Chapter 22: Manwhore +1: Chapter 22

Helen 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.”

My body temperature is suddenly too high for what I assume is healthy so I step away toward the bra area, finding the matching one to the yellow thong he seems to like so much.

I walk around the store, picking up other stuff. I’m playing along, a little excited and more than a little reckless. Some black lace stockings with a matching garter, a white silk cami set, and Malcolm brings three more thongs (dark blue, white, and purple), and a tiny-looking corset, oh god.

“This has to go on you.” Now he’s being just wicked.

“If you want a corpse in your bed. Saint, these don’t let you breathe.”

He discards that and goes to find a pearl thong. “All right. So this.” He looks at me coaxingly.

“That’s sooo uncomfortable. I like my pearls on my neck and soft things between my . . .” I go up on my toes and add, “Cheeks.”

He catches me by the hips and pulls me close. “Try it on for me.”

“Nobody tries on underwear before they buy.” I walk around when he follows me and wraps his arms around me.

“Then let’s buy it. Try something on for me. A nightie. Sheer and pretty where I can see your blush just beneath.”

I scan the store quickly. “I don’t see any nightie here with that description . . .”

He produces a flimsy-looking gauzy thing from behind his back, eyes glinting.

“Malcolm.” I groan, and though I keep rummaging through the offerings, now I’m just looking for things to tease him. I grab a pair of huge granny panties. The kind that cover you up to your breasts and cut unattractively down on your leg. “This looks comfortable.”

“Like hell.”

“And this.” I pull out the plainest, biggest bra I can find. “Would you let me buy these?”

“Yeah minx. And we’ll use them for a bonfire.”

His eyes turn devilish and he grabs the big panties, the big bra, and the little nightie, and then tugs me to the dressing rooms, and I’m acutely aware of the salesladies possibly watching us. He yanks open a velvet dressing-room curtain, and when I go in, he follows me inside.

“Sin! What if they see you in here?”

“Trust me, they know I’m here.”

I stand there, dumbly holding the panties and nightie to my chest. Dressing-room lights are always so bad. Though Saint looks glorious as usual. He’s leaning back against the wall with his legs spread and his hands in his pockets. The top three buttons of his polo are unbuttoned and he’s looking at me with laughter in his eyes.

“Can you at least close your eyes?” I plead.

He shakes his head no.

When I just stand there, shy like I shouldn’t still be feeling with him, he lowers himself to the only seat available and crooks his index finger at me. “Come here.”

I walk toward him, entranced by the gleam in his eyes right now. I hold my breath when he puts his warm, strong hands on my hips and places me between his legs, the top of his head reaching just below my breasts.

He eases my blouse off first, then he unbuttons my jeans slowly.

My throat starts to close at the utter sensuality of the moment. I focus on a spot on the wall behind him, trying to calm myself down. He slowly pushes my jeans down until they’re a puddle on the floor. I step out of them automatically then toe off my shoes, and he runs his hands slowly up my legs until they’re resting on my hips again.

I’m standing in my top and light-blue panties. He looks up at me with his green eyes and I know in this moment that he could do whatever he wanted to me and I would let him. Wholeheartedly, I would let him.

I’m scared of how reckless he makes me. I can feel my breathing get faster as he hooks his thumbs in the edge of my panties and slowly starts to pull them down. His eyes stay on mine the whole time, until my panties are on the floor. I step out of them and he reaches for the nightie, taking my arms and sliding them into the flimsy, fluttery sleeves. I fasten the bow at the center as he watches. By now, I am a horny mess.

He leans over, and parts the already-wide parting of the nightie and places a kiss on the top of my navel. Edging the bow up and kissing my stomach softly before turning me around in his hands so I can see myself in the mirror.

The nightie feels weightless and soft as a cloud wrapped around me; I can feel the silk molding to my body, hugging my waist, fluttering to my bottom, where it just—ends. Exposing my ass. I can tell he’s having fun because he’s looking at the back, smiling. Then his eyes hold mine in the mirror. He looks dark, manly, and powerful, with his hands on the sides of my thighs while he sits back on the bench, looking at me in the mirror.

My body’s gone haywire but I can’t help my reactions to him and I think Sin very well knows it. Oy, me.

He pats my ass after he stands in that deliberately slow way of his. “I’d say this one for sure,” he murmurs close to my ear, brushing a hand up my side in a caress that hums through me like his whisper.

We can’t seem to take our eyes off each other as he slowly undoes the ribbon and lets it unfurl open. I’m shaking head to toe, ready to make out or even do more, when I look for the first thing to cover myself. I hop quickly into my panties as he sits down again and pulls out the huge panties.

“Go on. Turn me on.”

I hike one brow. “The only way I can try it is over my jeans.” I slip on my jeans and then slide on the humongous panties. And I’m laughing so hard at his face. Then his eyes darken and he pulls me down on his lap, and says, “These look like a dress on you.”

“A very ugly dress?”

He shakes his head, smiling.

“A very big dress?”

He shakes his head.

“Should I take a thousand of these?”

“I dig you in these, Rachel. I dig you in everything.” He looks at me with hot tenderness, stroking his hand down my back as he looks down at the ridiculous view. “The more you get, the more I get to rip off you. So yes. Take them off.” He pats my ass. “We’re getting you everything,” he says, almost to himself.

I’m laughing and tossing the huge panties at him along with the nightie and everything else.

But inwardly, I’m blushing.

Is he blind?

I looked ridiculous.

He looked at me like I was so . . . perfect.

When he brushes past me to pay, I swear that this simple intimate act of shopping together has taken my arousal to a whole other level.

When I slip on my clothes and step out, the saleslady is gushing at him and handing Malcolm her card. “Anything, you can absolutely call or email and we will be happy to help.”

“Thank you,” he absently murmurs, his gaze on me as if I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, and that’s where it stays as he swings the bags behind his shoulder and we head out of there.

“Saint,” I chide. “Don’t spend this kind of money on me. You’re already like the man of my dreams.”

I laugh and duck my head after the admission, blushing when I see the hot look in his eyes.

Outside, I shoot him a sidelong glance. “Do you give your black credit card to all your lady friends?”

“No, I give them the gold.”

“Malcolm!” I hit him playfully. He grabs the back of my head and leads me down the street, where a guy approaches us quite frantically.

“Saint, any comments on your father’s acquisition of Edge?”

Malcolm puts himself between me and the guy and continues walking me toward the car, silent, leaving the guy behind.

“I admire you.” I shoot him an awed glance and shake my head. “How you so easily dismiss the attention.”

Then I loosen the elastic band on my hair and pull it to my sides to use it as a curtain to hide my face. He watches me in confusion. I can feel people staring at us now, and uncomfortably, I grab the aviators he just pulled out and slip them on my face.

He looks down at me with a half smile and eyes narrowed in speculation. “Want a fake mustache with that?”

“I’m good.” I grin.

I follow him to the car and we don’t bother to set the bag in the trunk. The car is super spacious anyway. He opens the door before Otis can fully make it and we ease inside.

“Rachel . . .” He falls sober, plucking off the aviators.

I’m smiling, but I also feel ashamed. “Sin, I’m sorry.” I drop my face. “It’s going to take me a while to get used to the attention you get.”

“Don’t notice it. Don’t give it even a moment’s thought. I never do.”

“Hmm.” My mouth twists wryly. “It’s not only the attention, but wondering what lies they’ll put out . . . having no control over that.” I feel my heart squeeze a little as our eyes meet, him sitting across from me, broad and muscular and drop-dead gorgeous. And I admit the closest thing I can say to I love you. “It’s hard when everyone stares at the man you want, and you want him to want nobody but you.”

He simply says two words that melt me.

“He does.”