Manwhore +1
Page 20
He sets the note cards aside, frowning a little, his eyes a little bit amused. “Nothing like that,” he assures soberly. “It was merely too unique. It had your stamp all over it.” He looks at me with smoldering, intense eyes again, eyes that hold me motionless. “You couldn’t write for anyone else. You’re too unique to adopt someone else’s point of view; you’re too impassioned about yours. You should be writing about exactly and precisely what interests you, Rachel. That is what I’m offering you at M4.”
I’m stunned by the unexpected praise. He speaks honestly. In fact, I detect no flattery in his words or in his gaze. Only the truth as he sees it with those eyes that have seen more than they should by his age. Eyes that have seen everything and that somehow I can feel right now, seeing into me.
“I want to write, but . . . it’s the first thing I’ve written easily in weeks,” I admit.
Other than Helen, I haven’t admitted my block to anyone but him.
“It was good.”
Pride fills me at his words, a pride I haven’t felt for my work in a long time.
I’m almost weak with it when Saint steps forward and lifts his arm as if he’s about to touch my face.
I wait for the touch, my body tightening.
He stops himself, laughs mockingly under his breath, and then he stops laughing, admitting with sober intensity, “You can write. You won’t ever lose that.”
Yes I did, I lost it when I lost you.
I remain looking up at him, and then my eyes flick down at his hand as he lowers it to his side, his fingers—how they curl into his palm. His scent is filling my lungs and I don’t want to expel a breath just so I don’t lose that decadent smell. His hand is at his side, but how is it possible to feel his fingers in places they once touched? I’m crying out for them in every cell.
“You did it on purpose, didn’t you?” I ask. “To get me writing? You didn’t need a speech. You just wanted me to realize I could work past my block.”
I’m almost weak when a smile touches his eyes so lightly, it’s barely there. “You think so.”
“I know so, Saint.” Then, looking into his eyes, eyes that watch me as if he knows what I’m thinking, I force out a little, “Thank you.” When he nods, I add, “I’d hoped not to embarrass myself completely in front of you. I’m glad you at least . . . liked what I sent.”
“Even if this means I still want you at M4?” he asks, a soft challenge.
I feel excitement surge through me. “You do?” I shake my head. “I couldn’t.”
“The offer’s still open,” he insists. Suddenly, unexpectedly, he looks at my lips—really stares at them—for three long heartbeats. Thud, thud, thud.
“Thank you.” I clear my throat. “Until when is it open?”
“Until you say yes.”
He walks away, leaving me aching, hopeful, happy, hurting, all at once.
He stops by the door, and looks at me again.
Making love was never as simple as him and me having sex.
Saint made love to me with his smile. There’s a smile in his eyes now.
“Are you available Saturday?” he asks.
I’m . . . hallucinating. I’m making things up, I’m this desperate.
“What do you mean?” I croak.
“There’s an all-day business event. I’d like to introduce you to some of my Interface crew.”
I don’t hesitate, not even a little. “I’m available.”
He grabs the doorknob. “Next Saturday. Someone will pick you up at noon.”
It’s late when I get home to find Wynn and Gina watching a movie in the living room. “Hey,” I say as I go to the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water.
I plop down to watch some TV with them, replaying what he told me about my writing today.
“What did you do all day? Why are you so quiet?” Wynn asks.
I grin a little and shrug.
I used to tell them everything about Saint. They were my accomplices. My sidekicks as I went underground to infiltrate the player’s lair.
Now Saint is my treasure. He’s so precious and I have so little of him, is it wrong I want to keep him to myself ??
“Rachel! Share! All right, she’s gone mad!” Gina exaggeratedly declares to Wynn. “We need to get this girl some serious help.”
I grin as they both shake me.
“You dicks, let go!” I squirm to get free. “I saw him at McCormick Place today. He was keynote speaker at some socialmedia thing.” I keep replaying the looks we shared down to the very end. I snuggle my head into the back of the couch and sigh happily. “And he invited me over to this business thing,” I add.
I’m stunned by the unexpected praise. He speaks honestly. In fact, I detect no flattery in his words or in his gaze. Only the truth as he sees it with those eyes that have seen more than they should by his age. Eyes that have seen everything and that somehow I can feel right now, seeing into me.
“I want to write, but . . . it’s the first thing I’ve written easily in weeks,” I admit.
Other than Helen, I haven’t admitted my block to anyone but him.
“It was good.”
Pride fills me at his words, a pride I haven’t felt for my work in a long time.
I’m almost weak with it when Saint steps forward and lifts his arm as if he’s about to touch my face.
I wait for the touch, my body tightening.
He stops himself, laughs mockingly under his breath, and then he stops laughing, admitting with sober intensity, “You can write. You won’t ever lose that.”
Yes I did, I lost it when I lost you.
I remain looking up at him, and then my eyes flick down at his hand as he lowers it to his side, his fingers—how they curl into his palm. His scent is filling my lungs and I don’t want to expel a breath just so I don’t lose that decadent smell. His hand is at his side, but how is it possible to feel his fingers in places they once touched? I’m crying out for them in every cell.
“You did it on purpose, didn’t you?” I ask. “To get me writing? You didn’t need a speech. You just wanted me to realize I could work past my block.”
I’m almost weak when a smile touches his eyes so lightly, it’s barely there. “You think so.”
“I know so, Saint.” Then, looking into his eyes, eyes that watch me as if he knows what I’m thinking, I force out a little, “Thank you.” When he nods, I add, “I’d hoped not to embarrass myself completely in front of you. I’m glad you at least . . . liked what I sent.”
“Even if this means I still want you at M4?” he asks, a soft challenge.
I feel excitement surge through me. “You do?” I shake my head. “I couldn’t.”
“The offer’s still open,” he insists. Suddenly, unexpectedly, he looks at my lips—really stares at them—for three long heartbeats. Thud, thud, thud.
“Thank you.” I clear my throat. “Until when is it open?”
“Until you say yes.”
He walks away, leaving me aching, hopeful, happy, hurting, all at once.
He stops by the door, and looks at me again.
Making love was never as simple as him and me having sex.
Saint made love to me with his smile. There’s a smile in his eyes now.
“Are you available Saturday?” he asks.
I’m . . . hallucinating. I’m making things up, I’m this desperate.
“What do you mean?” I croak.
“There’s an all-day business event. I’d like to introduce you to some of my Interface crew.”
I don’t hesitate, not even a little. “I’m available.”
He grabs the doorknob. “Next Saturday. Someone will pick you up at noon.”
It’s late when I get home to find Wynn and Gina watching a movie in the living room. “Hey,” I say as I go to the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water.
I plop down to watch some TV with them, replaying what he told me about my writing today.
“What did you do all day? Why are you so quiet?” Wynn asks.
I grin a little and shrug.
I used to tell them everything about Saint. They were my accomplices. My sidekicks as I went underground to infiltrate the player’s lair.
Now Saint is my treasure. He’s so precious and I have so little of him, is it wrong I want to keep him to myself ??
“Rachel! Share! All right, she’s gone mad!” Gina exaggeratedly declares to Wynn. “We need to get this girl some serious help.”
I grin as they both shake me.
“You dicks, let go!” I squirm to get free. “I saw him at McCormick Place today. He was keynote speaker at some socialmedia thing.” I keep replaying the looks we shared down to the very end. I snuggle my head into the back of the couch and sigh happily. “And he invited me over to this business thing,” I add.
