Manwhore +1
Page 87
“They revere me. They’ll know I believe she’s a word goddess and they’ll trust my judgment.”
“No. I mean yes, I’m all that, but no, I’m not going to work for you.”
He looks down at me with undisguised delight. “You’re a cocky one, aren’t you?”
“Me? Cocky? Malcolm Kyle Preston Logan Saint . . . did you just hear yourself talk about how revered you are?”
“No, Rachel,” he purrs arrogantly as he buckles his designer belt around his lean waist, “I was too busy looking at the way you’re looking at me now.”
He comes over to drop on the side of the bed, edges my little R necklace aside along with the M, then he leans his dark head in, and his lips replace the necklaces as he presses them hotly into my skin.
Gone mush, I wrap my arms around his shoulders and tell him, in his ear, “I really, really like the things you do to me, Sin.”
His voice husks out when he sets a kiss on my chin, and then, satisfyingly, gives me one on the mouth. “Not as much as I like doing them to you.”
He reaches for the tie I had taken off him and left on my nightstand as he comes to his feet. “I won’t pressure you. This is the last time I put this out there. Take as long as you’d like to reply. Look as long as you want, Rachel. You have a job at Interface.”
Considering how difficult it’s been to get an actual callback, mainly because of my relationship to him, his words give me a brain orgasm—some much-needed relief on that front.
“I’m truly grateful for it, Saint. But the media has a picnic with me as the main course already. I’d never get respect if my boyfriend got me my job.”
“I didn’t get it, your skills got it, I simply want the best. I want what I want. Come to Interface with me.”
He knots his tie and slips into his jacket, looking at me expectantly.
“I would,” I quietly say, if I didn’t care so much. “But no. It has to stay separate.”
He waits a moment without a word, and then urges, “Let me make some calls for you, little one.”
“Sin!” I laugh, then sober up. My heart is near exploding right now. “Thank you. But I have to be sure I’m being hired for the right reasons.”
“You will be.”
“With a call from you, I’d be hired if I were a duck!”
“God, you’re stubborn, Livingston.”
“You’re worse, Saint.”
When he finally nods in understanding, I think I love him just a little more than I did just a second ago. He’s a man used to getting his way, so my position can’t be easy for him. Having his kind of power but wielding it carefully because he respects my wishes to stay independent means so much.
“And you, Mr. Saint,” I get to my feet and smooth a hand over his tie, going up on tiptoes to kiss his hard jaw, “go get the moon.”
After this weekend, I’m officially the president of Saintaholics by the time I’m finally at work. Helen asks me to go with her to the offices of the Clarks, the family who has owned Edge since its inception.
We head up the elevators, down a carpeted expanse, and into an office that is as quiet as a church and the complete opposite of the bustling newsroom below.
Seated at a long table are the Clarks. Mr. Clark is in a light blue suit and a black shirt, and is topped by a full head of white hair. Mrs. Clark is in a light yellow sundress, her dyed black hair wrapped in a tidy little bun.
They usher us to take a seat and I tensely follow to sit down next to Helen, right across from the Clarks.
“Rachel, we’ve been extremely appreciative of your loyalty to Edge since bringing you on board. Your contributions have been and continue to be invaluable,” Mr. Clark says.
“Thank you so much, Mr. and Mrs. Clark.”
“The reason we asked to see you today is because, as you may have been hearing, we have a very interested buyer for the company and we’re keen on selling, for personal reasons. However, this buyer is very explicit that his interest in Edge is exclusively tied to whether you remain with it. We’ve asked for his assurance that our loyal employees will be kept on when his management takes over, and he won’t make that guarantee unless you guarantee to stay.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Clark, I wasn’t planning on staying. Also for personal reasons.”
“I see.” Mr. Clark rubs his chin, exchanging a worried glance with his wife.
When nobody speaks, some kind of switch goes off in my chest, triggering a bomb countdown. Tick, tock, tick, tock . . .
“No. I mean yes, I’m all that, but no, I’m not going to work for you.”
He looks down at me with undisguised delight. “You’re a cocky one, aren’t you?”
“Me? Cocky? Malcolm Kyle Preston Logan Saint . . . did you just hear yourself talk about how revered you are?”
“No, Rachel,” he purrs arrogantly as he buckles his designer belt around his lean waist, “I was too busy looking at the way you’re looking at me now.”
He comes over to drop on the side of the bed, edges my little R necklace aside along with the M, then he leans his dark head in, and his lips replace the necklaces as he presses them hotly into my skin.
Gone mush, I wrap my arms around his shoulders and tell him, in his ear, “I really, really like the things you do to me, Sin.”
His voice husks out when he sets a kiss on my chin, and then, satisfyingly, gives me one on the mouth. “Not as much as I like doing them to you.”
He reaches for the tie I had taken off him and left on my nightstand as he comes to his feet. “I won’t pressure you. This is the last time I put this out there. Take as long as you’d like to reply. Look as long as you want, Rachel. You have a job at Interface.”
Considering how difficult it’s been to get an actual callback, mainly because of my relationship to him, his words give me a brain orgasm—some much-needed relief on that front.
“I’m truly grateful for it, Saint. But the media has a picnic with me as the main course already. I’d never get respect if my boyfriend got me my job.”
“I didn’t get it, your skills got it, I simply want the best. I want what I want. Come to Interface with me.”
He knots his tie and slips into his jacket, looking at me expectantly.
“I would,” I quietly say, if I didn’t care so much. “But no. It has to stay separate.”
He waits a moment without a word, and then urges, “Let me make some calls for you, little one.”
“Sin!” I laugh, then sober up. My heart is near exploding right now. “Thank you. But I have to be sure I’m being hired for the right reasons.”
“You will be.”
“With a call from you, I’d be hired if I were a duck!”
“God, you’re stubborn, Livingston.”
“You’re worse, Saint.”
When he finally nods in understanding, I think I love him just a little more than I did just a second ago. He’s a man used to getting his way, so my position can’t be easy for him. Having his kind of power but wielding it carefully because he respects my wishes to stay independent means so much.
“And you, Mr. Saint,” I get to my feet and smooth a hand over his tie, going up on tiptoes to kiss his hard jaw, “go get the moon.”
After this weekend, I’m officially the president of Saintaholics by the time I’m finally at work. Helen asks me to go with her to the offices of the Clarks, the family who has owned Edge since its inception.
We head up the elevators, down a carpeted expanse, and into an office that is as quiet as a church and the complete opposite of the bustling newsroom below.
Seated at a long table are the Clarks. Mr. Clark is in a light blue suit and a black shirt, and is topped by a full head of white hair. Mrs. Clark is in a light yellow sundress, her dyed black hair wrapped in a tidy little bun.
They usher us to take a seat and I tensely follow to sit down next to Helen, right across from the Clarks.
“Rachel, we’ve been extremely appreciative of your loyalty to Edge since bringing you on board. Your contributions have been and continue to be invaluable,” Mr. Clark says.
“Thank you so much, Mr. and Mrs. Clark.”
“The reason we asked to see you today is because, as you may have been hearing, we have a very interested buyer for the company and we’re keen on selling, for personal reasons. However, this buyer is very explicit that his interest in Edge is exclusively tied to whether you remain with it. We’ve asked for his assurance that our loyal employees will be kept on when his management takes over, and he won’t make that guarantee unless you guarantee to stay.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Clark, I wasn’t planning on staying. Also for personal reasons.”
“I see.” Mr. Clark rubs his chin, exchanging a worried glance with his wife.
When nobody speaks, some kind of switch goes off in my chest, triggering a bomb countdown. Tick, tock, tick, tock . . .
