Manwhore +1 (30 page)

He lifts me by the ass and I straddle him as he carries us to one of the sofas. As we kiss, he’s groaning, past the point of being fully in control. I like him this way, so much. When he’s almost,
almost
unleashed on me.

I lick his chocolate-and-peppermint lips as he sets me down and gives me a sex-throbbing, mind-bending kiss, physical and animal, the sure thrusts of his tongue curling my toes and pricking my clit in the most delicious way.

I throw my head back, giving him full access. He presses a series of kisses down my neck, wet and warm. “Need you . . . inside . . . need it now . . .”

“Want me inside you?” He stands up and yanks off his cashmere sweater, tossing it aside.

“Yes.”

“Hard? Deep?” He unbuttons and unzips, his jeans following.

“Saint!”

Oh god, this beautiful man, eyes narrowed, muscle jumping in his jaw as he tears open a foil packet and sheaths himself, then comes back to spread his big, delicious weight over me . . . this man undoes me. I undulate as our naked bodies connect,
undone
when his mouth and hands find parts of me he wants to taste.

He whispers a seductive murmur below my ear, kissing there. Dips his tongue in the hollow at the base of my throat. Bites gently into my neck.

I claw at his shoulders. He’s in no rush, but I tremble as he takes my legs by the knees and guides me around him—where he wants me. His stomach ripples; his biceps and triceps flex as he mounts me.

Then he grabs my hips and slides me down an inch or two, so that he pulls me down as he thrusts upward to enter me. His name leaves me on a gasping breath of pure gratitude.

Another thrust. We groan. Another. Closer. Closer. I rake my nails down his back. I feel complete, but needing. Full, but aching.

One nipple disappears into his mouth. One hard suck and I’m thrashing, biceps bunching around me as he thrusts.

All the time I feel the slide of hard heat and power.

My hips roll upward. The room is flooded with the sounds we make.

He wrings out my every breath from my body as he watches me writhe, eyes glowing hotly. His gorgeous face hardens in orgasm, jaws tight, eyes a brilliant, possessive green, teeth grinding from the pleasure as he growls, “Rachel.”

It’s like my sex pulls him in deeper, milking, sucking him in, not letting go.

His buttocks flex, thigh muscles tightening beside mine, powerful back muscles bunching beneath my fingers as he drives forward, deep and fast, filling me so much there’s no room to breathe. No room for anything but Saint inside me. I can feel when he’s coming, because he whispers the words
I’m coming
in my ear, groaning.

It’s so hot when he comes—the only times that I’ve ever seen Saint out of control—that my orgasm wrenches through my body, causing his cock to swell and jerk in me one, two, three times. I twist beneath him, my mouth seeking his. He grabs me by the cheeks, holding my face as he slows his rhythm, pressing his lips to mine. We kiss, the kiss slow and languorous as our bodies as we come back to each other.

“Oh my god,” I breathe.

He laughs softly, shaking his head. Using his arm, he sits back and shifts me so that I’m the one halfway on top of him.

I lock my hands around his neck. If we weren’t on the couch, I’d just stay here, ready to fall asleep from the bliss of my new alpha-male-fuck exhaustion. “You’re so good at this,” I nuzzle his jaw, feeling warm and gooey inside. “I hate a little bit every woman you went through to get this good.”

“It was all fun and games.”

“Wow. You don’t have fun with me?”

His eyes light up with playfulness. “Fishing for compliments, Rachel?”

My belly feels a little tight and I realize I want his love, I want his tenderness.

“I’m snorkeling for them,” I admit, laughing.

He laughs too, rising to his elbows and looking at me, eyes tender, and a hot flood of emotion overflows as we smile at each other. “I respect . . . and admire . . . and enjoy every inch of you, Rachel.”

I duck my head slightly, suddenly a little shy and aware of my nakedness. I reach to cover my breasts.

My stomach tingles when he smiles endearingly and runs a hand over the side of my body. He moves down to kiss my belly button, between my breasts, and strokes my thighs, teasing all the parts that are sore and sensitive from lovemaking and looking at every inch with reverence.

He kisses me, tasting sexy and sweaty and minty, before sitting up and lifting me with him so that I end up on his lap.

“I like the look of you, I like the smell of you, and I definitely like the feel of you. Now, be a good girl,” he pats my ass, “and cover up so I can get some work done.”

“If you let me borrow your shower, I’ll take a bath.” I kiss his lips.

He follows me up and I watch him walk in purely glorious sinful nakedness to the guest bedroom’s bathroom to clean up.

I’m so well fucked that my body doesn’t feel solid just yet. But I somehow make it to his room.

Once inside his shower, I squeeze my eyes shut and hum and mull over our evening. Maybe I should have said I loved him right now. Or in the car, when I blurted out that he didn’t. He went to my mother’s. I should’ve trusted that he would say something reassuring to me, if not a flat out
I love you
.

Tell him, tell him,
tell him.

But what if he doesn’t want to hear it yet? He still hasn’t even asked me to be his girlfriend.

Will he ever?

On a soft, wistful impulse, I put my fingers on the wet marble of his shower, and even though rooms separate us, I can feel Saint through it. I feel his chest under my fingertips and his soft hair and the energy of his being, like a constant stream of lightning running through my veins.

People celebrate his reckless side, the one that makes the news, they celebrate his powerful side, the one that sets the standards, but right now nothing is more noteworthy to me than the fact that Malcolm came to my mother’s and won her over, just like he did me.

I
wake up in the middle of the night, disoriented by the darkness. I’m not in my room. A leg lies beneath mine and my cheek is resting on hard flesh. Squinting, I look up and Saint is watching me, and I feel myself blush.

“Hey,” I say.

He smiles lightly as I tug the sheet up to my chest and sit up, the arm around me moving to lightly caress my back. “Hey.”

When he sits up a little too, I edge closer to lean my shoulder back against his chest.

He used to be my 1 a.m. I-can’t-sleep text. Now he’s my I-can’t-sleep comfort item. Like a blankie. But he’s alive. And I think I’m his 1 a.m. can’t-sleep comfort thing too.

But then, he’s wide awake so I’m not doing a good job, am I?

“Can’t sleep?” I whisper, gazing at him.

He shakes his deliciously bed-mussed head, running his hand down the back of my hair. “Watching you’s even better.”

I glance around. “What time is it?”

I’m about to search his room for any indication of the time, or about to feel for my phone nearby, when his voice stops me.

“I’m going to ask you now.”

“What?”

“There I was, meeting your mother. And I wanted to hear that I was your guy.”

I blink as it dawns on me. I’m so absolutely awake now that a frisson of nerves and excitement starts crawling through my veins.

“I’m going to ask you now.” The caress of his thumb across my lips makes me realize my mouth is parted and how fast I’m suddenly breathing. “I’ve been ready for far longer than you have, Rachel. You weren’t ready . . . maybe
nobody
can be ready for me.” He smirks, but there’s a gleam of sheer purpose and determination in his gaze.

I stare, helplessly aching. “Ask me,” I breathe.

“No half measures. I might be difficult—”

“Nothing can be more difficult than not being with you,” I say, cutting him off.

“I’m ambitious,” he calmly continues. “I ride my people hard, and I’ll ride my girlfriend harder, what with everything I want from her—but I’ll give her back everything she gives me tenfold.”

“Sin, ask me,” I breathe.

“Do you want to?”

“I
do
want to—”

“Be my girlfriend, Rachel. Officially. Exclusive and monogamous.”

I can’t talk at all. Right this second Malcolm has
officially
taken my power of speech. Will there be anything left that I don’t willingly give him?

“I want to be that guy you can’t ever take out of your head, Rachel. The one you’ve been waiting for. I want you to have eyes just for me and smile just for me and a tone of voice only I will ever hear.”

I’m nodding in the dark and then I whisper, “Yes. I’ve been your girlfriend for a long time, title or no.”

He nuzzles the side of my jaw. “Does a piece of your soul belong to me?”

Oh god.
My article.

I really and truly can’t speak,
now
, when I’m supposed to be screaming my answer. I’m a thief. If he never touches me again, I’ll have stolen the way he smells and feels right now.

He pulls me closer. “Say it,” he coaxes. “I liked your article very much. I was mad, but I know you, Rachel. I know you wrote that to me. You challenged me to come after you. I’m meeting your challenge now. You wanted to know if I’d catch you? I will. I’ve got you.

“Say it,” he demands. “Does a piece of your soul belong to me?”

His eyes are not green ice, they’re green lava.

I duck my head, and I think he can see my blush in the dark. “Yes,” I say. And somehow, that’s enough. Just one word.

He ducks his head too, in search of my lips, and now
he’s
the thief, stealing a kiss from me.

“Dibs,” he whispers.

C
loud nine isn’t enough; there’s no number for the cloud I’m on.

At drinks on Wednesday, Gina declares, “You still have girlfriends, you know. You can’t spend all your evenings with your new
boyfriend
without some sort of punishment for neglecting us.”

“Fine! The drinks are on me,” I assure them.

So my friends drink and talk and try to force some information out of me. But I’m not talking. There are no words to explain what’s happening between us. No number for this cloud, no words, just him and me, and his dibs on me.

At night—if he works late, or I’m stuck on deadline and can’t come over—we talk on the phone for about two hours.

Sometimes it’s just a text, like our latest ones.

Thinking of you

Is there even a cure?

Come over

It’s 1 a.m.

Unlock your door

I’m in my first official relationship, and the girls want more details. I meet up with them on Monday. Then on Tuesday, Saint flies to New York for a day on business, and I have one more interview at the
Tribune
. It’s nerve-racking. When I come out, I’m close to defeated.

That Tuesday after work, I realize I’ve lost my little R necklace. I scour my room like mad, I scour Gina’s room; I even empty the vacuum cleaner. I got it from my mother for my fifteenth birthday, the only real gold item that I have.

“Oh god, I can’t even bear to tell my mother I lost my R,” I tell Gina. It’s not in my cubicle either. In any of my bags.