Manwhore
Page 66
He lets his head fall back and shouts with laughter, squeezing my hand. “Rachel, I never settle . . . not in business, not in pleasure. You were going to be the exception because you were a reporter. I never mix business and pleasure.”
“I ended up being that exception. To not mixing business with pleasure,” I say, almost to myself, flushing again when I think of the way I’ve totally mixed things too. I step away for a moment and stare out his massive windows at Chicago, admiring the thousand tiny, flickering lights that awaken in the city after sunset. “Your views are incredible. You have a completely different view of the world . . . both from your office and from here.”
“I like my view right now.” He speaks from behind me, and I inhale sharply and savor the butterflies in my stomach, the melty sensation in my knees. His voice is like tree bark now, raspy, firm and steady underneath, firmly rooted. When his tongue plays with my earlobe, I feel weightless, leaning back against him.
I part my lips just to breathe, noticing the large erection swelling prominently against the small of my back. Oh, how I want that. I want that so much. He turns my face to him. He slides a hand to cup my breast.
“I’m so ready, we can skip the foreplay,” I breathe.
I frown a little when he stills his hand. Um, not the reaction I was going for. I twist my neck a little.
His lips curl, a glint of mischief entering his gaze. “I’m taking my time, Rachel.”
Oh no. More foreplay? How wet does he want me to get? I’m so swollen I’m afraid nothing could go in right now. “Saint, don’t be a dick! I want you—”
“I want you too.” He kisses the corner of my mouth; then he heads to a huge black granite bar and brings us each a glass of wine.
He sits down on the couch and looks at me. It’s too easy for me to lose myself in the way he looks at me. Too easy to do anything else but want. Want, want, want.
“Come here.” He offers me a glass. “I want to know if you liked my gift.”
“I drank enough in the car. Didn’t you?”
He sips calmly.
I frown.
Suddenly I want to just toss his cat-and-mouse game right back at him and go home, but something in his expression stops me. It’s so male. So completely concentrated. Somehow it makes me wetter. Whatever it is I see there, the energy and power of a male establishing domination over a female, it pulls at me harder than my pride can. I’ve never had a relationship. I’ve never been attracted to a man as infuriating, impossible, and beyond hot as him.
I would physically fight a woman right now, naked and in mud, for the rights to him tonight.
So I tug my top down my arms and let it fall on the floor, barely suppressing the urge to cover myself when he has his first full look of me. Oh, fuck, did I just strip like a hooker? Before Saint? I did.
His voice is thick. “If you’re going to do that, do a little dance at least.”
“Fuck you,” I murmur.
“I’d rather you do it.”
I open my eyes, and he’s sipping his wine, devouring me with a small smile. He’s so virile, testosterone pulses around us. I want to rip his shirt off. God, I want to be reckless with him, wild with him. Somehow, within that recklessness, he gives me a measure of safety.
“In case you missed it, I’m willing to have sex with you,” I tell him, flat-out pushing my shyness aside.
He laughs softly, slowly setting the wine aside.
I start for him in anger. “Saint! I hate you! I am throwing myself at you here! At least fucking catch—”
He yanks me down on him and presses his mouth to mine. “Shh. I think I like you mad.” Then he sweeps his tongue into my mouth. He pulls me over him, adjusting me with his hands on my ass. He sucks on my tongue, and the low sound he makes along with his greedy sucks give me the most exhilarating, delicious sensations I’ve ever felt.
“You do want me,” I breathe.
He lifts me up in his arms as if I weigh nothing, and I hang on with my limbs around him as he carries me to his room. He lowers me down on the bed and I sink into all that softness. Then he edges back, his breathing as ragged as mine. His eyes are green lava. All the pent-up desire of the past weeks is about to explode inside me.
“Malcolm,” I beg as I pull open his shirt and pop his buttons free. He stands at the edge of the bed and lets me get on my knees and push it off his chest. Then he quickly shrugs it off his shoulders and lets it fall while I run my fingers up the grooves of his abs, his flat chest, pressing my lips wherever they fall. I manage to free his belt and throw it aside too. He pushes my hair behind my forehead, and I ease back on the bed, locking my hands on his nape so that he has no choice but to follow me down. He sweeps his head down and his lips are hot, tasting my mouth as he slides his hand up the side of my body. His mouth goes downward as his hands go upward.
“I ended up being that exception. To not mixing business with pleasure,” I say, almost to myself, flushing again when I think of the way I’ve totally mixed things too. I step away for a moment and stare out his massive windows at Chicago, admiring the thousand tiny, flickering lights that awaken in the city after sunset. “Your views are incredible. You have a completely different view of the world . . . both from your office and from here.”
“I like my view right now.” He speaks from behind me, and I inhale sharply and savor the butterflies in my stomach, the melty sensation in my knees. His voice is like tree bark now, raspy, firm and steady underneath, firmly rooted. When his tongue plays with my earlobe, I feel weightless, leaning back against him.
I part my lips just to breathe, noticing the large erection swelling prominently against the small of my back. Oh, how I want that. I want that so much. He turns my face to him. He slides a hand to cup my breast.
“I’m so ready, we can skip the foreplay,” I breathe.
I frown a little when he stills his hand. Um, not the reaction I was going for. I twist my neck a little.
His lips curl, a glint of mischief entering his gaze. “I’m taking my time, Rachel.”
Oh no. More foreplay? How wet does he want me to get? I’m so swollen I’m afraid nothing could go in right now. “Saint, don’t be a dick! I want you—”
“I want you too.” He kisses the corner of my mouth; then he heads to a huge black granite bar and brings us each a glass of wine.
He sits down on the couch and looks at me. It’s too easy for me to lose myself in the way he looks at me. Too easy to do anything else but want. Want, want, want.
“Come here.” He offers me a glass. “I want to know if you liked my gift.”
“I drank enough in the car. Didn’t you?”
He sips calmly.
I frown.
Suddenly I want to just toss his cat-and-mouse game right back at him and go home, but something in his expression stops me. It’s so male. So completely concentrated. Somehow it makes me wetter. Whatever it is I see there, the energy and power of a male establishing domination over a female, it pulls at me harder than my pride can. I’ve never had a relationship. I’ve never been attracted to a man as infuriating, impossible, and beyond hot as him.
I would physically fight a woman right now, naked and in mud, for the rights to him tonight.
So I tug my top down my arms and let it fall on the floor, barely suppressing the urge to cover myself when he has his first full look of me. Oh, fuck, did I just strip like a hooker? Before Saint? I did.
His voice is thick. “If you’re going to do that, do a little dance at least.”
“Fuck you,” I murmur.
“I’d rather you do it.”
I open my eyes, and he’s sipping his wine, devouring me with a small smile. He’s so virile, testosterone pulses around us. I want to rip his shirt off. God, I want to be reckless with him, wild with him. Somehow, within that recklessness, he gives me a measure of safety.
“In case you missed it, I’m willing to have sex with you,” I tell him, flat-out pushing my shyness aside.
He laughs softly, slowly setting the wine aside.
I start for him in anger. “Saint! I hate you! I am throwing myself at you here! At least fucking catch—”
He yanks me down on him and presses his mouth to mine. “Shh. I think I like you mad.” Then he sweeps his tongue into my mouth. He pulls me over him, adjusting me with his hands on my ass. He sucks on my tongue, and the low sound he makes along with his greedy sucks give me the most exhilarating, delicious sensations I’ve ever felt.
“You do want me,” I breathe.
He lifts me up in his arms as if I weigh nothing, and I hang on with my limbs around him as he carries me to his room. He lowers me down on the bed and I sink into all that softness. Then he edges back, his breathing as ragged as mine. His eyes are green lava. All the pent-up desire of the past weeks is about to explode inside me.
“Malcolm,” I beg as I pull open his shirt and pop his buttons free. He stands at the edge of the bed and lets me get on my knees and push it off his chest. Then he quickly shrugs it off his shoulders and lets it fall while I run my fingers up the grooves of his abs, his flat chest, pressing my lips wherever they fall. I manage to free his belt and throw it aside too. He pushes my hair behind my forehead, and I ease back on the bed, locking my hands on his nape so that he has no choice but to follow me down. He sweeps his head down and his lips are hot, tasting my mouth as he slides his hand up the side of my body. His mouth goes downward as his hands go upward.
