Manwhore: Chapter 21

Facebook wall:

Saint, saw those pics of you with a new chick on The Toy. Got bets going on if she’s a weekend-deal?

Twitter:

@MalcolmSaint hey I’m not sure you lost my number? It’s Deenah from the Ice Box—call me

Please follow me @MalcolmSaint!

Instagram:

Who’s the chick on The Toy, Saint? She the flavor of the hour?

After scanning Sin’s Twitter feed, I toss my phone aside, turning around in bed, wanting him again. Pale morning breaks overhead. It steals in through my blinds and falls on my second pillow. I imagine him lying on it, the sheets draped low on his hips. I’m here, close, so I can tuck my face into the crook of his neck like I did yesterday.

Yeah, like he’ll ever let a woman see him like that.

It doesn’t matter, it probably won’t happen again. Remember that he ran instantly cold after all the heat? Still, last night feels like a dream. An amazing dream. I should probably feel remorse, because we probably shouldn’t have done what we did. But I can’t. I melt when I remember. I can’t even believe this feeling. If only I could bottle it up and get high on it when I’m away from him. He oozed confidence. The way he worked me into a fever. The way he made me cry out. The way he controlled himself. The way he gave me oral.

Urgh. I’m so comfortable right now. I could stay here all day remembering. But I must. Fight. Bed gravity!

I manage to get out of bed, brush my teeth, and head to the kitchen. I look around as Gina pads in. I know deep down what I’m doing is so wrong and inherently risky. Proof of that is that I haven’t told my friends I slept with him.

We talk about the lamest things. I talk to Gina and Wynn every day, even if there’s nothing to talk about. We usually don’t even have anything significant to say except: “I just pigged out on a sundae.”

And I will be: “Oh, those are good.”

And: “I watched Sleepless in Seattle again; I can’t believe how good that movie still is, so many years later.”

“Oh, I love Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks. Where are those two, anyway? Where’s Meg? I miss her. . . .”

Sleeping with a guy after a three-year dry spell—and only having slept with two other guys in my life, neither of them anything to scream about—definitely classifies as noteworthy material. Sleeping with Malcolm Saint is a ten on the Richter scale. It deserves waking the girls up, if need be. It deserves screaming and scolding and more screaming, it deserves a day of daydreaming—What if he really likes me? and What if it happens again?—but because it’s him, and because this is me, and because everything is more complicated, I can’t say it. I can’t share it, and I can’t bear to share him or hear anyone’s advice or opinion when I’m so tangled up about it all.

“What’s up with you?” Gina asks.

“Nothing. I’m going to write,” I murmur lamely.

I head to my laptop and stare at it, not writing a single anything at all, my fingers just stroking the keys as I glance at my phone.

Oh god, I’m such a fucking slut. I force myself to exhale the breath I’d been holding and read the text I just sent him:

Tonight?

Tonight, he’d answered.

We’re heading back from a night out with Callan and Tahoe. I can’t even believe how turned on I got watching Saint have a sportgasm when the White Sox won. His friends had one too. They yelled in Tahoe’s apartment. Tahoe started running around like a madman, banging his chest. Callan opened a bottle of champagne and gave us all a bath. Malcolm’s muscles gave my saliva glands quite a workout when he took off his shirt, balled it up, and threw it at the TV. “FUCK THAT, YES!”

He kept staring at me as I went to and fro.

“Hey, we’re having a good time. Why don’t you call the girls?” Tahoe says.

“No, thanks. You can leave your paws off my girls,” I say.

“We’re actually bailing,” Malcolm says. I look up at him, and he’s looking at me meaningfully.

“Aw, Saint. Hey, can we hop by your place later?”

“Later,” he says.

I don’t know why, but I’m already shivering like crazy.

Fifteen minutes later we’re in his bedroom, and I roll over to straddle him, aching for his mouth, and we kiss again. We’re naked, my breasts bare so he can toy with my nipples and drag his hands over my arms and then my spine. Our bodies shift as he sits up and pulls my legs around his hips. I’m so excited to feel that he’s thick underneath me, I can’t stop kissing his jaw, his lips. He’s so thick he groans when I rock my hips a little bit.

God, he really wants me. . . .

“This doesn’t mean anything, right?” I ask, panting and ready, so sopping wet I’m a little embarrassed about it, because his fingers are already trailing there.

“Right.” He drags his tongue over my ear, his hand sliding over my pussy lips.

I watch the harsh look on his face as I move slowly over his lap, teasing his hardness with my wetness, until he rasps in my ear, “A guy would kill to live here.”

He seizes my hips and urges me down on him; in this position he fills me to the hilt. Our eyes meet and cling. I lick my lips, and he runs his keen male attention over every part of me he can. He slides his hands down my butt, the backs of my legs, to curl over my ankles, his thumbs rubbing my ankle bones as I do the rest of the work.

My breasts bounce. He lies back on the bed, watching, as he drags one hand down the flat of my abdomen and fondles my clit. “Look at you,” he croons huskily, ducking his head to suck on my breasts in a way that makes my eyes roll into the back of my head. I just lose control.

“Malcolm,” I moan, wrapping my arms around his shoulders, savoring how they flex.

We hear the door.

I stop riding him for a second, but he’s so big and full inside me, I don’t want to stop.

“Shh.” He sits up, hands on my hips, locking me on top of him. “It’s just the guys, they won’t come in here.”

He sucks the tip of my breast into his mouth. My head falls back in pure red-hot pleasure as I move again.

More noise.

“Mmm,” I moan, savoring him. Every pulse in his body, I feel too.

“Saint!” they’re yelling.

He lifts his head. “BUSY!!!!”

Oh god, I can’t. I lift up on my thighs and pull him out of me, too nervous about being heard to continue.

“No, come here.” His arm locks around me, gently tugging me back to him.

“They’re going to see I’m in here with you!” I hiss as I squirm free and start gathering my clothes.

“So?” As I get my pretty little thong and my bra back on, his attitude becomes more serious.

“So I really don’t want to be your new whore to everyone. Just to me and you.”

I slip into my top and skirt, and he jumps into his jeans, still hard, his face completely remote now. He comes and wraps his arms around my midriff. “Stay here, and I’ll get rid of them.”

I close my eyes, his touch, firm, persuasive, inviting me to stay and have my way with his hair, his lips, him.

“It’s okay,” I whisper.

“You sure?” The mere touch of his hand on my chin sends a warming shiver through me, and I nod.

We go outside in silence. He gets me a cup of coffee and then brings a bottle of wine out from the wine room.

“Hey, bro!” The guys high-five him, and he gives them a silent look that clearly speaks volumes. As in: Why are you here?

“Well, hello there, Rachel.” Tahoe waggles his brows as he and Callan settle down on the huge leather living room couches. “You know, Rache, people have been asking me about you. Especially old Saint acquaintances,” Tahoe tells me.

“I can imagine. I’ve lately experienced a friend surge on Instagram, FB, and Twitter since the Interface inaugural,” I reply.

“Callan’s gotten more inquiries than me, even,” Tahoe adds.

“ ’Cause you’re a man beast, chicks are partly scared of you.” Callan nods at him and looks at me. “He didn’t hit puberty, he beat the shit out of it.”

I laugh.

They both look at me as if waiting for me to explain the situation, but I won’t. I think those two are too scared to drill Saint. So the guys start talking.

I’m trying to take mental notes, but mainly they’re talking about the White Sox.

I curl up on the couch and set my cup to the side, grabbing a little pillow. Sin sits across from me, maybe because I told him that I didn’t want them to think I was his whore. I smile at him in quiet gratitude.

He smiles at me and sips his wine.

I’m trying to convince myself that it’s better if I go home—though my body protests at the mere thought of not seeing him until I don’t know when—when I hear Tahoe casually tell Malcolm, “Her girls are coming over.”

My cup of coffee comes down with a clatter. “What?”

“Yeah. I invited them.”

“You? How do you even know my friends, Tahoe?”

“Succulent Gina?” He smirks. “Saint’s got dibs on you. And he’s got your landline.”

I stare at Malcolm, flushing when he returns that look with a straight, unflinching stare.

And true to Tahoe’s claim, in fifteen minutes Wynn and Gina appear at Saint’s place, dressed to impress. They gape a little at their surroundings, and I’m almost embarrassed for them at how long it takes them to recover. The guys usher them to the living room with the huge cinema-size screen. “What are you girls up to?” Tahoe prods—gazing directly at Gina. “What were you so heatedly discussing coming off the elevator?”

“Um . . .” Wynn says, hesitating. “We were talking about Rachel’s love life,” she blurts out. “How she’s lived perfectly well without a man her whole life. Not even a boyfriend, ever, really.”

“Really?” Tahoe asks. “So is she like, a virgin, or what?”

The silence from Malcolm’s vicinity feels leaden, and then he growls, “Dude, Rachel and I . . .”

He falls silent upon my glare, and then the silence grows endless.

“You’re what?” Tahoe asks.

He raises his eyebrows and looks at me in question.

“You’re what?!” Gina echoes.

Malcolm keeps looking at me, as if just now realizing I hadn’t wanted my friends to know, either. I’m frantic wondering what the hell he’s going to tell them we’re doing. Well. What are we doing?

“You two are sleeping together, holy shit, I could stick a sock in my mouth right now!” Wynn says.

“I could do that for you if you’re into that,” Tahoe offers.

“It’s nothing, really,” I quickly say, to appease my shocked friends. “We hooked up, twice. So.”

I’m aware of the way my friends stare at me in confusion, Malcolm in quiet assessment.

“Just twice, dude? And looks like there might not even be a third!” Tahoe laughs.

“Shut up, asshole. I’ve got this pocket on lockdown.” Malcolm crosses to my couch and drops beside me, reaches out and kisses my temple, his whisper low and husky so that only I can hear, “This Hershey’s Kiss, all mine.”

“Malcolm.” I swear I just blushed from the roots of my hair to the tips of my toes.

“Look at that pink on your skin.” He laughs softly, clearly amused, a smile on his face, his eyes dark and gleaming.

“Twice?” Gina explodes in delayed response to her shock. “And you did not think to tell your best friends?”

Saint heads to the wine room, a cold space encased in glass near the back of the bar, bringing out a bottle of wine and a handful of glasses, all the while looking at me with curiosity. “It just didn’t seem important,” I hedge uncomfortably.

“Considering . . .” Gina scowls. “Considering.” She gestures at him. “It was important.”

Gina looks at him.

Then me.

“It’s not important,” I repeat.

“Oooooooh, that’s bad, man,” Callan ribs Saint.

“You fucking sly dog,” Tahoe says. God, that man is obsessed with dog references, I swear. “You’ve been jousting all this time. I bet you were jousting right fucking now when we came in.”

Malcolm’s eyes flick up to me in quiet evaluation and then he whispers, his voice low, “Rachel’s a lady.”

I’m tomato red.

Malcolm’s eyes are totally talking to me. What’s this about?

“Hell, I bet you joust with the lady when we leave!”

“Drop it, T,” Saint murmurs, draining his wine, looking at me still with that quiet concern. He’s trying to know what to do; I can tell he wants to get a cue from me, but I can’t even think of what cue to give him now. Oh boy.

“Let’s bet on it,” Tahoe suddenly tells Callan and then turns to Malcolm. “If you get the lady under your charms, I give you my wheels. If you don’t, you give me one of your insects.”

Saint sets his glass down, and I stare at him, waiting.

My friends stare at him too.

It seems like the one question they’re all asking—are Saint and I are sleeping together?—will be answered right now.

And Saint looks at me, a look that’s part challenge, part quiet command, and says, “Done. I’ll get both your wheels when I do.”

The guys woot.

My blood rushes through my body, hot with arousal, and also hot with humiliation.

“Saint! You said she was too good for you!” Tahoe jabs a thick finger in his direction. “You wore her down in true Saint form.”

I stare at Malcolm, and he’s still staring at me, a small smile of victory on his lips as he pours himself a fresh glass of wine and sips it. As if now all is right in the world because he’s on top of it once more.

I explode.

“You did not seriously just bet your cars that you’re going to . . .” I trail off, and when he nods, I go get my bag. “Okay, enough. We’re leaving. Thanks for the great time, Sin,” I mumble, charging for the elevators.

He comes over. “Get back here, Livingston. Everyone’s leaving but you. . . .”

I walk by, and he moves his big body so I can’t leave. “Didn’t you hear what I just told the guys?” he asks me softly. His eyes are curious and look completely puzzled by me, as if I should be ecstatic he claimed me like this.

“I did, and that’s exactly why I’m leaving.”

I stomp away, and at the elevator I swing around and glance at him one last time, and his eyes are as shuttered and unreadable as his expression is.

The girls follow me into the elevator. “Rachel, you’re in deep. You’ve already promised the story to Helen.”

“I know, Wynn.” I shake my head because both my friends look so concerned about my situation. I just realized how reckless I’ve become.

I pace around. Suffering for the way I left.

I can’t believe how these powerful businessmen are, deep down, also such boys. But I still like one of those boys very much: the ruthless one who is too ambitious for his own sake. Who doesn’t like to lose. I like that boy; I still wanted to be with him today, and before his bozo friends arrived to chill out, I know he only wanted to be with me.

“He’s really dicking you out, isn’t he?” Gina says as if she can read my mind, turning around to see if Wynn is with her. “It’s a bad idea, Wynn. Do you agree?”

I don’t even let Wynn reply. “You two have always been pressuring me to hook up with someone. Well, I hooked up with Saint.”

“Who’s also your research material,” adds my roommate.

“Thanks, Gina, for reminding me. Fine, so I had a moment of weakness. Or . . . several. He’s so easy to be with. He’s different than what I expected, and he’s got me in a tangle.” I scowl. “Look, he’s fair game. He’s single, isn’t he?”

They’re both silent.

Gina whispers then, “You slept with him and you didn’t tell me? I’m so hurt right now, Rachel.”

“What can I say? The power of Sin compelled me to?”

“You two spent all night playing jack-in-the-box, Jill, and we knew nothing!”

I groan as we hit the lobby, then realize I don’t want to go. I stop and say, “I’m going back.”

My friends gather close around me by the elevators. “Rachel, I totally approve of the hookup, but there’s a reason he always keeps it to three times. . . .” Wynn says.

“Four, actually. He’s big on the number four.”

“And I’m not doing this to be a dick,” Gina tells me. “I’m doing this because you’re my best friend and I love you. You don’t date a lot, you never wanted to, but I’m telling you right now, I never, ever want you to feel the way I did when Paul left me. I wouldn’t want my worst enemy to feel as used, as worthless, as small, unbeautiful, and completely foolish as I did for having loved him.”

We both stare.

“You know if you go for this thing with Saint, I’ll be there to pass the Kleenex, like you were. But I hope you know that I care about you enough that when you go out there and get your heart broken, you’re going to break mine too.”

My eyes sting a little. There’s the kind of support you ask for, and the kind that just is there. We hug a little and I promise I’ve got it and ride the elevator to the penthouse again.

I walk in. My body pricks everywhere when a particularly sexy green stare lifts from what seems to be the start of a poker game and targets me. He drops his cards and stands up, a flash of pure primal need in his eyes. I feel it in my core.

My voice is husky as I whisper, “Gentlemen.” I address the two stunned men, “If you don’t mind leaving your keys with the concierge.”

Saint’s devil grin: I will never forget it.

My girl parts scream for mercy as Malcolm tells his guys they have to leave. “Now.”

My girl parts scream for mercy, for him. They scream as he points me to the bedroom as he watches the elevators take them down and then pulses an alarm code so that nobody can interrupt us while we’re here. My senses still scream as he follows me to the bedroom, and as I back in the direction of the bed, he walks straight to me.

He says nothing, just looks at me, then slides a hand around my waist and I’m yanked flush against him. I feel the feather-light brush of his lips first, warm, light, then the pressure as he locks them over mine, fitting perfectly, so perfectly he swallows my “god” . . . It’s a kiss that goes from dry to wet, from slow to fast, from light to deep. . . .

I’m starting to pant, sliding my fingers up the placket of his shirt.

And still he kisses me, longer and wetter. A soul-searing kiss. A kiss I can tell he means. He cups my breast, caresses it, his thumb on my nipple, rubbing lightly, his expert touch promising me no one will ever sate, take, or please me the way he does.

“How many women have you kissed?” I ask against his mouth, his glorious mouth. I’m jealous of all the women out there, asking his friends about him. When he only looks at my wet, reddened, Saint-kissed lips, I edge free and start backing for the bed.

How many women are asking about Saint . . . ?

I bite my lower lip and feel the ache between my legs run upward. I wonder if some of these women have done what I shocked myself wanting to secretly do when I met him, which was to just totally rip his shirt off. He exudes all kinds of sexual pheromones, and I have this big little ache and I want to smell, touch, taste that wide, flat chest and those big square arms and that full male mouth. I bet those women tasted more than I’ve ever dared. I bet—

“Come here.”

He takes my hand in his and stops me from backing away any more. And I’m breathless. He’s staring down at me with glowing green eyes and lids that fall halfway over them. . . . They look at my hair, those eyes, and at my lips, and at our joined hands.

“Kiss who?” he finally asks. His thumb strokes across the top of my hand slowly as he reels me back toward him and brushes his lips across my forehead.

“Kiss who, where? Here?” he lightly teases me in a gruff, textured voice.

“No.” I moan and laugh lightly and bury my face in his chest. He smells clean, minty, and . . . just manly. His hand is still holding mine, his fingers intertwined with mine. He reaches his other hand out and cups my cheek in it, kissing the tip of my nose. “How about here?” He dips his head and starts kissing my neck, lightly tasting me with kisses from my collarbone to the edge of my jaw.

“No,” I breathe. My chest is rising and falling quickly, I’m trembling all over. I just want him to keep touching me, holding me, kissing me.

“How many men have kissed this?” His smile fades, his eyes burning with smoldering intensity as he rubs a silver thumb ring over my lips.

I tip my head farther back and offer him my mouth. “Two . . . and you.”

“But no one’s been here?” In one sinuous move, he dips his thumb inside. “No one’s come inside this mouth.”

“No . . .” I urge his shirt out of the waistband of his slacks. “I want you to.”

I push the fabric up his chest and he jerks it over his head with a tug. His hair ends up tousled and glorious as he discards it, giving him a bed-mussed look that makes him even more gorgeous in my eyes because he looks approachable. Powerful but human. So human I can feel his body heat. Chasing my breath as I reach out and caress the hard planes of his pectorals and chest, suck his nipple. I smooth my fingers up his biceps.

The palms of his hands are holding my face upward, to his kiss. I give up my mouth with no protest, letting him move it at will.

His kiss makes me feel like my blood is gasoline, running through my veins. And Saint’s lips are the fire, lighting me up.

I let him caress me, his tongue lightly stroking my own, and then he’s heatedly kissing my throat, the peaks of my breasts. My breasts are heaving, and I can’t believe how much I hurt between my legs.

He places a kiss right between my breasts, then teases the tip of one nipple over my top. I feel the lick arouse me. Shivering, I don’t move a muscle, so he doesn’t stop.

He makes his way back to my lips. I open my mouth immediately and wind my arms around his neck. I’m kissing him back with abandon, holding nothing back while his hands steal under my top.

Holding me close, he backs toward the bed and drops down, pulling me over. Quickly he shifts us around so that he’s on top. He props himself up on his elbows at my side and looks down at me. Beautiful. I look up at him, his lids low and his eyes dark with desire. I lift my head and twine my tongue with his, my tongue circling, pressing, tasting. He hunches over me and tries not to crush me but gets close, so deliciously close. He feels so good, and tastes like heaven. I reach out and slide my fingers along his abs, needing to touch him.

His cock was made for sucking and for fucking, his cock, and I feel its hard length with my fingers. Then his hand is easing between my legs and teasing me with his fingers, and he’s asking me, “Do you want it?”

Hips rolling to his touch, I gasp, “Yes.”

He nibbles my lips slowly, taking his time. “You smell good,” he whispers in my ear. He wants me, lust humming between us. I smell like a woman who’s ready to be taken, my perfume and shampoo and soap mingled with the scent of Saint driving me crazy.

I’m gasping for air: every breath smells of him, every part of me remembering how he feels when he’s in me. In the moment now, I slip my hands into his hair and open my legs so I can feel him right where I need him most. He lifts me against him by the ass and takes my mouth in no hurry, and I realize he’s going to take his time—he’s going to take all night, till he’s done with me. When I realize I will be sexually tortured some more, I moan in aching misery.

He tilts my head back so that we make eye contact. He cradles the back of my skull while his free hand curls around my neck and he caresses my pulse point with his thumb. “What do you want, Rachel?” he whispers quietly. “Tell me how you want it. Do you want it now?”

Watching me, he slides his hand along my throat, my collarbone, flicks open my bra, and easily discards it. “You’re so responsive when I touch you, it pushes me over the edge to watch you fall apart.” He reaches to my waistband and flicks open my skirt; then he eases it down my legs. He is in no apparent hurry, but I am. I’m in such a hurry to see him naked that I kick off my skirt and reach out like a frantic nymphomaniac, my fingers trembling as I unzip his slacks.

“Get naked, get naked, Saint,” I beg on a cotton-like breath.

When his super-warm, smooth skin connects with mine, I’m in heaven and in purgatory, running my hands down his back, gripping his hard ass to pull him above me. He trails his tongue, hot and wet, across my nipple. I moan. His smell enthralls me, and the hint of his taste lingers on my lips. If that isn’t the most delicious form of torture, I don’t know what is.

He ducks his head and slides his tongue over my other nipple, and I shudder and part my legs when he teases two fingers across my folds, and I’m saying, “Please.” He teases the strong tip of his middle finger inside but pulls it out immediately. Fierce desire pools between my thighs as I lift my hips and, aching, try to follow his thumb’s retreat. He keeps me there, where he wants me. Beneath him, helpless and quivering. He nips my lower lip, pulling it away from the top. Achingly gently.

I mew softly and he shifts above me so that his hard body is aligned with mine. God help me, he owns me. “Sin . . . Sin . . .” My thoughts scatter as he dips his tongue sinuously into my ear. This man will turn the entire world into a sinner.

He looks at my reddened nipples. I groan when he sweeps down to lave and taste them as he caresses my sex with smooth, knowing fingers. First brushing on the outside. His middle finger across the length. The pad of his thumb, in little circles; then his thumb rubs me and his middle finger eases inside me and I’m undone.

I pull his face down to me, trembling with desire as I kiss him, angling my head and sucking his tongue hard. He groans when I let him slide up and down between my legs. I’m so hungry that if he enters me, I’m going to get there before he does. But he’s savoring what he’s doing to me, and he seems to want to make it last. The head of his cock massages the outside of my sex.

He’s beautiful and untamed and powerful and I want him to come inside me. But I know it would be reckless, and so I pant and watch him roll on a condom and look at me, his chest jerking with his deep breaths.

We hold gazes as I part my legs and he rubs against me again. He spreads out over me again. In one swift move, he curls one of my legs around his hip, opening me, and he presses in. I groan and sink my nails into his muscles. He watches my face as he starts to penetrate me. His body shudders, and my breath leaves me when he draws out his cock and then puts it inside me, all wet from me, and so hard. I can’t think or speak, I just take him, take his mouth, take the thrill of the way his eyes watch me. My every undulation, my every gasp, every whimper of helpless abandon.

He reaches between us and rubs the pad of his thumb just a bit over my clit, and he watches, breathing hard, with the merest tiny circular rub of his thumb while he presses his cock in as deep as he wants, ready to enjoy the tightening and loosening ripples in my body.

An orgasm. Fierce and wild. It sweeps through me like a wildfire, no corner of my body untouched. Saint pins my hips down and rides me through it, keeping my orgasm going with the most delicious thrusts of my life as I twist around, my mouth seeking his. He gives me a crushing kiss, and I can feel when he reaches that point, that magical point, because the energy seems to coil in his body, which grows tauter and tauter with each thrust.

I’m still enjoying the aftershocks when his body tightens and I feel the jerks of his cock as he jets off inside me. He grabs me by the cheeks, holding my face as he slows his rhythm. We share a slow but deeply passionate kiss as our bodies loosen.

“Wow,” I say, panting.

“Yeah,” he says. A soft laugh follows, and it comes with a gleam of satisfaction in his eye. He looks pleased with my sincerity. Or maybe just . . . with sex with me.

He shifts so he’s facing the ceiling and I’m draped to his side, his arm holding me to him, the other folded under his head, his chest heaving. He looks down and brushes a tendril of wet hair from my forehead. “I’m nearly about ready to go at it again. You?”

I can’t breathe, but who needs air? “Me too.”

What am I doing? What am I doing? WHAT ARE YOU DOING, RACHEL?

“One more time before I leave,” I say, rolling over on top of him. And, oh god, he’s so good, I’d keep him if I could.

One sex marathon with multiple orgasms later . . .

“Why didn’t you tell your friends about me?” Malcolm asks.

I hesitate as I dress.

His expression is not annoyed, but I can’t say that he looks happy either. He looks a bit closed off, his lids heavy from his last orgasm, his gaze shuttered.

“Same reason I didn’t want your friends to know.”

“What reason?” he asks.

“We were just fooling around. It means nothing.” I zip my skirt and then stand there, looking at him. “You’re mad?”

“I’m curious.”

I stare. “So you’re used to parading your lovers, and they love flaunting the fact that they slept with you; I don’t do that.”

“Aren’t we a little old to play the hiding game, Rachel?”

“Aren’t we too old to be betting on whether you can have me?”

His lips twitch, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

“You can’t stand them thinking you wanted me and didn’t get me.”

“That’s right, I can’t.”

“Why?”

“ ’Cause I called dibs.”

“I don’t understand you, Malcolm. See, this is why I don’t want a relationship. It would kill me to try to figure out my man.”

“It’s killing him trying to figure you out.”

I blink.

He goes on, as if what he said wasn’t something monumental. As if my heart isn’t just something frozen with a strange hope and fear in my chest.

“See,” he continues, “usually girls like people knowing they landed in my bed. Some girls claim to have landed there and I’ve never even met them. You’re the first who’s been there but doesn’t want to be.”

I duck my head as an awful feeling of betrayal and dishonesty sweeps over me. “If I didn’t want to be here, I wouldn’t be here,” I murmur. “I’m here despite . . . despite the fact that I shouldn’t be here at all,” I explain, raising my eyes to his. I should not be here, Saint, I think miserably.

But he just stares at me with that same puzzled look he gets when he’s trying to figure me out. I grab my top and feel him watching me as I dress. This is the kind of conversation you don’t expect to have with a one-night stand. But he’s not a one-night stand. What is he? “I don’t want to be a number on that list. Just thinking of all the women you’ve slept with makes me want to go sign up for a pole-dancing course.”

He laughs. “Why?”

“Because I’m vanilla. I’m just some normal . . . girl. And you’re you.”

And I’m addicted.

It’s past 3 a.m. We’re both rumpled and supposed to be relaxed after the way we fucked like crazy. But there’s tension in his jaw, and my muscles are tight with it. I want to jump him again and work out this tension the way we’ve been doing, but I’m beginning to grow scared of this addiction. Scared of him. I stand at the door and turn to say goodbye, but he’s already slipping into his sexy black boxers and then his slacks.

“It’s not safe out there this time of night,” he murmurs.

“It’s never safe out there,” I mumble.

Bare-chested and barefoot and still giving me butterflies even after he had his hands all over my naked body, he accompanies me to the elevator and waits next to me as it arrives. When it tings, he turns me to face him. I let him kiss me on the lips and I kiss him back, wrapping my arms around him just for a second. Two. And then I peel myself away and hop onto the elevator. “’Bye.”

There’s something intimate in his gaze as he watches me, holding eye contact right until the doors shut between us.

God, I never thought a man could look at me like that.

I’m walking out of the building when I see his driver emerge from the Rolls.

“Miss Rachel,” he greets, and opens the door.

“Oh, Sin, really?” I look up to the top of the tower but I can’t even see it. I’m about to argue with Otis, but it’s 3 a.m.

As I slide into the back of the car, I hear someone say, “Mr. Saint, good eve—good morning,” behind me. I’m barely seated when I see his face and that happens; that way my heart keeps leaping when I see him.

“Rachel,” he says as he takes my arm and pulls me out of the car.

“What . . . what are you doing?”

“Something I should’ve done before.”

I refuse to take a step as he takes my hand and tugs me toward him. My eyes are huge. “You’ve lost your mind.”

“I have,” he agrees, then he lifts an eyebrow. “Are you coming up, or do you want me to carry you?”

“Please don’t carry me,” I beg, aware of Otis’s absolutely stunned stare.

“Then come with me.”

I take one step forward, his fingers lacing, strong, through mine, and then we’re back on the elevator. When the doors open, when nobody else can see us, he swings me up on his arms and folds me over his shoulder.

“Saint! Malcolm SAINT! Put me down, what are you doing?”

“I’ll put you down soon.” I fall still and melt a little inside, my heart done for. “You’re not doing this,” I say in swoony disbelief as he drops me down on the bed.

“Yes, I am. You’re sleeping over. You’re staying the night here.”

Looking pretty serious about it, he tugs my top over my head to get me comfortable, and I know I should probably not stay over, I know I shouldn’t like being together so much, and I know I’m not thinking straight right now—no, I’m not thinking at all—but that doesn’t stop me from unbuttoning his shirt with reckless speed, until I quickly pull it off his chest, sighing when he spreads his body above me.

@MalcolmSaint is it true you have a girlfriend? #imsad #pleasesayno

I lower my phone and turn in bed two hours later to stare at the sleeping man beside me.

I reach out and touch his jaw. I stare at his sexy mouth, completely still as he sleeps. I just slept over after wild, hot sex sessions. Me. My entire life, my fear of rejection and of being hurt by a man has made me focus solely on things I can control. My studies, my career. My body and its needs have been overpowered by my brain for years, it’s true. But not now, not tonight, not with this male.

The way he wants me . . . it takes my breath away.

Before I realize what I’m doing, I stroke my fingers over his face, tracing the contours of his jaw first, marveling over the abrading feel of his night stubble.

His lips are plush, firm, and so pink, my pulse accelerates as my own lips tingle in complete envy of my fingertips.

Without even thinking, I hold my breath and try to be as quiet as possible as I bend my head. You’re making my world spin so hard and so fast. The words shudder in my heart as I cup his jaw in both hands and press my lips as softly as I can to his without waking him up.

Something gooey and warm washes over me. Oh god, Malcolm . . .

I press my body closer to his, feeling him, looking at him. I never thought I’d see him like this, asleep with me, after sex. I’ve been admiring his smiles, the twinkle he gets when he teases me or amuses himself at my expense, and how protective he gets when his friends want to horse around with me. I never thought I’d connect with a man like this.

I love that he is centered and logical, but that with his friends, he is sometimes just a teenager—a very big, very handsome teenage boy with very expensive, very powerful toys. I love to work on him and interview him because I feel hungry for every bone he throws me. I love to be just a little bit part of his life, and right now, seeing him in a way I never thought I would, naked, in bed, sleeping, I’m so much more into him than I ever thought possible.

So when his arms come around me, and his mouth opens under my lips, and he slides his warm, damp tongue inside me, and a thousand flutters of pleasure race to my nerve endings, the only thing I can do—the only thing I want to do—is let both it, and him, take me.