Текст книги "Ms. Manwhore"

Автор книги: Katy Evans

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 7 страниц)

THE DAY BEFORE THE BACHELOR TRIP

I step off the elevators and into the top floor at M4 and head to Catherine’s desk. “Is he busy?” I ask.

“For you? Or for the rest of humanity?” She shoots me a smile and rings me in. Then she comes around her desk and walks me to the frosted glass doors.

I grab the handle, but she puts a hand on my shoulder to stop me. “Rachel.”

She has my attention, but I watch a play of emotions on her face as she seems to struggle to start. “I’ve been with him almost ten years.” She nods toward the office. “Since his mother died, and he was estranged from his father. He was the one who put me through business school. He could’ve had his pick of top graduates, yet he picked me. I saw him fight when there was no one to cheer him on. I saw him get better just to spite his father, to show him. I’ve seen him do everything he was told he couldn’t do just to prove to himself he can. But I’d never seen him fall for a girl until now. I wish you both the very best. Really.”

Though I’ve always known Catherine has a helpless crush on Saint, she looks genuine. She looks happy for us.

“Thank you,” I say and give her a quick hug, then ease through the frosted doors into his lair.

Sin winks at me in greeting. He’s wearing jeans and a green sweater that brings out the forest in his eyes.

Sparks fly as our gazes latch and we smile at each other. My stomach flips. My toes curl in my pumps.

Tearing his eyes free of mine, he goes back to business as he drops back into his chair and waves his assistant over. “Catherine.”

Saint makes a change to some contract stipulations, initials them, then signs his name on the last page and slides the documents over to her.

“I will FedEx these ASAP, sir. The blueprints for the extended parking lot are here.”

“They’re here. But not on my desk?” His brows go up, but his eyes sparkle in amusement.

When she explains the reason, he leans back and listens in that closely sophisticated, natural way that he pulls off so easily. Behind his desk, he nods and thanks her, then he prowls over to where I’m standing by the window.

He holds the back of my neck and brushes a kiss to my temple. “Hey. Didn’t want to wake you this morning.”

“Can I show you what my mother did for our next covers?”

I stretch out the folder to him.

He takes it in one hand and reaches out to run his knuckles down my cheek with the other.

My body crackles as the touch bolts through my veins, heating me all over.

“Impressive.” He’s concentrating now on the cover shots. His head bent. So beautiful he’s like from another species.

He slowly shuffles through them, scanning each of them thoroughly while I scan him.

Oh god.

How I love and need this one man.

“Does one scream at you?” I ask, trying to read his unreadable profile.

“I like the one with your handprint. You open with that article on End the Violence. Talk about what you want. Issue after issue, keep setting the stage, directing your readers’ expectations.” He scans them again. “I’d follow with this one. The world. Cementing the human interest part of the magazine.”

I edge nearer and take a long, discreet whiff of him as I point to one of the shots. “And if I start with the world, then on the next issue, use my hand?”

He turns his head to look at my profile. His voice low—slow, like midnight-hour sex. “Works. Keep the scope wide, then zoom in.” I look into his eyes and smile, buzzing like I do every time I stand close to him. He looks at me with that same wonder my mother speaks of and my stomach contracts, hot and tight. “I’m proud of you,” he says.

He glances at the ring on my left hand. I just had it perfectly resized to fit my finger.

“So I was thinking I’d cook you dinner. Or attempt to, tonight.” I count with my fingers. “I can make a salad, get some loaves of freshly baked French bread, some really good deli meat . . .”

“I’ll tell you what.” He lifts me up, carries me to the edge of his desk, and sits me down, holding me by the hips as he leans forward. “You do the salad, warm the bread, I’ll make pasta.”

My lips curl upward. “Nobody ever cooked me dinner but my mama and grandmama.”

His brows go up. “Will I get to meet this gentle grandmama?”

I shake my head. “She’s gone.”

His smile fades, replaced by concern. “I’m sorry.”

He’s still holding me by the hips, leaning so close that I could kiss him. “You can really cook pasta?” I ask softly.

His smile turns cocky. “Just wait and see.”

“I’m impressed.”

He shoots me a look that says You haven’t seen anything yet. “Been a bachelor,” he tells me.

“You’ve been a bachelor with chefs,” I shoot back.

The twinkle I love so much dances in his pupils as he slowly nods. “That’s right. I’ve learned a few tricks along the way.”

“I’m all too familiar with your tricks.” I laugh, thinking about his ghost kisses, his seduction, his teasing. “A perk of dating such a worldly man is getting firsthand, front-row seats, and personal with his tricks.”

Silent, he simply looks at me with that wondrous smile. Then, again, his knuckles run down my cheek. “The perks of marrying him,” he whispers hotly down at me, “will be even greater.”

I’m breathless, flushed and warm under his looks when I finally breathe out, “You have yourself a date.”

It was heaven, even though I was in abstinence hell.

I tried not to notice. Tried to be strong. But I wasn’t the least bit immune to watching Saint cook for me. Guys in kitchens are hot. And Saint was setting the kitchen on fire just by being there, tall and easy, confident and quiet. His hair in one eye, his hands chopping easily, a ton of spices for the pasta. Rolled shirt sleeves to reveal his thick forearms.

We had an amazing time. We laughed. Had dinner on the terrace next to the outside fireplace. Drank wine. Ate. Even toasted to great teamwork on our first kitchen efforts because the food turned out surprisingly well.

At night I slipped into one of his white men’s shirts, and we curled up in bed. He kissed me, gently caressed me over his shirt, and I returned the thorough, delicious attentions of his mouth with the abandon of a teenager. I bit the hard skin between his neck and shoulder, then rubbed his bare chest and tried not to think about the way his lounge pants were straining. When we were too worked up to continue, we lay in silence and I was held in those arms. I laid my head on his chest and he set his chin on top of my head, and we slept.

In the morning he woke me up to say goodbye. Freshly showered, he pressed a ghost kiss to the fringes of my mouth. My guy. My bachelor. Going off with his buddies to work and play.

“Have fun,” I whispered, giving him a ghost kiss back.

“I will.” He looked down at me for a long moment, his eyes going hot after my ghost kiss.

“I’ll miss you.”

“Take care of my girl for me.”

“Take care of my guy.”

And he left. He texted me before taking off:

Next time it’s you, and me, and whipped cream.

And I died.

Now it’s night in Dubai, and day in Chicago. A dreary Malcolmless Saturday in Chicago. Saint’s bachelor party is well under way while I am in my apartment with Wynn and Gina, drinking wine and stalking social media for a whiff of what his friends had planned for him.

@malcolmsaint CONGRATULATIONS!

I hope @malcolmsaint keeps my number for when they’re done

@RachelDibs YOU ARE SUCH A BITCH I HOPE HE DUMPS YOU

I think men with wedding bands are HOT call me anytime @malcolmsaint

Now that @malcolmsaint is off the market maybe I stand a chance in hell with the club chicks

I go back to read his last message for the thousandth time.

“You are obsessed,” Gina leans over and says smartly. “No more words are magically appearing, you know.”

Next time it’s you, and me, and whipped cream.

“I know,” I admit.

“Well, stop staring at it!” She laughs.

I smile. “It’s a joke.” Message reread, I close my eyes.

“Saint is Rachel’s reward for torturous years of being single,” Wynn says happily.

“There’s nothing from Dubai,” Gina states. “But people are hanging on to news of the wedding.”

Wynn and Gina watch me closely.

“You’re jealous that he’s in Dubai?” Wynn asks.

I laugh and dismiss the observation and I pour from one of the wine bottles that Saint gave me once—my favorite. I sip and look at the fourth finger of my left hand. My newly resized ring.

“I think it’s healthy for a relationship if everyone gets time to hang out with their friends.”

I pour a little more wine.

“And every man has a bachelor party. I’m happy he’s saying goodbye to his old ways.”

My bachelorette party consists of Valentine, Sandy, Wynn, and Gina, and the wine box Saint had sent after our first wine tasting. I’m drunk by the time it starts and I doze throughout most of it.

I have a nightmare . . .

“Saint!” the girls squeal as he watches two groupies and me swim in the water from the deck of The Toy. “Saint, Saint, please, Malcolm Saint!”

I hold my breath when his hands go to flick open his shirt buttons. “All right, girls.”

My eyes widen as he shrugs off his shirt. The blood courses through my veins, suddenly swollen by the fast pounding of my heartbeat. Large, long-fingered, tanned hands tug on the drawstrings of his swim trunks, and my eyes blur when he actually strips them off and for the three seconds he stands on the edge, I see him all. I see everything. I see that he is hard. That he is perfection—ripped, cut, narrow-hipped, broad-chested; long and muscular legs, thick and lean arms. I’m boiling in the water and I can’t take it. I dip my head under, squeezing my eyes shut until I hear the water crashing as he dives in.

When I come up, he surfaces with a laugh and smooths his hair back.

“Oh god!” The girls start swimming over, and I can hear the harsh, uneven sounds of their breathing as they try reaching out to him in soft, husky pleas. “Saint, you’re so hot,” one whispers. “Can we stay over? Sleep over tonight, Saint?”

“Not tonight,” he says, ducking into the water before they reach him. He leaves them both pouting behind him and pops up behind me and pokes my back. “Hey,” he says.

I notice the girls hop onto the yacht and each of them slips into one of his white shirts.

A pulsing knot forms in my stomach as I turn and stare into his green eyes and we just float there, staring, and there seems nothing else but dark water, the sky above, and him, the darkest thing that’s ever had such a pull to me. “Hey,” I say.

“Come here,” he whispers.

I start awake.

It’s 5 a.m. in Chicago—which would make it 3 p.m. in Dubai—and the girls are still partying and wake me.

“Rachel, pick up your phone,” Gina says.

She’s got her iPhone pressed to her ear as I stir and groggily search for mine. She lowers hers for a moment and tells me, “They’re flying. Your man’s as good as married. He seemed to leave his dick home. Hang on.” She places it on speaker and I hear Tahoe’s Texan drawl.

“Congrats, Rachel. You’re still his number-one girl. There were redheads, brunettes, double Ds. Carmichael and I got them all.”

Gina takes him off speaker, and I grin like a dope because I’m still the apple of my Sin’s eye.

“He wants to talk to you.”

“Tahoe?”

“Saint!”

Leaping forward, I take the phone, my voice groggy and slurring with sleep. “Hello, bachelor.”

His voice is husky with drink and no sleep. “Hello, bride.”

The words feather all over my body. There’s something so warm and enchanting in the way he says “bride.”

Hmm, just a tad possessive too?

“I’m flying this bird straight home. Nonstop. Full speed,” he says quietly.

I clench the phone tighter as my body grips in complete anticipation. “Okay. Did you have fun?”

“Lots,” he says. But he sounds weary. Weary of traveling maybe?

“Did you miss me?”

“Lots more. I called you, but no answer.”

Belatedly, I realize that Wynn, Gina, Valentine, and Sandy are watching me with curious looks, so I move to the window and lower my voice. “I slept through my party.”

“No whipped cream, baby?” His voice drops an octave, and I think I detect a silken thread of warning in his voice.

“No.”

“Good.” His voice, though quiet, has an ominous quality. “I’ll keep my record clean of murder for now.”

I make my tone match his. “I guess I’ll let the brunettes, redheads, and double Ds live for now.”

He chuckles, a laugh that’s long and soft, so close that I remember how warm his breath feels when he laughs in my ear. “Mrs. Saint,” he begins, unapologetically delighted, “you’re an angel.”

“And you, Mr. Saint, are a devil.”

“In fifteen hours your devil’s home.”

When I hang up, everything in me has gone butter. My thighs butter, my heart butter, with the added bonus of butterflies in my tummy too.

HOME

Since it’s a fifteen-hour flight, I get to hang around with the girls, a little hungover for the day, then by early afternoon I head to the penthouse to shower and change.

By 7 p.m. I am waiting for him in his apartment, wandering around a little bit and fixing my things. I don’t want my Rachel Invasion to wear on him too soon, and I was a little less careful when I had a bedroom all to myself.

Exhaustion wears me down. But if my head touches our bed, I’ll be asleep. I curl in the seating area in the living room, with a perfect view of the elevators to one side and Chicago to the other, and stare out the window, watching the flickering city lights as I doze off.

I hear the elevator ting and I perk up as adrenaline shoots me to my feet.

It’s like electricity ignites in the room the moment Malcolm steps into the penthouse.

I see him, he sees me. The air heats and crackles like a live thing, leaping in arcs from him to me, from me to him. His gaze latches on to mine and my heart dances as I stare at him with homesickness and longing and happiness times a million.

The air of confidence around him radiates like a power line, lures me like a flame in the dark.

He drops his luggage. “Wow, look at you.”

There’s a jolt of excitement in me when I recognize the admiration in his voice. I’m wearing one of his white button-down shirts for sleep but it never ceases to amaze him. I rasp, “Look at you.”

“How are you, Rachel?”

A wave of intense feelings overtakes me as I nod over his concern. “How are you?”

“Good.” The prolonged anticipation of the moment before he walks forward to take me in his arms is almost unbearable. We exchange a huge hug. A hug that is tight and warm and goes on for a minute, telling me that he missed me. His nearness kindles me to a burn as I savor the strength and warmth of his embrace. He smells of the leather of his brand-new airplane. And wood. And soap. And Saint. Oh god, Saint.

“Glad to be home.”

“Really?”

The truth in his eyes is nearly heartrending. “Really.” He smiles down at me as he spreads a hand on my face to brush my hair back, then he opens his other hand on the small of my back and smashes me to his chest to greedily fit his lips to mine. I’m all too willing. Ready. Soft. And warm.

“Oh god, I missed you, Malcolm,” I breathe, sliding my hands into his hair.

“I missed you too.” He sucks on my lower lip, then he sweeps into my mouth one more time, groaning, “Next time I hit Dubai, you’re coming with me.” He reaches into the back pocket of his slacks, and he produces a casino chip, a twinkle appearing in his eyes. The chip is green as his eyes and it has so many digits, I can hardly believe that a chip for this quantity exists.

“Meet my lucky coin, Mrs. Saint. Tahoe and Callan would kill for this beauty. I’m not going to cash it in until I take you to Dubai later in the year.”

“Hmm. Bad call. You can’t cash the lucky chip if it’s the lucky chip.”

He kisses my forehead. “I’ll have you for luck.”

I follow him as he rolls his suitcase back to the bedroom, drops his stuff, takes his passport out of his back pocket, takes off his watch and his shoes, and goes to turn on the shower. I set the lucky chip next to his passport, then lie back in bed and try not to imagine that the man of my every fantasy and dream is right now just a few feet away, naked and gloriously soaping himself up in the shower.

We’re not supposed to have sex.

No. Sex.

Did you hear me, body?

God. Fuck this ridiculous idea.

But the wedding night will be utterly perfect !

Feeling right and safe again, I shift in bed. Our bed. It’s too soft and comfortable. Suddenly I’m too afraid to fall asleep before I get to talk to him, so I transfer myself to a chair by the bedroom window and wait.

Head propped on my folded arm, I’m dreaming of us in Dubai when I hear familiar footsteps make their way out of the bathroom, out into the living room and kitchen, and then, a minute later, come back into the bedroom.

I’m achingly aware of the moment the footsteps finally come toward me. Before I know it, Malcolm slowly winds his arms under my legs and behind my back, picking me up to his chest. The smell of his warm skin lulls me more deeply toward sleep. He’s warm. I can feel his heart beat through his bare chest. Thump. Thump. Strong. Resonating in my ears. I feel soft pillows beneath me.

His hands are now traveling up my calves. Slowly. Warm, callused fingers painting circles on my skin. Now they’re at the backs of my knees. And his lips . . . are setting wandering little kisses on the inside of my knee.

I stir a little.

“Malcolm, we can’t. I can’t . . . I don’t want to say no.”

“Don’t say no.”

“Don’t ask me.”

His eyes glimmer in the shadows. “I’ll just get you there tonight, then. I need my girl—the sounds she makes. The way she moves. The pink she gets.”

As I look into his face, all the love I feel for him is like a fireball in my chest. “Did you get a lap dance?”

“No, I just watched dozens of naked women dance for me. Sent them over to lap-dance the poor fuckers who don’t get what I do.”

“Were they beautiful?”

He laughs a soft, dry rasp. “You’re asking the most jaded eyes in town. They’ve seen lovelier. Every day they see something lovelier.”

I feel like a teenager, so needy for his love. I can’t have his body but I can have his love and I’ll take that over anything.

I focus on his hands again, which are parting my thighs now. I feel the bed shift, and I open my eyes. He’s kneeling between my legs. We make eye contact and I almost fall apart right there. His bare muscles look edible. His eyes look darker, a little scruff lining his jaw. The city lights play on his face, making him look hotter. Darker. Mysterious. Especially the way he is now, kneeling between my thighs, spreading them out farther, his eyes like storms, jaw clamped, hands rubbing up and down my thighs.

“That was the last time you get to . . . play,” I warn.

“No, it’s not. I play with you now.” He’s teasing, confident, and sexy. Then sober. “Missed you, Livingston.” He reaches to the nightstand and I sit up, shocked to realize why he’d exited the bedroom moments ago as he picks up a can of whipped cream and urges, “Lean back.”

I feel my heart hiccup. Skip a beat. And I squeeze my eyes shut. Holy god! All my other senses start amplifying. My shirt has ridden up to my waist now, my panties on full display. I feel that damned imaginary hand give a squeeze right below my belly button.

I lean back, as he asks.

His fingers are playing with the edges of my panties. Teasing. Rubbing. Painting his little circles. Stroking his thumbs back and forth beneath the sides of my panties. I’m breathing slightly harder now. I say slightly, but I fear my breath has become audible. A little laugh escapes my lips. The laugh turns into a gasp when I feel his lips skim against the top of one of my thighs. His hands are wandering over my legs. The backs of my knees, my inner thighs.

It’s dangerous, how much I want him. Need him.

His lips are lovingly leaving little kisses across my thighs, slowly making their way up until he is kissing the little bow on the top of my panties. His hands push the shirt up higher, his mouth fixating on my belly button and giving it a little kiss. His warm hands mixed with his hot mouth slowly opening and closing on my skin gives me goose bumps. I feel my nipples harden, and Malcolm does not fail to notice.

“Keep your eyes closed,” he murmurs, taking a breast and squeezing a little.

Heat explodes in my midsection.

Quivering, I lie here motionless.

“Malcolm, I didn’t want to have one. A party, I mean. I didn’t want some strange man near me. I definitely don’t want anyone with whipped cream but you.”

“Good. You have me. I’m all the man you’re getting. And the one who’s getting creamed is you.”

He starts to unbutton the shirt of his I’m wearing, easing it off my shoulders to reveal my bare breasts. My legs still tingle from where he touched me. My insides feel like hot candle wax. He makes me want to melt. Combust. Explode.

I hear a sound and feel a little shock of cold in a perfect circle around my navel, and I’m dead. Whipped fucking cream. Around, and then into, my belly button.

His mouth kisses down my neck, toward the cream. Sucking on my skin, his tongue rubbing against my skin. Cue more goose bumps. And a rush of more when he tugs my panties down my legs.

His takes my knees and hooks my legs around his hips as he dips his head and starts lapping up the cream. I moan and grip his hair, loving the feel of it between my fingers.

I can feel his chest between my legs, right where I want him.

Where I want him and can’t have him.

He takes my hands in his, our fingers interlacing, and he holds them at my sides. He’s sucking on my abdomen. I feel like butter. My belly feels warm. I’m tingling all over. My head is turning to mush. I don’t want to think—I can’t think. He just feels so . . . good. Just so, so good. Gentle, firm mouth. Strong, smooth hands. Soft hair brushing against my breasts as he slowly trails his tongue upward.

I open my eyes, and when he looks at me, I see he’s dying for it too. Just like I am.

“I can’t wait to be inside you again,” he growls softly. “My cock is jealous of my tongue and what it’s about to do.”

“Oh god, Saint, you’re killing me.”

“No, you’re killing me. Little one, you’re killing me. But the next time I’m inside you, you’ll be my wife. Wife. I’ve got patience for you to spare.” He kisses my mouth tenderly, and I gasp and pant. His body is buzzing with pent-up desire. Hunger of the kind that eats you up inside.

I can’t move, don’t stop him, don’t breathe . . . I never breathe right when he touches me, when he’s near.

He slides himself lower, slowly, making sure to rub between my legs, and I bite the inside of my cheek when he adds a healthy dose of whipped cream to my aching, throbbing, clenching wet sex. I shudder.

He looks ravenous when he bends his head and kisses me there, between my quaking thighs, and inside my body, and right up to my heart. His kiss is tender, possessive, completely breathtaking. He kisses completely. Takes everything I have. Leaves me breathless. I arch. Moan.

He groans and tightens his arms around me, his kiss deepening, his tongue thrusting mercilessly. He kisses me like that, over and over again. He tastes. Devours. Tasting me harder, deeper.

It’s not the whipped cream he likes to taste, and I know it. He grows greedier when I’m sure there’s no more whipped cream left . . . and only me. The way I want him.

Saint likes me like this, when I’m vulnerable and trusting him. And I’m a vulnerable mess right now. All noises and moaning and writhing.

He groans as I get wetter and wetter, my hips moving to the pleasure of his mouth. Turning to dust in his arms. I wrap my fingers around the back of his head, pressing him between my legs. His dark head moves, and he just kisses me, kisses the life out of me and tortures the hell out of himself as I climax on a hiss of breath, body bowing for him.

When he comes up, breathing harshly, every muscle is hard and flexed with need, taut from his denial.

I moan. “I want the whipped cream on you.”

He kisses me. For a whole minute, his hands holding the back of my head, his mouth slow and leisurely savoring as he ducks his head over mine and sucks and nips and tastes, curling my toes.

Everything falls away.

I kiss him back, hungry, so very hungry for him always. I kiss him with my heart, my lips, with my mind, my hands on his shoulders, my soul.

“I agreed to wait until the wedding.” His eyes twinkle with a devil’s glint, but his jaw sets determinedly. “I hope you’ll be ready for me.”

I can’t sleep. I’m anxious, excited. The wedding day feels so close now that Sin’s home.

I nudge him in bed during the night, and he lifts a brow. “Hmm.”

“Are you asleep?”

He rolls to his stomach and shoves his arm under his pillow, groaning. “Not anymore.”

“You’re jet-lagged. Go back to sleep. Sorry.”

“Why are you not sleeping?”

“The invitations came in.”

He looks at me as I steal away for a second, pull out the invitation, and show him the intertwined M and R, then the wording inside.

“Perfect,” he says.

I smile and set it on the nightstand. “Do you think guests will keep a lid on it? Once the invites are out?”

He lifts his head and squints. Then drags a hand down his face. “No.” He pulls me close. “We’ve got security anyway. No cameras, no press, no access, no anything.”

“We can’t stop them from speculating. Can we?” It’s a waste of effort and energy to even try.

“No. We can’t.” He signals to my smartphone on the nightstand. “Whatever is in there . . . stays in there. Not here.” He taps my brain. “Or here.” He taps my heart. “All right?”

I nod.

“Go back to bed; you’re jet-lagged.” I slip my shoulder under his head and run my hands through his hair.

He turns and exhales near my neck. He kisses my forehead. Tightens his hold. “God, I missed you.”