Manwhore +1
Page 22
The people who were closest to the doors immediately walk up to him.
He’s wearing black slacks and a white shirt, no tie, his hair slicked back to reveal his stunning face. He looks hot multiplied by a million.
I’m a little embarrassed to realize my nipples ache painfully beneath my top and bra, and I’m more than a little uncomfortable by the fact that I can get aroused at the mere sight of him. I have no right to that little stab of jealousy I feel when he talks to the people who approach. But I dearly wish that it were me alone that he spoke to.
I stare at my shoes and tuck my hair behind my ear and inhale. I promise myself I’m going to look up and not look at him, but when I lift my eyes, it’s him they look for. He’s greeting a couple who just approached, the woman wearing an especially awed smile.
I watch as he then ducks his head to Catherine and asks her something. She lifts her head and points at me. Green eyes slide down the length of the room to find me. I feel a helpless leap in my heart as our gazes lock—and I realize with dread how I must look to him. Standing alone at the far side of the room, gaping at him. He untangles himself from the crowd and starts walking toward me.
I can’t swallow. His face is unsmiling, and he moves with the fluidity of water but the force of a tsunami.
Under his shirt, I can see the indentations of his flat, ripped abs, the flex of his arms and shoulders, his long legs, so muscled and strong, walking toward me. My heart is whacking in my chest so hard I can’t hear anything but the noise it makes.
“I’m glad you could make it.”
“Thank you, I am too.”
He takes one step closer. “Has Catherine explained the day to you?” He looks down at me expectantly. God, we’re standing so close he’s in my personal bubble and I’m within the protection of his.
Talk, Livingston! “Yes, thank you.”
I don’t want him to leave me yet, I find myself searching for something to say.
“I wasn’t sure what you’d require of me today but I hope I dressed all right.”
He doesn’t even look at my clothes when he nods. And then he says, “I’d like you to meet some people.”
“Of course.”
He waves a hand and I get to greet Dean, his PR person, and then he introduces me to his other assistants, a few members of his board, and two key Interface design members. “Nice to meet you,” I say to them all.
I remain talking to one of them. A young man who didn’t finish college but his work as an innovator and application designer has been lauded across the world.
Saint has been praised for having a great eye for talent. He brings out their talent, their determination, and their mettle. The M4 conglomerate is proof of that. They all truly follow their leader.
“Oops, time to sit down.” The young man heads to search for his name on the tables. I scan for mine and, once sitting, I survey the menu at my place for a while as the room finishes filling up.
There’s an impressive array of wines on the list. I’m trying to find one I may be familiar with when Catherine comes and moves the card next to mine and sets the name Malcolm Saint there instead.
Oh.
Saint is coming over?
My heart starts pounding. I can’t even breathe when he takes his seat. One second the chair is empty and the next he’s there.
I can smell him in every breath, especially his aftershave. Oh god, how can you miss a smell so much?
He takes his menu quietly and reads, and my concentration is nil as I pretend to do the same. Then some guy comes over to say hi, and Saint and he discuss oil prices. Saint’s hand is on the table, resting there, idle—his big tanned hand. That’s all I’m looking at—I’m this pathetic.
I think about reaching out. Touching his hand and linking my fingers through his. Sending a message that says, Dibs on this. Dibs on you.
I am obsessing about it. I slowly set down the menu but don’t dare do anything. I offered to work the weekends; this isn’t a date and I want to respect the distance he seems to want to keep between us. But I still can’t stop staring at his hand and remembering how it feels, how thick it is and strong and warm. Malcolm shifts in his seat then and shoves his hand into his pocket, scanning the menu again when they drop the conversation.
“It’s getting cold out and we’re barely out of summer,” I say.
“Yes,” he agrees, lifting his eyes to me for a long, long second. Then, he sets the menu down and shifts his shoulder to face me a little more.
His gaze is fiercely direct and a bit stormy. Oh god.
He’s wearing black slacks and a white shirt, no tie, his hair slicked back to reveal his stunning face. He looks hot multiplied by a million.
I’m a little embarrassed to realize my nipples ache painfully beneath my top and bra, and I’m more than a little uncomfortable by the fact that I can get aroused at the mere sight of him. I have no right to that little stab of jealousy I feel when he talks to the people who approach. But I dearly wish that it were me alone that he spoke to.
I stare at my shoes and tuck my hair behind my ear and inhale. I promise myself I’m going to look up and not look at him, but when I lift my eyes, it’s him they look for. He’s greeting a couple who just approached, the woman wearing an especially awed smile.
I watch as he then ducks his head to Catherine and asks her something. She lifts her head and points at me. Green eyes slide down the length of the room to find me. I feel a helpless leap in my heart as our gazes lock—and I realize with dread how I must look to him. Standing alone at the far side of the room, gaping at him. He untangles himself from the crowd and starts walking toward me.
I can’t swallow. His face is unsmiling, and he moves with the fluidity of water but the force of a tsunami.
Under his shirt, I can see the indentations of his flat, ripped abs, the flex of his arms and shoulders, his long legs, so muscled and strong, walking toward me. My heart is whacking in my chest so hard I can’t hear anything but the noise it makes.
“I’m glad you could make it.”
“Thank you, I am too.”
He takes one step closer. “Has Catherine explained the day to you?” He looks down at me expectantly. God, we’re standing so close he’s in my personal bubble and I’m within the protection of his.
Talk, Livingston! “Yes, thank you.”
I don’t want him to leave me yet, I find myself searching for something to say.
“I wasn’t sure what you’d require of me today but I hope I dressed all right.”
He doesn’t even look at my clothes when he nods. And then he says, “I’d like you to meet some people.”
“Of course.”
He waves a hand and I get to greet Dean, his PR person, and then he introduces me to his other assistants, a few members of his board, and two key Interface design members. “Nice to meet you,” I say to them all.
I remain talking to one of them. A young man who didn’t finish college but his work as an innovator and application designer has been lauded across the world.
Saint has been praised for having a great eye for talent. He brings out their talent, their determination, and their mettle. The M4 conglomerate is proof of that. They all truly follow their leader.
“Oops, time to sit down.” The young man heads to search for his name on the tables. I scan for mine and, once sitting, I survey the menu at my place for a while as the room finishes filling up.
There’s an impressive array of wines on the list. I’m trying to find one I may be familiar with when Catherine comes and moves the card next to mine and sets the name Malcolm Saint there instead.
Oh.
Saint is coming over?
My heart starts pounding. I can’t even breathe when he takes his seat. One second the chair is empty and the next he’s there.
I can smell him in every breath, especially his aftershave. Oh god, how can you miss a smell so much?
He takes his menu quietly and reads, and my concentration is nil as I pretend to do the same. Then some guy comes over to say hi, and Saint and he discuss oil prices. Saint’s hand is on the table, resting there, idle—his big tanned hand. That’s all I’m looking at—I’m this pathetic.
I think about reaching out. Touching his hand and linking my fingers through his. Sending a message that says, Dibs on this. Dibs on you.
I am obsessing about it. I slowly set down the menu but don’t dare do anything. I offered to work the weekends; this isn’t a date and I want to respect the distance he seems to want to keep between us. But I still can’t stop staring at his hand and remembering how it feels, how thick it is and strong and warm. Malcolm shifts in his seat then and shoves his hand into his pocket, scanning the menu again when they drop the conversation.
“It’s getting cold out and we’re barely out of summer,” I say.
“Yes,” he agrees, lifting his eyes to me for a long, long second. Then, he sets the menu down and shifts his shoulder to face me a little more.
His gaze is fiercely direct and a bit stormy. Oh god.
