Manwhore
Page 60
He may still be at the fund-raiser, Rachel, I chide myself. He may be heading somewhere else after that—and not alone.
But nothing I can say is really filtering through enough to change my course as I climb into the taxi. I feel like I’ve been at the end of a rubber band stretched to its breaking point and now I’m flying in the air, not knowing where I’ll land.
I just want to see him.
I tell myself that is all I want.
I’m not drunk.
I’m in full possession of my senses, but at the same time, I’ve lost them all.
From the back of the cab, I peer out at the looming high-rises, the shiny windows, the bustling streets, and then, with the big ol’ knot I get with anything Saint-related, the luxury high-rise where Saint is supposed to live as he gets a “bigger” place renovated comes into view.
Unease accompanies every click of my heels on the pristine floors as I cross the lobby. “Hi.” I approach the concierge, wondering what Sin will do when he sees me here. “Rachel Livingston to see Mr. Saint. He’s not expecting me.”
He assures me not to worry as he promptly dials a number.
Judging by how quickly he’s handling this, I assume this happens often.
He announces me, then instructs, “Please. Straight to the top.” A staff member by the elevators slides a key in, I suppose to secure top-level elevator access, and then he hops off and sends me on my way.
Oh wow, what am I doing?
Please god, don’t let him be with a floozy. . . .
Or let him be with a floozy so I can just go back home and forget I ever wanted this. . . .
Or if this is a super-bad idea then just let the elevator get stuck until I get my brain back, and I will never come back from the scare I’ll get and the claustrophobia. . . .
When the elevators open straight into his apartment, I hear music. Oh no, fuck, I didn’t mean it.
I should probably back out, but I feel an unnatural jealousy take over me. I don’t back out. Instead, I force my legs to work, the minimalist yet palace-like luxury of his apartment enveloping me so that I almost feel I’m in another world.
His jacket is on the back of a long modern L-shaped couch. I try to place the song playing in the background. Classical, I’ve heard it before. Chopin, I think. A single wineglass sits on the coffee table, its contents drained. I wonder if he’s entertaining. Maybe God answered your prayers and he’s not alone, Rachel. Maybe he’s having a threesome, and the concierge thinks you’re going to be the fourth. For some reason that stings, and I really want to cry now. I’m wearing a lovely black dress but an awful cry face, and that’s not a good combo. Is it? Not a way to lure a womanizer. I’m seriously contemplating leaving when he steps out of the hall, buttoning a white shirt. Holy god. He is so beautiful. He appears distracted, his hair rumpled. He’s barefoot . . . and so hot. I see the open laptop on the coffee table finally—next to the wine. He was working?
Yes.
“Something wrong, Rachel?” He scans me, head to toe.
I feel beyond vulnerable for being here, all of a sudden. I’m dressed to seduce a man, to seduce this man. This man who makes me achy and twisty and makes my heart work.
“Are you alone? Am I interrupting?” I’m dying from nerves. I’m dying to touch him. Kiss him.
His eyes narrow to slits. “What’s wrong?”
“One of my apartment-building neighbors died tonight.” I rub my hands over my arms, chilled to the bone. “She was divorced. She lived with a dog and a cat, and she was nice. You know? Lonely. Lonely and nice.”
He runs a hand through his hair in a sign of restlessness and drops it. “I’m sorry. Come here.”
God, I want those arms. One, two, three, four, five steps later, I slide into his arms and wrap mine around his waist as he pulls me close, pressing my cheek to his chest with a hand on the back of my head.
Oh god. Since when did I become this girl? This girl needing to be coddled by the guy she can’t stop thinking about? All the times I saw Wynn being hugged by her father, by her boyfriends, I really yearned for something like this. But I never knew how much until he moves his hands up and down my back in soothing motions. He held me like this the other day, at my place. But I had been too scared; I hadn’t really enjoyed it until now.
I press my nose into his chest, and it smells absolutely good.
“I am sorry,” he whispers gruffly in my ear.
He takes my face in his hands and looks truly sorry, his eyes tender and fierce. And something happens when he kisses the corner of my mouth. Almost a brotherly kiss. A feel-good, I’m sorry, I’m here kiss. One second my body is in sleep mode and the next it’s speeding in full-operation mode, recognizing these delicious ghost kisses only he gives me. My nerves tangle in my belly, and everything is gone save for this feeling of my heart pounding, my blood just gushing through my ears. This incredible, amazing feeling where one second everything is dull and the next it’s bright and fiery. One second I’m scared, the next I feel like I can do anything. Scream. Leap. Kiss him.
But nothing I can say is really filtering through enough to change my course as I climb into the taxi. I feel like I’ve been at the end of a rubber band stretched to its breaking point and now I’m flying in the air, not knowing where I’ll land.
I just want to see him.
I tell myself that is all I want.
I’m not drunk.
I’m in full possession of my senses, but at the same time, I’ve lost them all.
From the back of the cab, I peer out at the looming high-rises, the shiny windows, the bustling streets, and then, with the big ol’ knot I get with anything Saint-related, the luxury high-rise where Saint is supposed to live as he gets a “bigger” place renovated comes into view.
Unease accompanies every click of my heels on the pristine floors as I cross the lobby. “Hi.” I approach the concierge, wondering what Sin will do when he sees me here. “Rachel Livingston to see Mr. Saint. He’s not expecting me.”
He assures me not to worry as he promptly dials a number.
Judging by how quickly he’s handling this, I assume this happens often.
He announces me, then instructs, “Please. Straight to the top.” A staff member by the elevators slides a key in, I suppose to secure top-level elevator access, and then he hops off and sends me on my way.
Oh wow, what am I doing?
Please god, don’t let him be with a floozy. . . .
Or let him be with a floozy so I can just go back home and forget I ever wanted this. . . .
Or if this is a super-bad idea then just let the elevator get stuck until I get my brain back, and I will never come back from the scare I’ll get and the claustrophobia. . . .
When the elevators open straight into his apartment, I hear music. Oh no, fuck, I didn’t mean it.
I should probably back out, but I feel an unnatural jealousy take over me. I don’t back out. Instead, I force my legs to work, the minimalist yet palace-like luxury of his apartment enveloping me so that I almost feel I’m in another world.
His jacket is on the back of a long modern L-shaped couch. I try to place the song playing in the background. Classical, I’ve heard it before. Chopin, I think. A single wineglass sits on the coffee table, its contents drained. I wonder if he’s entertaining. Maybe God answered your prayers and he’s not alone, Rachel. Maybe he’s having a threesome, and the concierge thinks you’re going to be the fourth. For some reason that stings, and I really want to cry now. I’m wearing a lovely black dress but an awful cry face, and that’s not a good combo. Is it? Not a way to lure a womanizer. I’m seriously contemplating leaving when he steps out of the hall, buttoning a white shirt. Holy god. He is so beautiful. He appears distracted, his hair rumpled. He’s barefoot . . . and so hot. I see the open laptop on the coffee table finally—next to the wine. He was working?
Yes.
“Something wrong, Rachel?” He scans me, head to toe.
I feel beyond vulnerable for being here, all of a sudden. I’m dressed to seduce a man, to seduce this man. This man who makes me achy and twisty and makes my heart work.
“Are you alone? Am I interrupting?” I’m dying from nerves. I’m dying to touch him. Kiss him.
His eyes narrow to slits. “What’s wrong?”
“One of my apartment-building neighbors died tonight.” I rub my hands over my arms, chilled to the bone. “She was divorced. She lived with a dog and a cat, and she was nice. You know? Lonely. Lonely and nice.”
He runs a hand through his hair in a sign of restlessness and drops it. “I’m sorry. Come here.”
God, I want those arms. One, two, three, four, five steps later, I slide into his arms and wrap mine around his waist as he pulls me close, pressing my cheek to his chest with a hand on the back of my head.
Oh god. Since when did I become this girl? This girl needing to be coddled by the guy she can’t stop thinking about? All the times I saw Wynn being hugged by her father, by her boyfriends, I really yearned for something like this. But I never knew how much until he moves his hands up and down my back in soothing motions. He held me like this the other day, at my place. But I had been too scared; I hadn’t really enjoyed it until now.
I press my nose into his chest, and it smells absolutely good.
“I am sorry,” he whispers gruffly in my ear.
He takes my face in his hands and looks truly sorry, his eyes tender and fierce. And something happens when he kisses the corner of my mouth. Almost a brotherly kiss. A feel-good, I’m sorry, I’m here kiss. One second my body is in sleep mode and the next it’s speeding in full-operation mode, recognizing these delicious ghost kisses only he gives me. My nerves tangle in my belly, and everything is gone save for this feeling of my heart pounding, my blood just gushing through my ears. This incredible, amazing feeling where one second everything is dull and the next it’s bright and fiery. One second I’m scared, the next I feel like I can do anything. Scream. Leap. Kiss him.
