Manwhore +1 (24 page)

I didn’t know desire like this existed. I see him stand there, rolling on a condom, ready to take me and I lie here, spread open and aching for him to. I relax in anticipatory relief when his naked body covers mine, and he opens me up to receive him.

I groan as he wraps my arms around his neck and my legs around his hips, my head falling back . . . ready, eager, wanting. He kisses my breasts, grabbing my ass and tilting my hips upward as he drives inside. Our bodies tighten in pleasure as we connect.

I feel him stretch me . . . take me.

Then we begin to move. Quiet. Only our breathing audible.

My every sense is sensitized to a million.

I stare, in hazy ecstasy, up into his face, lit by the lamplight and golden and perfect, and ohmigod, his eyes look so hot for me. So violent and fiercely tender for me as he stares down at me. I knot up inside.

My chest flutters as I wonder if he can see it right in my eyes in every wild beat of my heart, I love you I love you
Iloveyou . . .

I stay staring as we move, my hands caressing his chest, his body hoisted up by one arm while his free hand makes love to my skin. And then we start kissing, and we don’t stop, the connection of our bodies too delicious, our mouths tasting, savoring, hot, wet, mine eager and soft, his more demanding and thirsty, our bodies moving together.

We lie there after he goes clean up, silent and sweaty and I’ve lost all modesty at the moment. I feel raw and open and unable to pull myself together right now.

I let him kiss my mouth for a while; my lips are red and I like it. I like his bed, I like our bodies tangled, I like that he broke me down and I get to stay and sleep here as I pull myself together again. I realize his breathing is deeper and shift a little, and he’s asleep. I reach up and touch his lips and quietly set a kiss on them.

I know Saint usually has trouble sleeping and I wonder how many nights he’s lain here, in this bed, without shutting his eyes. Enough that he’s fast asleep now, as if he too feels at peace having me back in his arms. I take his arm and curl it around me. And kiss the corner of his lips.

“Good night, Sin,” I whisper.

I never thought I could love a guy this freaking hard.

H
elen loved my “Things That Obsess Us” piece inspired by the Cubs game, and I’m excited to be writing again. I’m hopeful these newest pieces will help me open the door to one of my job prospects.

I was already at
Lokus
this week, and I’ve already queried every one of the places Saint mentioned. But my phone is silent.

Sometimes at night, when Saint leaves bed to work, or sometimes even when he’s holding me, I quietly worry about my options.

Or lack of them.

Valentine tells me that sometimes it takes time. That I may have to freelance, but I’m scared to lose the security of a full-time job, especially with my mother and our lack of health insurance for her.

Helen hasn’t mentioned Noel Saint again. But . . . can the deal please fall apart?

I know Helen doesn’t want me to leave. She’s trying her damnedest to act as if
Edge
isn’t in the midst of an acquisition, but I can tell by her shut office door and the flurry of meetings with her bosses that it’s happening.

There’s a long-standing war of wills going on between Noel and Malcolm. I mean, why else would his father, whose business mostly involves real estate, just
happen
to be interested in journalism, just as his son is being seen with me?

And I know how ruthless Saint can be. Saint is not a guy who’d let his father win, especially where
I’m
concerned.

The week goes by in a blizzard of texts, and anticipation of seeing him on Friday.

He warned me he was working late, but that he wanted to see me. I’m already in bed when he finally texts,
I’m coming up.

I tiptoe out to open the door in nothing but a tiny pair of lace bottoms, and when I swing the door open, he lifts me up.

I crawl higher up the trunk of his body and bite his neck. We’re both ravenous when he takes us to my room. He shoves his hands into the sides of my panties and gives a hard pull and when I hear them give with a spectacular tear and snap, I gasp his name, raw on my lips. Another breathy gasp escapes me as he throws me on the bed and jerks off his clothes. Then he covers me, and my nails sink into his shoulder blades, ankles lock at the base of his spine.

“Inside,” I beg.

He tortures me for a little while. “No. I want you like this. Wild and hot.” He’s not very obedient. The arousal and lust in my body triples. I ache for it, need it.

“Inside . . . get in me. Oh Sin, give it to me.”

By the time he rolls on a condom and lets me have it, I’m a mass of delicious contractions and heat.

He holds the back of my head in one hand, kisses me. “The way you squeeze me, Rachel. The way you just don’t want to let go of me even when you know I’m coming back, hard and deep . . .”

The next morning, I awake to an empty bed and a shiny black credit card lying next to the cell phone on my nightstand. And a text:
Get some new ones.

I roll to my side and see the torn panties, and smile so hard my face hurts.

Then he texts again:
Get some swimwear while you’re at it. Let’s hit
The Toy
later.

The Toy
.

I’ve been combusting all week, and have been churning out dating pieces and how-to-tell-what-kisses-mean pieces and how-to-seduce-the-man-of-your-dream pieces like crazy for Helen.

I have the best memories of being on
The Toy
with Saint. Memories of nothing but the lake around us. I love going out on his yacht because all the social media doesn’t exist; all my fears fade away. The times Malcolm and I have been alone there together are some of the best of my life.

Saint and I are leaving later. So now Gina and I are in the swimwear section of her department store. There’s a very simple, well-cut black bikini that sits snug and lovely on my butt and tits. I feel beautiful, the material smooth, the cut making my legs look sleek and long.

It’s a little bit expensive and I just don’t know if I can let this big spender of a man buy it for me. On the other hand, letting him buy it for me makes me feel so sexy I can’t stand it. And Gina says a guy has to feel like a provider sometimes and I have to let him.

“He needs to feel like a man,” she says.

Groan.
Like Sin needs to feel any manlier.

After a while of turning and checking my appearance from all angles, I take a selfie in the mirror and then examine it closely. Do I look good? I want to look
awesome
. Not just good. Send it or not, send it or not, send it or not—

Shit!
Clicked “send.”

This one?
I force myself to casually add after the stupid photo just flew over to his phone. Dammit.

YES
is the only reply.

I feel bees in my stomach.
OK. I’ll be done and ready to sail as soon as I figure out how to use this black card I got.

Don’t worry, it works just fine,
he writes back. Then adds,
Where are you? I’ll pick you up in 20.

I tell him I’m at the department store where Gina works. Then I tell Gina I think I can buy this one.

She peers at my bikini through the curtain, and snaps, “That is
terribly
sexy. Why are you hesitating? GET THEM ALL! Paul never bought me shit. It shouldn’t be difficult to let Saint do it.”

“Well, because it’s from him. I want it to be . . . perfect.”

I come out with the swimsuit and head over to pay.

It’s ridiculous how excited I am.

I’ve never let a man do this for me.

I’d never even realized how easy it would be to agree when that man . . . well, when that man is the one you want to be with. And when that man seems to delight—seriously, get high!—in getting you things.

Ohgod.

Is this me being spoiled rotten by him?

“You sure you only want one?” Gina asks as she inspects my selection. “You know, those black Centurion credit cards are so costly to own, you might as well use them or you’re throwing money away.”

“Gina,” I groan as I watch the lady swipe the card and package my swimsuit as they do in the expensive stores like this one. “I’m not going to throw his money away! I only need
one
,” I scold her.

We head toward the stairs and she gets distracted by a shoe display. Shuddering after she checks a price, she sets the shoe aside while I check out a pair of sleek Louboutins, the designer shoes with the red soles.

“Has there been any news of his dick father?” she asks as I stare in shock at the price and quickly return the shoe to the display.

“No.”

“And the job interviews . . .”

I shake my head.

“So maybe you’ll work with Saint?”

“I couldn’t be his employee, Gina, I feel consumed as it is.”

Dibs . . .

Oh, shit.
Dear brain, can we please try to forget that?

But every time Saint touches me, I feel his fingers and his tongue are saying dibs and dibs and dibs . . .

The word is no longer visible on my hand, but I feel branded by it.

Gina leads me downstairs to the Chanel department, where I stock up on eye shadow and eyeliner. When we walk out of the store, we see some people across the street all staring in the same direction—a few more even stop walking to gape. I follow their gazes and stop in my tracks, my heart in my throat.

A silver Bentley’s parked at the curb. Something buzzes over my skin as Malcolm heads toward me. He is absolute sin in fucking jeans and a polo that makes love to him.

A few paces behind him is Otis, walking with Saint’s same long stride. Malcolm signals at his driver to get my tiny bag and then he looks down at me.

“She’s ready for your yacht, Saint. She’s got the perfect bikini. But unfortunately she’s not ready for anything else,” Gina says.

“That’s not true!” I groan.

Gina chuckles and waves at us dismissively as she heads off to where she was meeting Wynn for brunch.

When I turn back to my green-eyed devil, I see he’s just looking at me. “You didn’t buy what I told you to.”

I scowl in confusion when I realize he’s walking me back toward the store.

The salespeople seem startled enough that I deduce Saint doesn’t come here often, but they seem to know him or about him. Oh yes, they do. The level of chatter around this man starts to spread in hushed tones across the store.

He leads me into the women’s department and then into . . .

The lingerie department.

My heart stops as he winds through the racks, his big, muscular body contrasting with the flimsy bits of nothing hanging all around him. He brushes his lips over my ear. “Let’s get you some things.”

“Malcolm,” I say, as his voice in my ear leaves a lingering earthquake in my tummy. I shake my head. “I already bought the bathing suit, I’m not comfortable buying anything else.”

He’s already scanning the articles on a panty table, his brow furrowed as he hunts down the perfect pieces for me. “You won’t be buying it. I will.”

God.

He doesn’t waste time.

“How about this?” He’s dangling a red lace thong between his fingers.

I shake my head and feel myself flush.

“This?” His eyes begin to light up when he notices I’m beet red, and I bite down on the inside of my cheek.
Play his game, Livingston!

“Too mainstream.” I dismiss it with a flick of my fingers. He lifts his brows.

“Well, in that case.” He hunts around the tables for another pair of lingerie. He picks up a yellow thong with a bow on the back, which I assume would be perched right between the tops of my butt cheeks.

I take it between my fingers. It’s made of lace, and the bow is soft silk.

“You want me to look like a present or what?” I playfully tease, gesturing to the bow.

He teases right back, his adorable smile part devil and part saint. “If I get to unwrap you? Yes.”