Manwhore
Page 48
Callan and Tahoe greet me through the music. “Hey Rache!” “Hey Rache!”
I slide into the booth and Malcolm settles down beside me, his shirt stretching in so many places I can’t help feeling constrained in my own skin just by the sight.
He orders a drink for me, then sits back, looking as relaxed as I am tense. Something happened when he visited my apartment. The fact that it mattered to him if I was feeling well or not touched a chord, but also, he opened up to me in a way that surprised me, and, even more surprisingly, I opened up to him. We both shared things—real things. Now, the intimacy between us is so palpable right now that every inch of me aches to get closer, as close as we felt that night.
His arm outstretched behind me, his friends continue to banter and do wicked things to their whores with their drinks. “How was your week, Rachel?” At Saint’s question, a warm glow of excitement flows through my veins, because there’s real interest in his gaze.
“Good. My work is good. My mother’s good. I . . . well, I don’t want to bore you.” But I smile. I can’t remember when anyone’s looked so attentive listening to me describe what my week was like.
Then I ask him about his trip to London—because of course I read that he was there for forty-eight hours—and he says it was “good,” then shifts the subject back to me.
“What are you writing about now?” he whispers.
He’s always so focused on everything I say; people pass and slap his back or call his name, and never once does he lift his head to acknowledge anyone apart from me. Just as engrossed in him and having trouble steering away from dangerous topics, I hedge and say, “Researching for next week’s column.”
I notice one of his outstretched arms is farther down on the back of my seat, and think, My topic is you.
A painful yearning hits me dead center. Whoa. Where did that come from?
I glance down at my lap as I try to regroup. Why, oh why do these feelings of instability have to happen to me with you?
Is it because I want to draw you out when you get so serious and you’re not teasing me?
Or is it that you really want to know, for some inexplicable reason, the things that move me?
Or maybe it’s because you make me so nervous . . . or maybe, simply, because you asked?
I drag in a breath, aware of being watched through those thick lashes by those boundless, deep-set eyes, green like the forest, hiding all the secrets of somebody who’s never really reveals his cards until the game is won. Cunning eyes. Male eyes. Interested eyes. I want to shut myself up and not keep putting myself out there with him while he’s still giving me back hardly anything at all, but I can’t help wanting to answer him when he asks me questions. I glance at the dance floor and slowly rise to my feet, tugging his hand.
“Dance with me,” I tell him.
I’m sick and tired of wondering, stressing, wanting and fighting it. I’m tired of thinking, of trying not to feel. Suddenly all I want is to dance with him. An hour of fun, an hour of being just a girl with a guy.
He cocks a brow, says nothing . . . but he stands. He stands slowly, like a serpent uncoiling. I laugh and tug on his hand a little more to lead him to the connecting room, where the dance floor is. “Dance with me, Saint.”
His hand is large and long-fingered in mine as I tug him forward, and he lets me lead him, like a lazy wild animal indulging his prey before pouncing, and he steps onto the dance floor with me, his hands lifting to my hips. A fire churns inside me when I glance up to see the wicked tilt at the corners of his lips.
He watches me as I move sinuously under his hands, up and down and sideways, using him as a pole. A pole I want to kiss, just like any other girl, because it turns out I’m pretty human after all. He starts letting his hands roam up and down my sides, his eyes glinting like a devil’s. I take his hands and put them on my nape so he holds me close. My stupid head can’t think—my thoughts are all blanked. I want him naked, sweaty, out of his element, not smirking, not amused, definitely not in control.
“Is that the best you can do?” I taunt, surprised when he yanks me closer.
Then, with my hips in his hands, he moves me. Wow. He’s hard. All. Over. People jumping around us, bumping against us, Malcolm dances like his body is an extension of mine. He draws me against him with very little effort on his part, and the stubble of his jaw scrapes against my nape as he pulls my hair to the side and runs the silver rings on his hand up the column of my neck. I’m so shocked by the soft sensuality in his movements and touch, the stealth and ripple of his muscles against mine, how safe and excited I feel in his arms, I’m high on this feeling. On him. On this night. I’m stealing touches that might definitely be too close to the fire, but my hands have a mind of their own. Part of me is crazed. His lips were made to kiss, his hands to touch; that’s the sole purpose of his thick hair: for women to cling to while he pounds them hard. His eyes seem to offer peeks into heaven and into some kind of party in hell, and I’m maddened by it all.
I slide into the booth and Malcolm settles down beside me, his shirt stretching in so many places I can’t help feeling constrained in my own skin just by the sight.
He orders a drink for me, then sits back, looking as relaxed as I am tense. Something happened when he visited my apartment. The fact that it mattered to him if I was feeling well or not touched a chord, but also, he opened up to me in a way that surprised me, and, even more surprisingly, I opened up to him. We both shared things—real things. Now, the intimacy between us is so palpable right now that every inch of me aches to get closer, as close as we felt that night.
His arm outstretched behind me, his friends continue to banter and do wicked things to their whores with their drinks. “How was your week, Rachel?” At Saint’s question, a warm glow of excitement flows through my veins, because there’s real interest in his gaze.
“Good. My work is good. My mother’s good. I . . . well, I don’t want to bore you.” But I smile. I can’t remember when anyone’s looked so attentive listening to me describe what my week was like.
Then I ask him about his trip to London—because of course I read that he was there for forty-eight hours—and he says it was “good,” then shifts the subject back to me.
“What are you writing about now?” he whispers.
He’s always so focused on everything I say; people pass and slap his back or call his name, and never once does he lift his head to acknowledge anyone apart from me. Just as engrossed in him and having trouble steering away from dangerous topics, I hedge and say, “Researching for next week’s column.”
I notice one of his outstretched arms is farther down on the back of my seat, and think, My topic is you.
A painful yearning hits me dead center. Whoa. Where did that come from?
I glance down at my lap as I try to regroup. Why, oh why do these feelings of instability have to happen to me with you?
Is it because I want to draw you out when you get so serious and you’re not teasing me?
Or is it that you really want to know, for some inexplicable reason, the things that move me?
Or maybe it’s because you make me so nervous . . . or maybe, simply, because you asked?
I drag in a breath, aware of being watched through those thick lashes by those boundless, deep-set eyes, green like the forest, hiding all the secrets of somebody who’s never really reveals his cards until the game is won. Cunning eyes. Male eyes. Interested eyes. I want to shut myself up and not keep putting myself out there with him while he’s still giving me back hardly anything at all, but I can’t help wanting to answer him when he asks me questions. I glance at the dance floor and slowly rise to my feet, tugging his hand.
“Dance with me,” I tell him.
I’m sick and tired of wondering, stressing, wanting and fighting it. I’m tired of thinking, of trying not to feel. Suddenly all I want is to dance with him. An hour of fun, an hour of being just a girl with a guy.
He cocks a brow, says nothing . . . but he stands. He stands slowly, like a serpent uncoiling. I laugh and tug on his hand a little more to lead him to the connecting room, where the dance floor is. “Dance with me, Saint.”
His hand is large and long-fingered in mine as I tug him forward, and he lets me lead him, like a lazy wild animal indulging his prey before pouncing, and he steps onto the dance floor with me, his hands lifting to my hips. A fire churns inside me when I glance up to see the wicked tilt at the corners of his lips.
He watches me as I move sinuously under his hands, up and down and sideways, using him as a pole. A pole I want to kiss, just like any other girl, because it turns out I’m pretty human after all. He starts letting his hands roam up and down my sides, his eyes glinting like a devil’s. I take his hands and put them on my nape so he holds me close. My stupid head can’t think—my thoughts are all blanked. I want him naked, sweaty, out of his element, not smirking, not amused, definitely not in control.
“Is that the best you can do?” I taunt, surprised when he yanks me closer.
Then, with my hips in his hands, he moves me. Wow. He’s hard. All. Over. People jumping around us, bumping against us, Malcolm dances like his body is an extension of mine. He draws me against him with very little effort on his part, and the stubble of his jaw scrapes against my nape as he pulls my hair to the side and runs the silver rings on his hand up the column of my neck. I’m so shocked by the soft sensuality in his movements and touch, the stealth and ripple of his muscles against mine, how safe and excited I feel in his arms, I’m high on this feeling. On him. On this night. I’m stealing touches that might definitely be too close to the fire, but my hands have a mind of their own. Part of me is crazed. His lips were made to kiss, his hands to touch; that’s the sole purpose of his thick hair: for women to cling to while he pounds them hard. His eyes seem to offer peeks into heaven and into some kind of party in hell, and I’m maddened by it all.
