There Are No Saints (Sinners Duet #1)(67)

“How many times do you think I watched that tape?”

I swallow hard. I hadn’t considered that he’d view it more than once.

“I don’t know.”

“Over a hundred, Mara. Over and over and over again.”

My skin goes cold, then flaming hot.

He strokes the hair back from my forehead with disturbing gentleness. “Why do you think I watched it so many times?”

“I . . . I don’t know.”

I’m afraid the answer is he was stoking his fury against me. Already this encounter is taking a turn I didn’t predict, and it’s hard for me to remain calm.

“It was to learn,” Cole says, letting his fingers trail down the side of my face. “I watched it over and over to see what you like, Mara. To learn your preferences. This body of yours is so responsive . . .”

His fingers slide over my collarbone and down to the top of my breasts. My nipples stiffen, standing erect as if begging for his touch. Please, just a little closer . . .

“You’re a slave to what you love. The things you hate repulse you,” Cole says, in that low, hypnotic tone. “I knew if I learned everything I could about you . . . there’s nothing I couldn’t make you do . . .”

Gently, ever so gently, he grips the silver ring in his fingers and rotates it through the tight point of my nipple. The feel of that cold steel sliding through my flesh makes me moan. I can’t help it, I can’t stop it.

“You can’t possibly imagine what I know about you . . .” Cole says. “I know what you read, what you eat. I know how you touch yourself when you think you’re alone. And I know every song you listen to. All your favorites. I compiled a list and made an algorithm to search for exactly the type of song that carries you away . . .”

He pauses, taking his phone from his pocket and setting it next to his tools. With one long, slim index finger, he sets his playlist in motion. The music that floats out of his expensive speakers is not what I expected: light and ethereal, instead of dark and pounding.

Spells — Cannons

Spotify → geni.us/no-saints-spotify

Apple Music → geni.us/no-saints-apple





I can’t control how music makes me feel.

My body relaxes, every muscle loosening. My eyelids grow heavy, and despite my predicament, despite the danger I’ve put myself in, my mind begins to drift across the swells of the first verse.

“I made something for you,” Cole says, from somewhere down near my feet. His voice is distant, as if we’re on two separate planets in space. “Custom machinery. Designed to your specifications.”

I try to force myself to focus. I do NOT like the sound of that.

Cole switches on his machine. A low, buzzing sound cuts through the music. What the fuck is that? Is it a drill?

Craning my neck, I see that he’s holding some kind of device, shaped like an oversized microphone. The head looks soft and bulbous.

“It’s like the dryer,” he says, his lips curving up. “Only much, much better . . .”

He presses his tool between my legs, right against my pussy.

The effect is instantaneous. I feel like I’m falling backward into a deep, warm bath. The vibrations are intense, a hundred times stronger than the dryer. Tied to the table, I can’t close my thighs or pull away. Pulsing waves flow through me, up through my body and down through my legs. The vibrations run all the way to my scalp, down through my fingertips and into my toes.

“Oh . . . god . . .” I moan.

The words come out of my mouth without any action from me. They’re pulled out of my lungs by the reverberation running through me.

I’ve never owned a vibrator. I could never afford a good one.

The one Cole built is like nothing I’ve seen. It’s heavy, powerful, and cleverly designed. The soft head molds itself against my pussy. It slides easily across my warm, swollen flesh.

Cole is running it up and down my exposed slit. Each stroke sends another powerful wave of pleasure crashing over me. Sometimes he holds it in place for a moment, pressing up against that sensitive bundle of nerves that runs from my clit down to the opening below.

The whole area is becoming more swollen and sensitive by the minute. I can feel my pussy engorging, and I’m acutely aware of nerves that hardly existed before, firing to life under the continual stimulation of those low, insistent rumbles.

“I tested all kinds of frequencies . . .” Cole murmurs, his eyes locked on my face. He’s watching my expression as my eyes roll back, as my cheeks flush and my lips part. He’s taking note of exactly what feels the best, constantly adjusting his technique so the pleasure ramps and ramps, never diminishing, never stalling out. “I even went back to the laundromat to compare.”

Through the warm, floating waves, I realize that I’ve made a huge mistake.

I underestimated Cole. I underestimated his creativity. And how far he’s willing to go.

Too late to do anything about it. I’m no longer in control.

The first orgasm hits, rolling me over and over like a sock in that dryer. Tumbling me here and there in an endless cycle of warmth and pleasure. I’m groaning like an animal, noises coming out of me that I’ve never heard before. The groans are low and desperate and endless. I can’t get enough of this. I’ll die without it.