out, besieged by the irrational idea that Mara might have texted me.

Close . . . it’s a motion notification for the camera inside her studio.

Good. She ditched the guy and decided to get some work done. How industrious of her.

It’s not enough to know where she is—I need to see her.

“Excuse me,” I say to Sonia, interrupting York mid-sentence. York frowns, a hint of the shark peering out from under his lowered brows.

I slip past them both, heading back into the empty galleries that were roped off for the show. I weave my way through abstract sculptures on plinths and large color-blocked canvases.

I want to be alone so I can watch her. Is she starting a new painting? I told her she should continue her series of saint-inspired portraits. My curiosity to see what she comes up with next far outstrips my interest in any of the art hanging all around me.

My eyes are glued to the phone screen.

The security camera feed loads at last, and I have a live stream of Mara’s studio in full color, right before my eyes.

She’s not alone.

She’s brought that fucking guy into her studio. MY studio.

My fingers clench around the phone so hard I hear the glass screen groaning.

Mara and the guy are talking. She’s taken two beers out of the mini-fridge and they’re sipping their drinks, Mara gesturing with her free hand as she traces in the air the shapes that she intends to draw on the fresh blank canvas set upon its easel.

Is she telling him about the series? Telling him what she plans to do next?

I can hear the low murmur of their voices but not make out the precise words.

Mara opens several canisters of paint, showing him the colors inside. He dips his finger into the violet paint and dabs it on her nose. Mara laughs, wiping it off with the back of her hand.

I’ll fucking kill him.

Mara sets down her beer. She strides over to the stereo and turns on her music, much too loud as per usual.

Stupid— Ashnikko

Spotify → geni.us/no-saints-spotify

Apple Music → geni.us/no-saints-apple





The pounding beat is easily loud enough for me to make out the lyrics.



Stupid boy think that I need him . . .



A hot, molten heat rises up the back of my neck, all the way to my ears. Simultaneously, my hands go cold.

Mara marches back to the center of the room, directly in front of the camera. She seizes the guy by the shirt and yanks him toward her, kissing him ferociously.

The kiss seems to go on forever.

It’s wild and deep, not unlike the one Mara and I shared only an hour ago.

In fact, I almost feel like I’ve stepped back in time. With his back to me, his shaggy dark hair, and his black t-shirt, her date could be me. And Mara—eyes closed, head tilted back, body pressed against him—looks just as irresistible as she did up close.

I feel like I’m floating inside the room with them, outside my own body.

I watch, transfixed, as Mara pulls his shirt up over his head, baring an athletic body covered in tattoos. She pulls down the shoulder straps of her own tiny floral mini dress, letting the dress puddle around her boots. She steps free, slim and nude, the silver rings glinting in her nipples.

Even from behind, I can tell the guy is gawking at her body.

So am I.

Mara’s figure is so smooth and lithe that I want to draw it without ever lifting my pencil from the page. Her skin is luminescent. She shaved her pussy bare, something I’ve never seen before in my time spying on her.

Who did she do that for?

Was it for me?

Now this fucking nobody is looking at her instead. He’s putting his hands around her waist. Drawing her close to kiss her again.

I want to drive over there. Rip them apart. Smash his head into the wall a hundred times until his skull cracks like a melon and his brains leak out his ears.

But I’m frozen in place, unable to look away from the screen even for a second.

Mara drops to her knees before him. She unbuckles his jeans and yanks them down, letting his cock spring free, already hard. Mine is bigger, but that’s no fucking consolation when she takes him in her mouth, enveloped between her soft, full lips, running her pink tongue up and down his shaft, swirling around the head.

She’s voracious, enthusiastic, playful. Giving him the kind of blowjob men only dream of receiving.