His sinner a masked stal.., p.1
His Sinner: A Masked Stalker Romance (Saint and Sinner Duet Book 2), page 1
Copyright © 2024 by Harmony West
Cover Design © 2024 by Beholden Book Covers
Published by Westword Press
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
ISBN (paperback): 979-8-9881181-5-2
For every saint searching for his sinner
“No grave can hold my body down. I’ll crawl home to her.”
— HOZIER
CONTENTS
Note From S.T. Nicholson
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Epilogue
Also by Harmony West
Acknowledgments
About the Author
NOTE FROM S.T. NICHOLSON
Dear Reader,
The book you are about to read contains graphic content. This story was written for those who prefer their romance dark and twisted. My muse is my obsession and I will not apologize for the lengths I’ll go to make her mine.
Proceed with caution. For more detailed warnings, visit www.harmonywestbooks.com.
Whether you’d like to skip over or skip to the sensual chapters in this book, you can find these scenes in Chapters 2, 3, 4, 7, 9, 13, 14, 16, and 33.
Enjoy, sinner.
- S.T. Nicholson
CHAPTER ONE
BRIAR
If my stalker insists on holding me captive, I might as well enjoy my stay at his enormous Gothic estate.
Nicholson Manor is the home of every writer’s dreams, secluded deep in the woods on the peaceful mountainside. The vibrant red double doors are the only pop of color on the dark, looming mansion. Giant columns hold up the roof above the entrance, while sunlight pours in through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, transforming the dark interior of the manor from spooky to opulent. Under the moonlight, Nicholson Manor morphs back into the eerie home perfect for housing the ghosts and ghouls of every writer’s disturbed mind.
On the bed beside me is a tray covered with scrambled eggs, bacon, burnt toast coated in a thick layer of peanut butter, and waffles absolutely smothered in syrup. My perfect breakfast. Saint de Haas may be the most skilled stalker to walk the earth.
I’m nearly finished scarfing down every bit of food in sight when he saunters into the room. Saint is already dressed in his usual dark slacks and pressed button-up, sleeves rolled to the elbows. His jet-black hair curls adorably around his ears, his sharp jaw, regal nose, and prominent cheekbones all chiseled from marble. His height is towering and intimidating in a way that makes my mouth water. The curves of muscle along his biceps and shoulders make me long for him to tuck me back into bed, wrap me in his arms, and make me forget the whole world.
“How did you sleep?” he asks in a low, lulling murmur.
The burgundy duvet on his bed is so soft, it should be illegal. The mattress practically molds to my body. And what man owns silk pillowcases? I’m convinced he researched the best pillowcases for a woman’s hair and purchased them specifically for my arrival.
“Horribly,” I snipe. “Your body heat made me sweat all night. You’re the world’s worst furnace.”
I demanded to sleep alone, but Saint refused to comply. Admittedly, I slept better than I have in months. Maybe in my whole life. But I’ll be damned if I let him know that. I still can’t fully trust him with my eyes open, let alone closed for eight hours. He’s already tied me up once while I was in bed.
“Are you ready for day one of your writing retreat?” he asks.
A spark of excitement ignites in my chest. Maybe I should keep fighting him. Demand he take me back home. I know he has no intentions of letting me return after this month-long writing retreat. He wants me to live with him. To stay here forever.
But I can’t bring myself to want to return. Not yet.
“I am.” I straighten and his thumb grazes the side of my mouth, swiping away a streak of syrup. He licks the sweet liquid from his skin, devious tongue glinting as it slips past his lips, and I swallow the lump in my throat.
The only reason everything this man does is attractive is because he’s made me come harder than I ever have in my life. Three times. My brain is temporarily discombobulated by sex hormones. That’s all.
Saint holds out his hand to me like I’m royalty. His delicious ink-and-paper scent envelops me as I slide my palm into his, and he threads our fingers together to lead me from the room.
Last night, as his car climbed the long drive up to his manor, it dawned on me how truly secluded we are up here. There are no other houses for miles.
We descend the gently curved staircase and my bare feet slap against the pristine flooring. All of the walls are black or deep shades of gray, most of the decor onyx and gold. Chandeliers droop from the towering ceilings and tiny gargoyles and candelabra adorn the staircase.
“Are you a witch?”
He winks at me. “In the sense that I have a magic touch and a broomstick you can ride whenever you wish.”
I roll my eyes, even as his words make desire pool low in my belly. The dining room table is mahogany and massive, capable of seating twelve. “Do you often entertain guests?”
“Not if I can help it.”
I grin. Neither would I.
“This is the sunroom.” He drops my hand to pull apart two sliding glass doors. We step down into another room with floor-to-ceiling windows on every exterior wall and a door that leads to the tranquil backyard. “The windows are tinted so you can see out, but no one can see in.”
“Like there’s anyone around to spy on us.” Maybe I should be terrified about being so secluded with my stalker—now kidnapper—but I’m not. I’m savoring the peace away from all the distractions of normal life.
In the corner, a waterfall fountain gently flows, giving the room a tranquil effect. In the middle of the room, two chairs are set up with laptops on the coffee table in front of them. On the trays beside the chairs are two steaming cups of coffee and two plates lined with cheese and crackers. My favorite writing snack.
“What do you think, muse?” he purrs. “Will this suffice?”
Suffice. This is the kindest gesture anyone has ever made for me. Still, a part of me can’t admit that he’s winning this game. “Most likely.”
Saint guides me by the hand to my chair and sits beside me in his, where we stay for the next several hours, sipping from our coffees, munching on our snacks, and typing on keyboards. Every once in a while, his hand lands on another part of my body—my shoulder, my neck, my arm, my leg, my knee. Every time his touch grazes my skin, I stare at my computer screen and fail to type another word for the next ten minutes, too distracted thinking about all of the other places I want him touching me.
“I’m glad you’re here, muse.” His warm voice breaks the silence, dark eyes so full of adoration and joy, the unfamiliar lump returns to my throat.
Saint wasn’t lying—everything he’s done has been for me, to make me happy. Breaking into my house, tying me up, and kidnapping me to bring me to his estate for winter break was probably the best thing he could’ve done.
No one has ever done something so kind and thoughtful for me. No one has ever taken my writing seriously enough to care. Maybe only another writer could be capable of a gesture like this.
Or maybe only Saint de Haas.
CHAPTER TWO
SAINT
With my muse by my side in the library, I revised the first third of my manuscript today. She managed to crack five thousand words in her own project, which made me grin in absolute delight. She refused to let me read a single word of it, and I’m dying to know what story had her so enraptured. If I inspire her just as much as she inspires me.
Her brows are adorably furrowed in concentration as she researches literary agencies. Half of the time I’ve spent working on my manuscript, she’s spent scrutinizing agents and compiling a list for me to query.
She’s tenacious in her quest to find me the best possible representation.
“You should become a literary agent,” I tell her.
If Briar was an agent, she could represent me. No one would fight as doggedly for me as she would. She has just the right amount of assert
Her eyes don’t move from the screen. “I already have a job.”
“But this one you could do in your pajamas, and you’d get to work with your favorite author.” I wink at her.
“I’m sure it takes years to become an agent. You need someone who can represent you now.”
“Then you better get started.” I snap my laptop shut. “I’m going to run you that bath you’ve been fantasizing about.”
She lights up before schooling her features and returning her focus to her screen. She’s still fighting her affection for me, but I have plenty of time to open her eyes to her true feelings.
When I call her up, she takes in a breath at the bath I’ve drawn for her. Black petals float across the surface, vanilla-scented candles lit in each corner, and a small flame dances in the fireplace at the edge of the tub. The massive window gives her a clear view of the dark forest beneath us.
“The view is even more stunning during the day,” I promise.
She’s grinning and manages a single nod. “Thank you.” The words are curt, gratitude unfamiliar on her lips, especially when directed toward me. But I’ll take it.
“Whatever I can give, you shall receive. You’ll get your massage after.”
Her magnetizing blue eyes light up. “What if I want my massage now? In the tub.”
My black heart stutters. Briar has never initiated the intimacy between us before.
She’s finally opening up to me.
I gesture to the tub. “Consider your wish granted.”
By the time I shut the door, she’s stripping off her clothes and climbing into the water. I catch a glimpse of her bare, round ass before she dips beneath the surface. I’ll be taking my time massaging her tight glutes tonight. I’m sure her ass and back are sore from sitting all day. Soon, I’ll have her sore in another way.
Briar keeps her gaze trained on me as I slowly strip in front of her, lazily unfastening every button on my shirt before reaching for the buckle on my belt.
“Let me help,” she says sweetly, hands reaching for the buckle and deftly unfastening it. She tugs my pants and boxers down, clearing her throat when she unsheathes my erection.
I slide into the tub behind her, and she freezes like she’s bracing herself for whatever I’m about to do to her.
When I lather my hands with lavender soap and sink my thumbs into the tight knots at her shoulders, her muscles relax and she sighs, leaning back into my touch.
I take my time, rubbing every inch of her soft, supple body. From her shoulders, down her arms, giving extra attention to her wrists, hands, and fingers. I repeat the motion down her other arm. She’s so limp in my hands now, she can barely keep herself upright.
My fingers explore her back, massaging away every knot before I kiss down each notch of her spine. She releases a small, satisfied sigh. I lather up my hands again before tilting her back against me and reaching around to massage her breasts.
Her breath catches. “You must be a witch because these hands are magical.”
I chuckle. “You must be a goddess because these tits were made to be worshipped.”
“That’s right. I am,” she simpers.
After I gently massage her breasts and stomach, her body tightens again as she anticipates my hands between her legs. Instead, I pour water over her head and rub shampoo into her hair.
She groans. “Few things are better than a scalp massage.”
“What things are better?” I tease.
“A tongue massage.”
My cock twitches at the memory of my tongue between her legs. I’ll give her that massage soon enough.
After rinsing the shampoo from her hair, I bend her knees up to knead at the tight muscles in her legs. She groans at the strain when I wash her foot but bites back her complaint once my fingers dig into the soles. Every inch of her is so soft, so pliable, surrendering to even my lightest touch.
When I nudge her knees back down into the water, my muse groans. “This is the best massage I’ve ever had, and you haven’t even grazed my pussy.”
“We need to save the best for last, don’t we?”
My hand slips down into the water, sliding across her parted thighs until finally dipping between her legs. One hand massages her inner thigh while the other rubs gently at her clit, already swollen and ready for me. Her breath hitches and she grips my legs to anchor herself.
I suck on the freshly cleaned skin on her neck as she moans for me. “Correction,” she pants. “This is the best massage I’ve ever gotten.”
The hand on her inner thigh slips down, and I slide a finger inside her, massaging her pussy. She’s so tight and tense, her walls grip my finger in a chokehold. She whimpers.
“Are you going to come like this, muse?” I murmur in her ear.
“I could,” she admits, breathless. “But I want to come on your cock.”
There she is. My muse. Inviting me into her body. Soon, she’ll invite me into her heart.
“Do you trust me? It’s very important that you trust me, Briar.”
In order to do to her what I have planned, to earn her love, I need her trust.
She takes a moment to consider. The silence falling between us makes my spine go rigid until she utters, “I’m trying.”
My eyes fall briefly shut at the small victory. We’re making progress. Soon, she’ll trust me completely. With her heart, body, and soul.
“Then get on your hands and knees.”
Briar does as she’s told, water sloshing as she tips forward, hands sinking beneath the water as her back and ass rise out. She is glistening and eager for me, a magnificent sight I long to devour.
I caress her ass in my hands. So smooth and slick, begging to be taken. “What’s our safe word, muse?”
“We shouldn’t need a safe word,” she snipes.
My fingers reach up to pinch and twist her nipple. She yelps. “If we don’t need a safe word, you’re not ready for what I’m going to do to you.”
“Grave.”
“Grave?”
Her eyes blaze as she glares at me over her shoulder. “As in, that’s the next place you’ll find yourself if you keep doing that to me.”
My grin stretches from ear to ear. “Perfect.”
With one hand, I find her clit, and with the other, I nudge my cock at her entrance. Her muscles tighten as she prepares herself for the intrusion, and I slide slowly in, the tight walls of her pussy nearly impossible to penetrate.
She cries out, back arching and head swinging up. “Fuck! Please tell me the whole thing is in.”
I laugh. God, she makes me laugh like no one else. “Not even close, muse. You have several more inches to take.”
She groans, attempting to push back into me and take more of my cock until she yelps and jerks forward, nearly every inch sliding out of her.
I gather her hair in my hand, continuing to play with her clit to relax her for me. “Let your pussy acclimate to my cock. We’ve got all night, muse.”
A whimper from low in her throat is music to my ears. “The writing retreat was just a front, wasn’t it?” she pants. “This is the real reason you brought me here. To fuck me in every room of your giant manor.”
I ease my cock back in slowly, pulling her hair as I do and craning her neck up. “I brought you here to write.” I tug on her hair, making her yelp. “This is just a bonus.”
Her moan sends desire down to my toes. “The writing is the bonus to me.”
My black heart swells. Briar has fallen for this part of me—the part that can make her come so hard, she screams my name and loses all sense of self. Now I just need her to fall in love with my soul, no matter how dark and fractured it may be.
“Remember our safe word, muse?” I drive my cock inside her, spearing her pussy as her walls throb around me. She feels so fucking good.
She cries out at the delicious combination of pleasure and pain. “Yes.”
I tighten my grip on her wet hair. “Good. You may need it.”
With that, I shove her head underwater, water splashing as I slam into her so hard, her ass bounces against me with an echoing slap and her submerged head nearly hits the edge of the tub.
