Read Manwhore +1 Online

Authors: Katy Evans

Tags: #Romance, #Manwhore

Manwhore +1

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Praise for the
New York Times


“A soul searing romance,
seduced everyone of my senses, weaving its way under my skin in an unforgettable way. An absolute favorite of mine.”

—Angie and Jessica’s Dreamy Reads

“Talk about addictive. This book consumed me from the very beginning to its pulse-pounding end. If you’re looking for a book that is just fun, super addictive and sexy as hell, this is
book to pick up right now.”

—Vilmais Book Blog

“Intense, captivating and deliciously romantic.”

—The Reading Cafe

“Remy [from REAL] was only the first man-angel Katy created. Saint is a whole new breed, and you’ll be so happy that the lovely Ms. Evans has such a generous imagination!”

—Romance Addict Book Blog

“The sexual tension between Malcolm and Rachel is off the charts hot! Lucky Rachel—I want my own Saint!”

—Monica Murphy, author of the Billionaire Bachelors Club series

“Spoiler alert—Katy Evans has the goods and she definitely delivered.”

—Smexy Books

“I knew back when I read
that Katy Evans would be a writer to watch. But I had to wonder how she would ever come close to creating a dynamic character like Remy again. Well, Malcolm Saint turned out to be every bit as intriguing and enigmatic—but in his own sophisticated way.”

—Harlequin Junkie

“The heat, that crazy hot attraction . . . consumed me from start to finish.”

—Shh Moms Reading

“Just when you thought you had an understanding of Katy Evans’s incomparable talent, she goes and pulls
out of her arsenal—leaving us all so stunned we become momentarily silent . . . Evans once again delivers with a bang, her signature heart-pulverizing alphas that know how to love and f*** better than all the rest of them—and Saint leaps to the very front of that line.”

—Mara White, author of
Heights of Desire

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To the biggest leap you will ever take.


by Nicki Minaj

by Tove Lo

by Tove Lo

by Cash Cash

by Arctic Monkeys

by Purity Ring

by Tove Lo

by Coldplay

by Maroon 5

by OneRepublic

by Galantis

by Ed Sheeran

by Maroon 5 and Gwen Stefani

by O.A.R.


By R. Livingston

I’m going to tell you a story. A story that managed to pull me apart completely. A story that brought me back to life. A story that has made me cry, laugh, scream, smile, and then cry again. A story I keep telling to myself over and over and over until I have memorized every smile, every word, every thought. A story that I hope to keep with me forever.

The story begins with this very article. It was a regular morning at
. A morning that would bring me a big opportunity: to write an exposé on Malcolm Kyle Preston Logan Saint. He’s a man who needs no introduction. Billionaire playboy, beloved womanizer, a source of many speculations. This article would open doors for me, gain a young hungry reporter a voice.

I dove in, managing to get an interview with Malcolm Saint to discuss Interface (his incredible new Facebook-killer) and its immediate rise to popularity. As obsessed as the city has been with his persona for years, I considered myself lucky to be in this position.

I was so focused on revealing Malcolm Saint that I let my guard down, unaware that every time he opened up, he was actually revealing
to me. Things I had never wanted were suddenly all I wanted. I was determined to find out more about this man. This mystery. Why was he so closed off? Why was nothing ever enough for him? I soon discovered he was not a man of many words, but rather a man of the right words. A man of action. I told myself that every inch of information I hunted was for this article, but the knowledge I craved was actually about myself.

I wanted to know everything. I wanted to breathe him. Live him.

But most unexpectedly of all, Saint began to pursue me. Genuinely. Wholeheartedly. And relentlessly. I could not believe that he would be truly interested in me. I had never been pursued like this, intrigued like this. I had never felt so connected to something—someone.

I never expected my story to change, but it did. Stories tend to do that; you go out searching for something and come back with something different. I wasn’t looking to fall in love, I wasn’t looking to lose my mind and common sense over the most beautiful green eyes I have ever seen, I wasn’t looking to drive myself crazy with lust. But I ended up finding a little piece of my soul, a little piece that isn’t really that small at all: it’s over six feet tall, with shoulders about a yard wide, hands more than twice the size of mine, green eyes, dark hair, and it is smart, ambitious, kind, generous, powerful, sexy, and has consumed me completely.

I regret lying, both to myself and to him; I regret not having the experience to recognize what I was feeling the moment I felt it. I regret not savoring each second I had with him more, because I value those seconds more than anything.

However, I don’t regret this story. His story. My story. Our story.

I’d do it all again for another moment with him. I’d do it all again with him. I’d leap blindly into the air if only there were even a 0.01 percent chance that he’d still be there, waiting to catch me.


’ve never been so hopeful as when I board the pristine glass elevator at the M4 corporate building. A handful of employees ride along with me, murmuring perfunctory greetings to each other and to me. I think my mouth must be on vacation because I can’t seem to force it to speak. But I smile in reply—my smile nervous, nervous but hopeful, definitely hopeful. My riding companions step out on their floors one by one until I’m alone, riding up to the executive floor on my own.

Toward him.

Toward the man I love.

My body is raging. My blood is pumping—my blood is
—my thighs are shaking. My stomach feels filled with little earthquakes that just won’t quit, then they turn into a full-fledged roil when I hear the elevator
at his floor.

Stepping out, I’m in corporate nirvana, surrounded by sleek chrome and pristine glass, marble and limestone floors. But I hardly have eyes for anything except the tall and imposing frosted glass doors at the far end of the room.

Framing those doors to each side is a pair of sleek designer desks, for a total of four.

Behind these desks are four women in identical black-and-white suits, sitting behind their gleaming dark-oak desks, working quietly behind their flat-screen computers.

One of them, the forty-year-old Catherine H. Ulysses—right hand of the man who owns every inch of this building—stops what she’s doing when she sees me. She arches her brow, then seems both tense and relieved as she lifts the receiver on her desk and murmurs my name into it.

I. Am. Not. Breathing.

But Catherine doesn’t miss a beat as she motions me toward the huge frosted doors—those intimidating doors—that lead into the lair of the most powerful man in Chicago.

The human being with the most powerful effect on

This is what I’ve been waiting for, for four weeks. This is what I wanted when I left a thousand messages on his phones and what I wanted when I wrote a thousand others that I left unsent. To see him.

For him to want to see me.

But as I force myself to step forward, I don’t even know if I’ll have the strength to stand before him and look him in the eye after what I did.

I’m wracked so hard with nervousness and anticipation and hope—yes hope, small but bright, even as I shake like a leaf.

Catherine holds the door open, and I struggle to hold my head high and walk into his office.

Two steps inside I hear the
of the glass door shutting behind me and my systems halt at the familiar sight of the most beautiful office I’ve ever been in.

His office is all vast marble and chrome, twelve-foot ceilings, and endless floor-to-ceiling windows.

And there he is. The center of its axis. The center of my world.

He’s pacing by the window, speaking into a headset in a low, low voice—the kind he uses when he’s pissed. All I can make out are the words
have to be dead to let her fall into his clutches . . .

He hangs up, and as if he feels me in the room, he turns his head. His eyes flare when he sees me. His green eyes.

His achingly familiar, beautiful green eyes.

He inhales, very slowly, his chest expanding, his hands curling a little at his sides as he looks at me.

I look back at him.

Malcolm Kyle Preston Logan Saint.

I just walked into the eye of the most powerful storm of my life. No. Not a storm. A hurricane.

Four weeks, I haven’t seen him. And he still looks exactly as I remember. Larger than life, and more irresistible than ever.

His striking face is perfectly shaven today, and his sensual lips look so achingly full I can almost feel them against mine. Six feet-plus of perfectly controlled male power stands before me, in a perfect black suit and a killer tie. He’s the very devil in Armani; strong-boned, square-jawed, gleaming dark hair and those penetrating eyes.

He’s got the best eyes.

They twinkle mercilessly when he teases me, and when he doesn’t tease me, they’re mysterious and unreadable, assessing and intelligent, keeping me guessing about his thoughts.

But I had forgotten how cold those eyes used to be. Green arctic ice looks back at me now. Every fleck of ice in those eyes gleaming like diamond shards.

He clenches his jaw and tosses the headset aside.

He looks as approachable as a wall, his shoulders stretching his white shirt, which clings to his skin like a groupie. But I know he’s not a wall; I’ve never wanted to throw myself at a wall like this.

He’s walking toward me. Every step he takes makes my heart pound as he moves with that quiet and confident own-the-world stride of his.

He stops a few feet away and shoves his hands into his pants pockets; and he seems so big all of a sudden, and he smells so utterly
I drop my eyes to his tie as the little candle of hope I walked in with starts to flicker with doubt.

“Malcolm . . .” I begin.

“Saint is fine,” he says quietly.

I catch my breath at his words.

I wait for him to say something—to tell me how much I
—and ache when he doesn’t. Instead I hear a voice from the door.

“Mr. Saint,” Catherine announces, “Stanford Merrick’s here.”

“Thank you.” I hear Saint’s quietly powerful voice and a tremor rolls unexpectedly down my spine.

I stare down at the shiny marble floor, embarrassed. My shoes; I wore something I thought would make me look pretty. God, I don’t think he’s noticed or is interested at all.

“Rachel, this is Stanford Merrick, from human resources.”

I feel my cheeks grow hot hearing him say
. I still can’t look into his eyes; instead I focus on shaking Stanford Merrick’s hand.

Merrick is a medium-height man, with a smile that gives the impression of friendliness and a calm presence that is all but swallowed by Saint’s.

“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Livingston,” he says.

I hear the sound of a chair being pulled out, and my knees feel like soup when I hear Saint’s voice again. “Sit,” he says, his voice low.

I move to obey, still avoiding his gaze as I sit down.

While Catherine goes around the office pouring coffees and refreshments, I keep him in my peripheral.

Popping open his jacket button, he lowers himself onto the center of the long, bone-colored leather couch directly across from where I sit.

He looks so dark in that sable suit.

So dark against the sunlight, against the light color of the couch.

“Mr. Saint, would you like me to go on, or would you like to do the honors?” Merrick asks.

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