Manwhore +1 (37 page)

He likes prolonging. I close my eyes and savor the way he does it. His lips once again tug on my nipples then trail along my abdomen. Up my neck. He smells me. Tastes me. Relishes me. Experiences me. I grab his hair, undulating beneath his hot, hard body. Savoring him back. He’s my obsession and my addiction, the only place I feel both safe and exhilarated.

“Sin,” I beg.

He pulls free from my kiss and growls, “I am obsessed with you.” Then, he grabs my hips and fills me, whispering, “I adore you,” filling me completely, watching me with those smoldering green eyes I can feel in every part of me, building up a new orgasm, cupping my breasts in his hands, and bending to lick and lave both tips.

I thrash beneath him, unsure if I can survive so much of him. So much pleasure. Such total, consuming pleasure. But I do—and he goes deeper in me.

I sigh in relief every time he thrusts back in. Sigh his name pleadingly. He takes my mouth with his, his kiss ravenous.

“I am . . . crazy . . . about you,” he rasps, moving in me so deep I can feel him in my heart. His face moves to my ear. “Let me own you, Rachel, and I’ll let you own me right back. You’re my lady now.” He kisses my forehead, my nose, and my lips.

“Don’t close your eyes; look at me,” he says, and when I lift my lashes, his eyes are luminous in his face, and he’s the hottest, sexiest thing I’ve ever seen, watching me as he fucks me as if transfixed.

He rams his hand into my hair and makes a hard fist as he moves his body over mine, pinning me down for leverage as he watches me come for him.

I give myself over. Sin. Saint.

Malcolm
inside me, Malcolm watching me with his green eyes, Malcolm clenching his jaw as he makes love to me, Malcolm who has my heart.

We spend Saturday on
The Toy
. He orders food from a delicious French restaurant before we sail and then the crew cleans up as we head upstairs.

We’re in the top-level sitting area now as the yacht moves through the water, sated from swimming, making out in the water, doing it in the cabin shower, and then in the bed. Relaxed from all the sex, Malcolm works for a while on a couch and I lounge nearby, with my feet on his lap and one of his hands stroking them absently as I surf my phone a little bit.

I’m steering away from anything that could be a downer. So no Saint social-media-digging shit for me. No Saint social media about his father. I hear him take a call and am happy to overhear that M4’s stock had a huge rally after the news broke that
Edge
went to Noel Saint’s corporation. And now I can’t stop dreaming of my new career. My new office space. My new life.

I’m thinking of all the things I want to do as the wind drags by and Malcolm finishes up, and when he shuts his laptop and I hear the unmistakable silence of powered-off electronics, I close my thoughts too as he pulls me up by the waist, then scoops me up in both arms and takes me to bed.

“I have legs,” I whisper sleepily.

He gives me one of his toe-curling smirks. “Long, lovely ones too.”

His king bed is waiting for us, sprawled in the center of the room, kind of big like him.

He sets me down in bed, but I crawl away and slip into one of his shirts as he strips, while exhaustion weighs me down after the day.

We settle into the bed a little bit; I crawl in and I plump the pillow and slide under the covers, and he joins me, flipping onto his back, pulling an arm above his head, relaxing as his free hand curls around my shoulders and presses me to his chest. I’m warm and soft inside, settling against him. The safe, warm nook in his arms. Gathered against his large, warm male body. Contentment and peace flow through me even as his body buzzes like it always does. With that never-ending thirst of his that I try to quench with
me
.

And we kiss a little. And as the kiss starts to heat up, we end up fucking slow and easy, not talking, only the noises of kissing and skin touching, our breathing and the yacht engines. I almost choke when I orgasm—the pleasure is so intense I hold my breath for forever, then exhale and lie limp, surrounded by all of Sin.

He kisses me passionately when we’re done. Like he’s grateful for my affection and my companionship and my desire of him.

Then we cuddle and I set my cheek against his chest and fall asleep fast and easily, like only the warm and safe do.

I
wake up in Malcolm’s arms Monday morning, and though I see there’s a bit of light stealing through the drapes, I can tell there’s still maybe ten or twenty minutes to dress for work . . . maybe I’ll just stay right here forever.

He’s still in bed, his eyes closed, his dark hair in a delish rumpled mess. I shift my hip, lightly trailing my fingers up his chest, noticing the claw marks of my nails on his pecs.

My eyes widen. What . . . holy shit, did I do that?

Welcome to the land of the crazy in love, Rachel. This may have been why you were so reluctant to move here?

Grinning, I rub my fingers over the marks, and his hand slides up my back. I lift my head in surprise. His lips are curled as he watches me.

“I actually clawed you last night?”

His voice is husky with sleep. “No, the girls who came in while you were sleeping did.”

I smack his shoulder and he catches my hand, his voice deepening. “Come here.”

“Saint . . .” I breathe as he rolls over me.

He reaches between us, sliding his hand down to cup me between my legs. “Hmm?”

Shivers run through me. “You had me a thousand times last night.”

Gruff whispers as he kisses and nibbles my ear. “Did I? It doesn’t seem like enough.”

“Malcolm”—I push at his shoulder a little and edge up to sit—“in five minutes I need to get dressed for work.”

“You
own
your work.”

“Not yet. I haven’t signed anything, and last you told me, it’s today at two p.m. In the meantime I’m going to meet with my possible future team and start getting to work.”

“All right, Rachel,” he says, clearly indulging me. “I’ll only take four minutes and fifty-nine seconds.” He pulls me back down.

“Malcolm!” I laugh, then look at him, my smile fading. “Are we really going for this? Your first monogamous, exclusive relationship?”

His grin remains, but the glint in his eye turns serious. He nods, kisses my shoulder, then smiles softly down at me, brushing his thumb over my skin. “We’re doing it. And I’ve got an eight-thirty.”

After a quick shower where it’s hard to focus on just showering, I find myself sitting on the corner of his bed with a towel wrapped around my body, just watching him—not even caring I’m going to be late. He’s got a thousand and one identical shirts and ties and jackets, and as he buttons the one he plucked off the hanger, I watch him become Malcolm Saint before my very eyes. My eyes taking in his every move, his nimble fingers zipping up his slacks, his muscles flexing as he slides a shiny leather belt around his narrow waist.

He looks at me when he feels me watching, a dent appearing in his forehead as he frowns. As if he doesn’t realize I’m just sitting here drooling my face off. Why can’t it be like the cavemen times, when all that mattered was getting food and then we could gorge on each other and lock ourselves in here forever?

But he doesn’t want just the food; he wants the world, the moon.

And, apparently, me.

“Come here.” He pulls me up and I close my eyes, my toes curling when he sets a kiss that’s almost chaste on my lips. “We’re meeting the lawyers at two to make it official. Start planning your board; one that’ll help you make your new venture whatever you had once dreamed
Edge
could be. Give yourself a team that will help you build the platform you need to put what’s here,” he taps my temple, “out there.” He signals out the window.

Laughing with a combo of pure raw nerves and excitement, I nod.

He chucks my chin. “Have coffee with me before I go?”

“Yes.”

“I’m knotted up.” He twists his neck side to side as we walk out. “You really know how to tangle up a man in bed,” he says, patting my butt affectionately as we walk to the kitchen.

I inspect every inch of him leisurely as he makes coffee and—trying to be a good girlfriend—I reach out to massage his hard shoulders.

It doesn’t last long. Easing behind me instead, coffee in one hand, me in the other, he stares out at Chicago like an overlord surveying his land. I lay my head back on his shoulder and let him rock me slightly as we look at the city. The city, the world, the horizon. I sense he has most of that, but he wants more,
everything
we see out there, and what we can’t see.

Everything he thinks he can accomplish, he’s going to get.

When I go pour my coffee, I spot a crisp, white, posh-looking invitation on the kitchen island near one of his sets of car keys. It reads:

Malcolm Saint +1

I smile when I read the invitation to one of the city’s grandest galas. “Are we going?” I ask his back.

“We’re always going.” He brings his coffee cup to the sink, his eyebrows drawing together as he looks at me. “And that smile?”

“I was just thinking that . . . it’s nice.”

He kisses my temple. “Get a dress.”

“Saint, I have a dress.”

“Get one on me.”

He sets down his credit card. I leave it on the granite counter, knowing he’ll kick up a fuss when he sees that I didn’t take it. I’m humming as I put the invitation back in place.

I can’t wait to see where our relationship is going. People speculate on what I am. His girlfriend, his four-month girl, his lover, his fling, his obsession, his one sole error in judgment, his mistake. They can call me whatever they’d like, it doesn’t change anything.

I’m his plus one . . . and he’s my everything.

I
t’s a busy day at
Face
.

Face
is my baby—brand new and still taking its first steps into publishing, both online and in print. I teased Malcolm about calling it that as a play on Interface, and when he chuckled in that amused way of his that tells me he kind of liked what I just said, I knew it was the perfect name.

Valentine, Sandy, and twelve other reporters are busy outside my office today.

It’s great. But it’s difficult to be in the same building as the guy I’m dating.

Sometimes I spot him leaving out the window, his hair and suit dark as the gleaming Rolls-Royce parked outside. Sometimes I watch him arrive from a business lunch, a conference, a board meeting at one of the multiple companies he advises—it’s hard to keep my Saint hormones from running wild.

Sometimes we accidentally meet in the elevator as I ride up to my floor . . . and he rides to his. He’s good at showing no emotion. But when our eyes lock, there’s that inevitable spark I see light his green eyes. Our companions move as though by instinct to let him get close to me. We don’t touch. At least, I don’t. But he sometimes stands so that our hands graze. Sometimes his thumb comes out for mischief, brushing the back of my finger—the tiniest bit. Other times, he laces our fingers for a heartbeat.

A most delicious, achingly sensual heartbeat.

And there was this one time when he hooked his pinky to mine and rode the entire way up to my floor standing there, tall, quiet, among the bustle of people, nobody but
me
knowing that this man—this man really loves me.

Sometimes I go up to his office or he comes down—and somehow we both know why we’re there. To talk, sometimes.

But sometimes to be quiet.

Superduper quiet as he kisses my mouth red, and red, and red, and simply coaxes me to promise him that I’ll come over to his place tonight.

At his place, we fuck all night long.

In mine, we fuck quietly so that Gina doesn’t hear us.

It’s perfect. I wouldn’t change a single thing.

Not of him, not of us.

I took the leap, and Malcolm caught me.

So we have this arrangement. During the week, we generally sleep at my place because I don’t want Gina to feel lonely. The weekend, we’re in his. This Thursday he has offered to drive me home, but he makes a five-minute stop at the bank. I stay answering some last emails on my phone and then peer curiously out the window when he comes out with one of the managers, who shakes his hand goodbye, then he climbs on board and asks Claude to take us to his building.