Chapter 31: Manwhore +1: Chapter 31

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:

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.