Manwhore
Page 25
He lifts his phone and shows me a picture on the screen. “I like this picture of you. You look soft and thoughtful. I can see your chin, one of your elfin ears sticking out of your hair.”
“You took a picture of me!”
“I did.” His thumb caresses the picture on the screen and my spine tightens, because I can almost feel the touch.
“Erase it,” I say, shocked.
“Ah. Bargaining again.”
“Saint. Don’t. Delete that picture. I’m not interested in you like that. In being on your phone.”
He eases back, searching my face. “Come here, sit with me.”
He heads to the couch and settles his large body right at the center. Wow. So he expects me to follow?
With a deep breath, I force myself to go there, to that couch he now so thoroughly occupies. I’m sitting at the edge while he continues taking up the center. We stare at each other, me scowling, him in amusement, and then our heads turn and we’re staring at the last fireworks in the distance.
“You’re mad at me because I had my driver take you home?” he says, his eyes gleaming ruthlessly.
“You said that, not me,” I return.
He chuckles softly, the sound low and male, distracting. As is his big body, somehow sucking up the space around him like a vortex.
“I might have let you come to the after-party if you’d accepted my gift.” He drags his thumb thoughtfully along the raspy square of his jaw. “A man has his pride, Rachel. How do you think I feel when I see my shirt back in my office?”
“Aw, does he feel neglected by one girl out of his million girlfriends?”
His voice lowers, his handsome face etched in puzzlement. “Why?”
“What?”
“Why did you bring it back to me? I said keep it. Nobody gives my gifts back. Am I repulsive to you?”
My gaze fixes on the thick tendons of his throat because I don’t want him to see that he’s not repulsive—he’s too attractive to let me think most of the time. “I’d rather not accept gifts from men or strangers.” I lift my chin a fraction, narrowing my eyes and warning under my breath, “And if you keep teasing me, I’m going home.”
He leans forward. “You know, Rosie didn’t toss my gift back in my face. She called me a hero . . . and I liked it very much.”
He’s provoking me. I used to like banter so much better when he wasn’t scrambling my head.
“A: Thank-yous from elephants are pretty rare, so I hope you appreciate her gesture. And B: I suppose you’ve been given things your whole life,” I say.
His smile turns rueful, and he leans forward. “Everything.”
“Everything?”
He nods.
“I don’t believe it.”
“What could I have wanted that I don’t have?” He laughs softly. “I have it all, Rachel. At least I used to.” He reaches out and runs the back of one finger along my cheek, awakening every nerve ending in my body.
My throat feels tight all of a sudden. His stare turns dark and hungry, and no man who has everything could hunger like that.
As we grow quiet, the breeze shuffles past us, the air between us different. What game is he playing with me? The picture he took was taken while I was so vulnerable, my profile showing my confusion. I can’t bear that he saw me like that.
He’s looking at my picture now, serious.
“I realize the company I keep is special. I appreciate being given a chance to make it up to you,” Saint tells me soberly, staring at the dark sky where the fireworks used to be. When he turns his head to face me, I have to fight not to look away from that probing green gaze.
“Thanks for inviting me . . . I’ve had a good time,” I say, my voice as husky as I’ve ever heard it.
Suddenly I feel hungry too.
For him to tease me again, and make me smile, and get that twinkle in his eye that both infuriates me and makes me feel little bubbles in my veins. I feel hungry to know why he called dibs on me, why he wants me to have his shirt.
He smiles amicably and signals at me.
“I’ll bargain with you now, Rachel. If you’d like to ask me something, I’ll give you an answer—and I’ll ask you a question,” he says, watching me.
“Really?” I perk up, and when he nods indulgently, I gesture to him. “You go first.”
“All right.” He leans forward, his muscles straining under the open shirt he wears. “Why couldn’t you look at me down there, Rachel?”
“What do you mean?”
“You took a picture of me!”
“I did.” His thumb caresses the picture on the screen and my spine tightens, because I can almost feel the touch.
“Erase it,” I say, shocked.
“Ah. Bargaining again.”
“Saint. Don’t. Delete that picture. I’m not interested in you like that. In being on your phone.”
He eases back, searching my face. “Come here, sit with me.”
He heads to the couch and settles his large body right at the center. Wow. So he expects me to follow?
With a deep breath, I force myself to go there, to that couch he now so thoroughly occupies. I’m sitting at the edge while he continues taking up the center. We stare at each other, me scowling, him in amusement, and then our heads turn and we’re staring at the last fireworks in the distance.
“You’re mad at me because I had my driver take you home?” he says, his eyes gleaming ruthlessly.
“You said that, not me,” I return.
He chuckles softly, the sound low and male, distracting. As is his big body, somehow sucking up the space around him like a vortex.
“I might have let you come to the after-party if you’d accepted my gift.” He drags his thumb thoughtfully along the raspy square of his jaw. “A man has his pride, Rachel. How do you think I feel when I see my shirt back in my office?”
“Aw, does he feel neglected by one girl out of his million girlfriends?”
His voice lowers, his handsome face etched in puzzlement. “Why?”
“What?”
“Why did you bring it back to me? I said keep it. Nobody gives my gifts back. Am I repulsive to you?”
My gaze fixes on the thick tendons of his throat because I don’t want him to see that he’s not repulsive—he’s too attractive to let me think most of the time. “I’d rather not accept gifts from men or strangers.” I lift my chin a fraction, narrowing my eyes and warning under my breath, “And if you keep teasing me, I’m going home.”
He leans forward. “You know, Rosie didn’t toss my gift back in my face. She called me a hero . . . and I liked it very much.”
He’s provoking me. I used to like banter so much better when he wasn’t scrambling my head.
“A: Thank-yous from elephants are pretty rare, so I hope you appreciate her gesture. And B: I suppose you’ve been given things your whole life,” I say.
His smile turns rueful, and he leans forward. “Everything.”
“Everything?”
He nods.
“I don’t believe it.”
“What could I have wanted that I don’t have?” He laughs softly. “I have it all, Rachel. At least I used to.” He reaches out and runs the back of one finger along my cheek, awakening every nerve ending in my body.
My throat feels tight all of a sudden. His stare turns dark and hungry, and no man who has everything could hunger like that.
As we grow quiet, the breeze shuffles past us, the air between us different. What game is he playing with me? The picture he took was taken while I was so vulnerable, my profile showing my confusion. I can’t bear that he saw me like that.
He’s looking at my picture now, serious.
“I realize the company I keep is special. I appreciate being given a chance to make it up to you,” Saint tells me soberly, staring at the dark sky where the fireworks used to be. When he turns his head to face me, I have to fight not to look away from that probing green gaze.
“Thanks for inviting me . . . I’ve had a good time,” I say, my voice as husky as I’ve ever heard it.
Suddenly I feel hungry too.
For him to tease me again, and make me smile, and get that twinkle in his eye that both infuriates me and makes me feel little bubbles in my veins. I feel hungry to know why he called dibs on me, why he wants me to have his shirt.
He smiles amicably and signals at me.
“I’ll bargain with you now, Rachel. If you’d like to ask me something, I’ll give you an answer—and I’ll ask you a question,” he says, watching me.
“Really?” I perk up, and when he nods indulgently, I gesture to him. “You go first.”
“All right.” He leans forward, his muscles straining under the open shirt he wears. “Why couldn’t you look at me down there, Rachel?”
“What do you mean?”
