Manwhore +1
Page 92
I slap his shoulder with the book. “Don’t spoil it for me. What do you mean, ahhhh? Is he the bad guy? Tell me.”
He chuckles low, then pries my book away, sets it aside, and we kiss, slow and easy. And I end up lying back as my body grows soft as cotton, him hard and strong above me, and we take a reading break to make love.
Later, he orders home delivery for us and we read some more while we wait. I study the look on his face as he turns the pages of his book. So intellectual today.
Once again, as I have over the entire weekend, I try to wheedle out what he talked to his lawyers about only for him to simply say, “Next week,” without even lifting his eyes from his book.
I sigh and reluctantly let it go, cuddling against him, Saint automatically raising his arm around me as I do.
Holy crap. It’s scary, how much I like it here.
With these arms, who needs red slippers to come home?
I arrive, exhausted and satisfied plus a million, at work at nine on the dot on Monday. Before I enter the elevator, a man with the most intimidating vibe, the harshest look on his face, and the biggest group of minions around him steps out.
I start when he looks at me.
Noel Saint. Like he crawled out from the internet and the endless harsh photos of him there ended up right here.
Right in this building.
Shock paralyzes me for a moment. Tall and dark-haired . . . he’s almost as beautiful as Malcolm. But there is nothing even remotely playful about this man.
Where Malcolm’s presence buzzes with energy, Noel Saint feels like a bomb about to explode right now when he sets his eyes— completely unlike Malcolm’s— on me.
“You,” he says. In the most contemptuous tone I’ve ever heard.
He steps over to me and, out of self-preservation, I step around as one of the young production interns boards the elevator.
“Are you coming?” she asks, holding the door open, like she’s offering me a lifeline.
I hurry inside and Noel Saint turns to stare at me, and I stare back at him unflinchingly. Inside me, a ball of pure loathing starts burning in my belly, and I shoot him a look more hateful than the one he is sending my way. More hateful than I’ve ever given anyone in my life.
And he says, with a sneer, “He won’t win,” before the doors roll shut.
A morgue-like silence settles in the elevator.
“Whoa. Who was that?” the intern asks, blue eyes wide in concern.
I look at her, wishing I could remember her name so this would be less awkward. “My . . . boyfriend’s father.”
“Oh wow.” She pats my shoulder regretfully, and I exhale shakily.
Was he here visiting the Clarks?
He didn’t look too pleased.
Did he find out I’m not on board with his asshole blackmail plan?
He seemed so beyond mad, I can’t believe anyone would get this riled up about anything, much less a measly employee leaving her job.
I’m still feeling a ton of dread sitting like a brick in my stomach as I step out cautiously on my floor and look for any signs of gloom and doom.
And I’m surprised that there’s not. In fact, everything is normal, on Red Bull. Almost too much noise. Too many laughs.
I head to my desk.
“Rachel, Helen wants to see you immediately! And then report back to me,” Valentine instructs with a very wide smile when he spots me.
I walk to Helen’s office, glad to see Valentine looking happy, wondering if maybe he found a new job. Helen waves me in and I immediately start, “I am very firm on my decision, Helen—”
“Are you really? Because the entire office is thrilled!”
When I only stand there in growing confusion, she adds, “As you know, Noel Saint has offered for Edge.” She claps her hands together, clearly delighted. “But . . . your boyfriend didn’t seem to like that.”
I inhale painfully. “I know.”
“In any case, there’s a bidding war going on.” She nods. “Noel Saint versus M4.” She eyes me. “Malcolm’s taking on his father for Edge.”
I’m pretty sure the world just stopped turning.
“Did you hear?”
HEART. FUCKING. ATTACK.
“He’s upping the ante.”
Half in anticipation, half in dread, I ask, “Who’s winning?”
“I don’t know but . . . I’m rooting for your boy.” She finishes that with a mile-wide smile. “You know that love letter you wrote to him?” she asks as I head to the door in a complete state of shock and confusion. She winks. “This might just be Saint’s reply.”
He chuckles low, then pries my book away, sets it aside, and we kiss, slow and easy. And I end up lying back as my body grows soft as cotton, him hard and strong above me, and we take a reading break to make love.
Later, he orders home delivery for us and we read some more while we wait. I study the look on his face as he turns the pages of his book. So intellectual today.
Once again, as I have over the entire weekend, I try to wheedle out what he talked to his lawyers about only for him to simply say, “Next week,” without even lifting his eyes from his book.
I sigh and reluctantly let it go, cuddling against him, Saint automatically raising his arm around me as I do.
Holy crap. It’s scary, how much I like it here.
With these arms, who needs red slippers to come home?
I arrive, exhausted and satisfied plus a million, at work at nine on the dot on Monday. Before I enter the elevator, a man with the most intimidating vibe, the harshest look on his face, and the biggest group of minions around him steps out.
I start when he looks at me.
Noel Saint. Like he crawled out from the internet and the endless harsh photos of him there ended up right here.
Right in this building.
Shock paralyzes me for a moment. Tall and dark-haired . . . he’s almost as beautiful as Malcolm. But there is nothing even remotely playful about this man.
Where Malcolm’s presence buzzes with energy, Noel Saint feels like a bomb about to explode right now when he sets his eyes— completely unlike Malcolm’s— on me.
“You,” he says. In the most contemptuous tone I’ve ever heard.
He steps over to me and, out of self-preservation, I step around as one of the young production interns boards the elevator.
“Are you coming?” she asks, holding the door open, like she’s offering me a lifeline.
I hurry inside and Noel Saint turns to stare at me, and I stare back at him unflinchingly. Inside me, a ball of pure loathing starts burning in my belly, and I shoot him a look more hateful than the one he is sending my way. More hateful than I’ve ever given anyone in my life.
And he says, with a sneer, “He won’t win,” before the doors roll shut.
A morgue-like silence settles in the elevator.
“Whoa. Who was that?” the intern asks, blue eyes wide in concern.
I look at her, wishing I could remember her name so this would be less awkward. “My . . . boyfriend’s father.”
“Oh wow.” She pats my shoulder regretfully, and I exhale shakily.
Was he here visiting the Clarks?
He didn’t look too pleased.
Did he find out I’m not on board with his asshole blackmail plan?
He seemed so beyond mad, I can’t believe anyone would get this riled up about anything, much less a measly employee leaving her job.
I’m still feeling a ton of dread sitting like a brick in my stomach as I step out cautiously on my floor and look for any signs of gloom and doom.
And I’m surprised that there’s not. In fact, everything is normal, on Red Bull. Almost too much noise. Too many laughs.
I head to my desk.
“Rachel, Helen wants to see you immediately! And then report back to me,” Valentine instructs with a very wide smile when he spots me.
I walk to Helen’s office, glad to see Valentine looking happy, wondering if maybe he found a new job. Helen waves me in and I immediately start, “I am very firm on my decision, Helen—”
“Are you really? Because the entire office is thrilled!”
When I only stand there in growing confusion, she adds, “As you know, Noel Saint has offered for Edge.” She claps her hands together, clearly delighted. “But . . . your boyfriend didn’t seem to like that.”
I inhale painfully. “I know.”
“In any case, there’s a bidding war going on.” She nods. “Noel Saint versus M4.” She eyes me. “Malcolm’s taking on his father for Edge.”
I’m pretty sure the world just stopped turning.
“Did you hear?”
HEART. FUCKING. ATTACK.
“He’s upping the ante.”
Half in anticipation, half in dread, I ask, “Who’s winning?”
“I don’t know but . . . I’m rooting for your boy.” She finishes that with a mile-wide smile. “You know that love letter you wrote to him?” she asks as I head to the door in a complete state of shock and confusion. She winks. “This might just be Saint’s reply.”
