Manwhore +1 (21 page)

He clears his throat, and when he finally speaks, I swear to god I almost start crying from how much I like the sound of it. Incredible, how much I’ve missed this voice. How his chest seems to vibrate with the power of it. How I can basically
feel
his warmth, emanating from his body as he stands there, and all I want to do is get sucked into his force field.

He steps closer to me, so I’m staring up at him and he’s staring down at me, and he says simply, “You look amazing.”

I can’t say anything back. My nerves won’t allow me to. It’s our second official date—after that one night I spent over.

“Mmm . . .” he says, lowering his head slightly so his lips brush the side of my neck. “Smell good too.”

I swear I’m melting right here, and as if he doesn’t even know, the bastard straightens up again and shoots me one of his trademark smiles. “Ready to go? We’ll be late.”

“Yeah.” I take a good breath. Then I look back at my apartment, turn off the lights and take my purse from the stand next to my front door.

“Talking Body” by Tove Lo is blaring on the speakers. The skybox overlooks the field, with several rows of exterior seats to get in on the action connected to the private suite—which is where we are. The moment we walk in, warm golden light fills my vision. Black leather couches, plasma TVs, and a pool table are the first things I see. Then I see a huge window looking out on the baseball field, the lights shining down. I can practically smell the peanuts and the beer. We’re on top of the whole stadium, in a glass box.

We grab drinks and then sit down on one of the couches looking directly out the huge window. We’re immediately loving the game.

“Damn right, run, Rizzo!!” Malcolm’s voice sounds deep as he bellows and shouts. “Fuuuck.” He throws his head back and groans, then returns his gaze to the field. He takes a swig of pinot noir.

I try to suppress a giggle with a sip of my little cocktail. It’s a tight game and we’re all going crazy wanting to secure the win. I should’ve been paying more attention but I do love the sportgasms Sin gets when he’s watching games. I love how serene he sits, calm and controlled, then yells from deep in his belly and pumps his fist when things go his way. And I love how he makes a piece of my brain take a walk when he puts his arm around me, and rubs his hand slowly down my arm.

He looks perfectly content now, sipping his wine, his arm around me, sitting in his majestic glass box overlooking the stadium. Might as well be his stadium, the way he sits here, as if he owns the place. Meanwhile, I’m sucking in the experience of a live game, which I’ve never, ever been to before. Gina says it’s because there were no men in my life—no father, brothers, boyfriends. Maybe she’s right. I love how the air crackles in the stadium, and how it crackles where Saint is right now.

“It’s in the bag, I can fucking feel it,” I hear Malcolm mumble next to me. He has a look of concentration on his face.

I’m terribly amused. “If you say so.”

He stares at me for a moment before tightening his jaw and closing his eyes for a split second. If I hadn’t been looking at him, I would’ve missed it. He leans over. “I
do
say so. We’re going to run them into the ground.”

At one point some friends below the box start yelling his name, and we head outside to the line of seats adjoining the box. “Saint! You fucking all-star!” one of the guys shouts, then asks if his crew can come up, eyeing me rakishly.

Saint simply says, “No,” and flips them the finger. He takes my arm and leads me to an outside seat, then sits beside me and leans forward as we continue to watch the game.

Between those gaps in the plays, we watch the Jumbotron. I’m laughing, watching the couples smack kisses on each other as soon as they appear on-screen. A young dark-haired man flashes on the screen. My body jolts with pure feminine awareness. He’s alone on-screen as I—and the rest of the spectators—register
who
he is, and then the camera shifts a little to include . . .
me
 . . . just as I feel fingers sliding underneath my hair, tugging me around, and his lips take mine.

I hear the cheers and, stunned, I can’t look back at the screen. Only at Sin’s yummy mouth, which I just felt kiss me.

His eyes twinkle as he draws me closer for another kiss, this one just for him, for his eyes only. His very hot male eyes.

He seems very calm and at peace with himself once the Jumbotron moves on to its next victims.

Three innings later, I’m still feeling shy and girly. But Sin’s recovered and is fully in the game. It’s the bottom of the ninth and the game is almost over. One strike and the Cubs lose against the Cardinals. Our Cubbies. Up to bat is Sweeney, who’s had a few home runs this year. We still have a shot and our guys could win.

“Now we’re talking. Bases loaded,” he says, clapping, then lifting his brows at me as he gestures toward the three bases forming a perfect arrow in front of us.

My lips ripple as I try to tame a smile. I’d forgotten how he loves anything competitive. It gives me a secret little tingle when I see his passion right out there, flashing in his eyes.

I suddenly ache to play with him. “I bet you were an expert at the
bases
, juvenile as that sounds.” I raise an eyebrow. I wonder when it all began, and I’m fishing for it. That little sliver of knowledge of how he became the most wanted man in Chicago. I wouldn’t be surprised if it started during elementary school. He
did
get a headline when he was born—and the headlines have never stopped following him.

“
Were?
” he jokes. “
Am
.” He lowers his head to mine and runs the tip of his nose against my temple. “I still got game.” He places a small kiss where his nose used to be.

“I would know. You’re such a big-time player, the umpire should be up
here
calling the plays.”

He doesn’t laugh like I thought he would. His eyes look darker, as if he doesn’t like me calling him a player, and I can tell his energy changed just now.

I peer at him, and he’s studying my hand as he draws his thumb up from the base to my fingertips. Tingles race through my skin, bubbles through my veins. He has a look of concentration, like he’s just discovered something he’s never seen before. Like he’s definitely
playing
with a toy he never expected to play with. He lifts his lashes to look at me. The momentary glimpse of the fiery heat in his gaze makes me drop my eyes back down to stare at our hands, my stomach gripping nervously.

He lifts our hands and slowly kisses my knuckles. When he lowers them, I’m panting little breaths. He smiles at me and I smile at him as he lets go, his touch lingering on my skin.

“You turn me on like nothing else,” he whispers.

He kisses me softly but briefly. Then he snaps out of it and turns back to watch the player on home base. The ball is hurtling through the air, and with a smack, I realize the batter made contact and the ball is heading somewhere out in midfield.

Malcolm is ecstatic. The whole stadium is screaming. If the Cubs get two men in, they’ll win the game . . .

One hit.

The crowds stand.

Malcolm stands.

I stand.

A roar outside, and suddenly I’m crushed in his arms and flung in the air so hard my breath leaves me.

“Malcolm!” I cry. He catches me, kisses me, squeezes me and twirls me around, grinning down at me. And when he sets me down, his eyes go from fiery celebration to something stormy and uncontrollable.

He slides his arms around me and pulls me into his chest, and this hug is different. “I just want to make you smile,” he says, gazing back at me and I guess I’m still smiling.

“I like your smile too,” I admit.

We hug again, and stay there, watching the stadium. We’re starting to feel like a couple, like Wynn and her boyfriend are, like Saint was
made
to hold me just like this. His huge hands just cradle me to him as the stadium empties and we wait to leave.

He’s rubbing his hands against my back slowly, moving his head until his lips are rubbing against my neck. It feels amazing. Beautiful. Warm. Soft. And I can feel my breaths coming faster, but a tightness is here. He’s holding me, and just when I think I can’t possibly like it more, he keeps embracing me and doesn’t let go as we finally walk out. He leads me out of the stadium.

It feels cold outside in the parking lot, I can see the trees folding, swaying, bending with the force of the cold Chicago wind. The Windy City—the name came about because of the hot airs some city politicians and braggarts put on in earlier centuries, though many people think it’s because of the wind. And
this
is exactly why.

As we wait for Claude to bring the car, some people are approaching to greet him. A man with two girls, one on each arm, who smiles and exclaims, “Saint!”

“Hillz,” he says tonelessly, taking my hand before they can reach us and leading me to his car.

“Why don’t you want me to meet them?” I ask once we get in the backseat.

“You’re too good for some of my crowd,” he says in my ear.

My stomach starts churning. God, these butterflies just don’t cease. It’s like someone’s tickling your stomach and you feel like you might burst out giggling at no particular time for no particular reason, except I know I’m about to get kissed to death. The black leather seats feel cool on the bottoms of my legs. The partition is closed between us and Claude, and as the car drives away, Saint takes my face in both of his hands and gives me a light, soft kiss. “Thanks for coming with me.”

“Thanks for inviting—” Before I can finish speaking, he starts kissing me. And I let him deepen the kiss.

Instantly it’s like we’re molded into one, our movements are in sync. I can feel his hands on my body but my head is somewhere out in space, dancing next to Jupiter and counting Saturn’s rings. It’s like a high. A hot, burning, needy high. I lose it a little bit and straddle him and run my fingers through his soft hair. His mouth is on my neck, hot and wet, sucking and kissing.

I feel like a teenager, making out with him in the back of his car. I can’t breathe. I just let him do whatever he’s doing because it feels like heaven. His fingers play with the waist of my shorts, tracing circles and gently rubbing my skin. I kiss him again and start to rub against him. He groans and grabs me by the ass, using one hand to grind me closer, harder.

His other hand reaches between my legs and unbuttons my shorts. My heart beats so loud it seems to be the only thing I can hear. I feel him smile against my lips.

“Want me to stop?”

His lips latch on to my skin and his tongue traces slow, lazy circles on my neck.

“Never. Kiss me,” I plead.

He kisses a perfectly delicious path back up to my mouth.

“I’ve been thinking about this all day.” He licks my lips and keeps kissing me, hungrier than before. His hands are dangerously close to touching my panties, but he keeps running circles along my navel, his mouth moving deliciously against mine.

He tears his mouth from mine and drags his lips back down the column of my neck, sucking, nipping, tasting, nibbling.

“God, I’ve been wanting to do this since I saw you at your apartment.”

I’m panting crazy hard by now, tearing myself free so I can breathe. I’m at the point where the merest touch in any sensitive part could set me off. I’m glad his phone starts ringing.

“Work?” I ask.

Well, not work, I find out when he hangs up.

“The boys are blowing up my phone. They want to come over, celebrate. T wants to see if your friend Gina wants to come.” He lifts his brows at me, waiting.

I reach down to pat my swollen lips. I swear Saint just helped me invent the female equivalent of blue balls. “He’d better keep his hands off Gina. But I’ll text her.” I pull out my phone and shoot her a message.

Saint is breathing hard too. His hair is rumpled by me. He looks
sexxxy
with triple Xs.

“You don’t like T and Carmichael?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Your friends hate me too.”

“They don’t. They’ve misjudged you. They never knew what to make of you.”