Manwhore
Page 26
“Down there. Why couldn’t you look at me? Even now, why aren’t you looking up here?” I follow his fingers to where he taps them over one of his eyelids.
I think of my answer.
Before I can even reply, he murmurs, almost warningly, “The truth.”
I blush. God, he’s always wanting the truth. Does he trust nobody, then?
“You were right about me, this isn’t my scene,” I say with a shrug. “You’re good at reading people, I can tell.”
“I can tell you are too.”
He waits. I guess it’s my turn. I want to ask him things that are personal, like why I couldn’t come to his after-party, but I need to focus on the interview. So I focus on him. “The question that’s on everyone’s mind: Do you think she’s out there? One women to embody all your desires?”
I make a quick appraisal of his features, but he reveals no glimpse into his thoughts at all. “Is that really what everyone would like to know?”
“You’re answering with a question.”
“And you’re not asking the right questions.”
I scowl and grab from the fruit tray his yacht personnel put upstairs too.
“That’s not how it’s done,” he says. I remember the way he was fed grapes below.
“Excuse me? I’m not part of your harem.” I laugh. “Here’s your grape.”
I toss him a grape. It bounces off his chest. I feel a jolt when his thigh brushes mine as he shifts and grabs a grape too. “I was taught not to play with my food but to eat it.”
The mere touch of his hand circling the back of my neck sends an odd little warmth running through my veins.
“What are you—”
“Shh.”
My body short-circuits as he leans over. The scent of soap reaches my nostrils as he brings the grape up to me, his pupils so blown up they’re all I see.
“Open your mouth,” he coaxes.
The gentle brush of the grape across my lips sends a current through my body.
He stares down at me with a wicked smile, and then I feel him brush the grape over my lips again. Instinctively, sensually, I open my mouth and let him feed it to me, breathing hard. By the time I swallow, his smile is gone.
Our eyes hold for the longest of seconds. Then, gently, I feel the brush of his thumbs on my cheeks.
A tremor runs through me as he ducks his head. And then, oh god. He places one single kiss on the corner of my lips. I tremble to the tips of my feet.
The tremor intensifies as Malcolm takes my chin and turns me so that his green, green eyes look into mine. They’re cautious and still so hungry. I’m telling myself this can’t be real! He couldn’t possibly want you like this!
I’m afraid to be kissed. Afraid to want it. He smells even better than in my dream, feels even better, and I want him so much more, more than more.
He’s breathing fast, clearly fighting for control. And I want him to lose.
No. No, the only one with everything to lose is me.
“Mm. Wow,” I say, clutching at the ache in my stomach as I straighten. “Wow, it does taste different when you’re being fed. I can taste your germs on it.”
He sits there, a small smile lighting his lips like the sun.
“Saint!” the boys call. He doesn’t respond to them.
“You two up for skinny-dipping?” That’s the first thing Tahoe says when he appears on deck.
“Rachel and I are talking up here, but go on ahead,” he dismisses, not even turning. He settles back to occupy most of the couch. I lean back uneasily, and he takes a piece of my hair to play with.
“You’re up to mischief, aren’t you?” I laugh.
“If you’ll join me, yes.” He flashes the picture of me on his cell phone screen, his voice dropping. “If I delete this . . . you let me drive you home tonight.”
“You’ve been driving me home for days.”
“My driver has been driving you home—not me.” His voice is low but firm, final. “There’s a big difference, I guarantee it, Rachel.”
My smile fades at the predatory air surrounding him. I’m as seduced by it as I am scared.
“I need to get home early. I’m sure you’d rather be with your friends.”
“If I would, I wouldn’t be asking you.” His thumb hovers above the “delete” icon, his expectant gaze on me. “Rachel?” he insists.
“If you delete it, I’ll think about it,” I offer.
His hard jaw seems to tighten reflexively in challenge, and in one slow second, he lowers his thumb and presses “delete.”
I think of my answer.
Before I can even reply, he murmurs, almost warningly, “The truth.”
I blush. God, he’s always wanting the truth. Does he trust nobody, then?
“You were right about me, this isn’t my scene,” I say with a shrug. “You’re good at reading people, I can tell.”
“I can tell you are too.”
He waits. I guess it’s my turn. I want to ask him things that are personal, like why I couldn’t come to his after-party, but I need to focus on the interview. So I focus on him. “The question that’s on everyone’s mind: Do you think she’s out there? One women to embody all your desires?”
I make a quick appraisal of his features, but he reveals no glimpse into his thoughts at all. “Is that really what everyone would like to know?”
“You’re answering with a question.”
“And you’re not asking the right questions.”
I scowl and grab from the fruit tray his yacht personnel put upstairs too.
“That’s not how it’s done,” he says. I remember the way he was fed grapes below.
“Excuse me? I’m not part of your harem.” I laugh. “Here’s your grape.”
I toss him a grape. It bounces off his chest. I feel a jolt when his thigh brushes mine as he shifts and grabs a grape too. “I was taught not to play with my food but to eat it.”
The mere touch of his hand circling the back of my neck sends an odd little warmth running through my veins.
“What are you—”
“Shh.”
My body short-circuits as he leans over. The scent of soap reaches my nostrils as he brings the grape up to me, his pupils so blown up they’re all I see.
“Open your mouth,” he coaxes.
The gentle brush of the grape across my lips sends a current through my body.
He stares down at me with a wicked smile, and then I feel him brush the grape over my lips again. Instinctively, sensually, I open my mouth and let him feed it to me, breathing hard. By the time I swallow, his smile is gone.
Our eyes hold for the longest of seconds. Then, gently, I feel the brush of his thumbs on my cheeks.
A tremor runs through me as he ducks his head. And then, oh god. He places one single kiss on the corner of my lips. I tremble to the tips of my feet.
The tremor intensifies as Malcolm takes my chin and turns me so that his green, green eyes look into mine. They’re cautious and still so hungry. I’m telling myself this can’t be real! He couldn’t possibly want you like this!
I’m afraid to be kissed. Afraid to want it. He smells even better than in my dream, feels even better, and I want him so much more, more than more.
He’s breathing fast, clearly fighting for control. And I want him to lose.
No. No, the only one with everything to lose is me.
“Mm. Wow,” I say, clutching at the ache in my stomach as I straighten. “Wow, it does taste different when you’re being fed. I can taste your germs on it.”
He sits there, a small smile lighting his lips like the sun.
“Saint!” the boys call. He doesn’t respond to them.
“You two up for skinny-dipping?” That’s the first thing Tahoe says when he appears on deck.
“Rachel and I are talking up here, but go on ahead,” he dismisses, not even turning. He settles back to occupy most of the couch. I lean back uneasily, and he takes a piece of my hair to play with.
“You’re up to mischief, aren’t you?” I laugh.
“If you’ll join me, yes.” He flashes the picture of me on his cell phone screen, his voice dropping. “If I delete this . . . you let me drive you home tonight.”
“You’ve been driving me home for days.”
“My driver has been driving you home—not me.” His voice is low but firm, final. “There’s a big difference, I guarantee it, Rachel.”
My smile fades at the predatory air surrounding him. I’m as seduced by it as I am scared.
“I need to get home early. I’m sure you’d rather be with your friends.”
“If I would, I wouldn’t be asking you.” His thumb hovers above the “delete” icon, his expectant gaze on me. “Rachel?” he insists.
“If you delete it, I’ll think about it,” I offer.
His hard jaw seems to tighten reflexively in challenge, and in one slow second, he lowers his thumb and presses “delete.”
