Manwhore +1
Page 28
“You okay?” A corner of his lips is curled as he looks down at me.
“I’m perfect.”
I don’t think he believes me, because he secures me against the wall of his side with one arm around my waist. And it’s so familiar, so . . . right.
He’s more relaxed than he’s been all night after all the wine we imbibed, and so am I. My defenses are wavering. His presence is intoxicating. He shoots me a smile to melt whatever hasn’t melted already.
“You really are drunk,” he murmurs, as if to himself.
He walks me over to the elevators.
And I don’t question that.
Because . . . because he mentioned there’s a room upstairs where we can chill out for a bit. And I said yes, let’s chill out for a little bit. Because I can’t bear to leave, not when he’s still here and every other woman in the room has been waiting, waiting for me to leave so they can have him.
“You drank more than me,” I chide him. How come he looks as in control as always? “I bet you drank wine in the crib, only accepting vintage bottles even then.”
He’s suddenly wearing this secret smile. “You know me so well, Rachel.”
We head into the elevator and it takes me a moment to realize he’s teasing me. I laugh a delayed laugh, but then I’m silent and sleepy and I would have usually stood apart, but I’m cold and he steps impossibly close. So close as he presses the top-floor button, that I can feel his body heat, smell the warm, familiar scent of his skin and the scent of wine on his breath as he stands there, staying close as if offering himself to lean on.
He stretches his arm along the wall behind my back and stares up at the numbers. I don’t know what to do but I lean against his arm.
“I’m sorry, it’s cold,” I whisper, blushing.
“It’s okay.” He curls his arm around me then, and holds me, lightly but close.
God. Malcolm . . .
The very idea I had about desire and sex and love, he completely turned it upside down until they’re all mingled now. He is the embodiment of them all to me now. I can’t love him without desiring him, wanting to be physical and show my feelings for him.
This touch is light—only around my waist. But it doesn’t touch what I really need. That touch—all over, please.
I want to press my cheek to his chest, and when I do—because, well, I just went ahead and did it—I hear his heart beating under my ear . . . beating nowhere near as fast as mine is. I fist a hand on his delicious-smelling shirt.
“I’m dizzy, Malcolm,” I say apologetically.
“Watch your step.” As we exit the elevator, he keeps his arm around my waist and leads me to the room.
He opens his room, and I’m stunned by how huge it is, containing lounge areas, bar, dinner table, breakfast table, and the most perfect, beautiful views. On the bar there’s a bouquet full of flowers, champagne, and chocolate-covered strawberries. And a note to Mr. Saint.
I feel like I’m in a dream, in a dream where I’m his girl and he brings me to these kinds of hotels when he travels for the weekend. I kick off my shoes and drop down not on the couch, but rather on the floor at its feet, leaning my head on the couch seat for support.
He flicks on a lamp and sits down beside me, kicking off his shoes and stretching out his legs. His scent surrounds me and just looking at his long, lean body, all six-plus feet of him sprawled next to me, I feel safer than I have in such a long time.
I want to make him smile.
He’s so serious right now. His voice a little gruff, his hair rumpled. I tease him about his having ordered several whole vineyards, and finally, I seem to draw him out.
There’s a playful gleam in his eye as he teases back, “A man’s got to have ambitions.”
He sits with his head back on the seat of the couch, studying the ceiling.
“What if you reach all your ambitions . . . by the time, say, you’re forty. Or fifty. Then what?” I ask him.
He faces me again, and suddenly our noses are inches apart. “Then I’ll come up with new ambitions.” He lowers his voice as if he’s just realized I’m sitting super close.
Kissably close.
“And a few new groupies?” I whisper.
His nearness is making me ache in tender places I didn’t even know I had. I turn and stare at the ceiling, my stomach hot.
“I can already see you. You’ll be in one of your sports cars, brought in from somewhere exotic so it’s unique and nobody has it but you. It’ll be faster, grander, so shiny. Two girls in the back, your cell phone riding shotgun. One’s a Victoria’s Secret model and the other is a TV series actress—BUT they have nothing interesting to talk about.”
“I’m perfect.”
I don’t think he believes me, because he secures me against the wall of his side with one arm around my waist. And it’s so familiar, so . . . right.
He’s more relaxed than he’s been all night after all the wine we imbibed, and so am I. My defenses are wavering. His presence is intoxicating. He shoots me a smile to melt whatever hasn’t melted already.
“You really are drunk,” he murmurs, as if to himself.
He walks me over to the elevators.
And I don’t question that.
Because . . . because he mentioned there’s a room upstairs where we can chill out for a bit. And I said yes, let’s chill out for a little bit. Because I can’t bear to leave, not when he’s still here and every other woman in the room has been waiting, waiting for me to leave so they can have him.
“You drank more than me,” I chide him. How come he looks as in control as always? “I bet you drank wine in the crib, only accepting vintage bottles even then.”
He’s suddenly wearing this secret smile. “You know me so well, Rachel.”
We head into the elevator and it takes me a moment to realize he’s teasing me. I laugh a delayed laugh, but then I’m silent and sleepy and I would have usually stood apart, but I’m cold and he steps impossibly close. So close as he presses the top-floor button, that I can feel his body heat, smell the warm, familiar scent of his skin and the scent of wine on his breath as he stands there, staying close as if offering himself to lean on.
He stretches his arm along the wall behind my back and stares up at the numbers. I don’t know what to do but I lean against his arm.
“I’m sorry, it’s cold,” I whisper, blushing.
“It’s okay.” He curls his arm around me then, and holds me, lightly but close.
God. Malcolm . . .
The very idea I had about desire and sex and love, he completely turned it upside down until they’re all mingled now. He is the embodiment of them all to me now. I can’t love him without desiring him, wanting to be physical and show my feelings for him.
This touch is light—only around my waist. But it doesn’t touch what I really need. That touch—all over, please.
I want to press my cheek to his chest, and when I do—because, well, I just went ahead and did it—I hear his heart beating under my ear . . . beating nowhere near as fast as mine is. I fist a hand on his delicious-smelling shirt.
“I’m dizzy, Malcolm,” I say apologetically.
“Watch your step.” As we exit the elevator, he keeps his arm around my waist and leads me to the room.
He opens his room, and I’m stunned by how huge it is, containing lounge areas, bar, dinner table, breakfast table, and the most perfect, beautiful views. On the bar there’s a bouquet full of flowers, champagne, and chocolate-covered strawberries. And a note to Mr. Saint.
I feel like I’m in a dream, in a dream where I’m his girl and he brings me to these kinds of hotels when he travels for the weekend. I kick off my shoes and drop down not on the couch, but rather on the floor at its feet, leaning my head on the couch seat for support.
He flicks on a lamp and sits down beside me, kicking off his shoes and stretching out his legs. His scent surrounds me and just looking at his long, lean body, all six-plus feet of him sprawled next to me, I feel safer than I have in such a long time.
I want to make him smile.
He’s so serious right now. His voice a little gruff, his hair rumpled. I tease him about his having ordered several whole vineyards, and finally, I seem to draw him out.
There’s a playful gleam in his eye as he teases back, “A man’s got to have ambitions.”
He sits with his head back on the seat of the couch, studying the ceiling.
“What if you reach all your ambitions . . . by the time, say, you’re forty. Or fifty. Then what?” I ask him.
He faces me again, and suddenly our noses are inches apart. “Then I’ll come up with new ambitions.” He lowers his voice as if he’s just realized I’m sitting super close.
Kissably close.
“And a few new groupies?” I whisper.
His nearness is making me ache in tender places I didn’t even know I had. I turn and stare at the ceiling, my stomach hot.
“I can already see you. You’ll be in one of your sports cars, brought in from somewhere exotic so it’s unique and nobody has it but you. It’ll be faster, grander, so shiny. Two girls in the back, your cell phone riding shotgun. One’s a Victoria’s Secret model and the other is a TV series actress—BUT they have nothing interesting to talk about.”
