Manwhore
Page 69
“Promise to stop if I ask you to.”
“You won’t,” he assures, caressing a hand up the inside of my thigh.
“Promise.”
“Don’t make me promise.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve broken every promise I’ve ever made, and promising will only make me want to break yours.”
“Why do you break your promises?”
“Because I can. Part your legs.” He urges my knees apart. I’m squirming inside from nerves and anticipation. He leans between my legs and takes my thighs gently in his hands, parting them. He licks his lips when he looks at me, and I don’t think he realizes he’s savoring me like that.
“Oh no!” I laugh when he starts to lower his head. I clench my legs and stop him by grabbing a fistful of sooty black hair. “It’s too intimate! I can’t.”
He trails a hand down my curves, his eyes glimmering, but not with a smile, with challenge. “Let me taste you,” he says, husky and hot.
I go quiet and melt as his lips press to my stomach, my navel, lower.
“Malcolm.” I protest at first, holding my body tense on the bed.
His first lick I tense up, my hands in his hair ready to stop him. “What if I don’t taste good?” I breathe.
He runs the tip of his tongue over my clit and dips it inside, to the complete massacre of my senses. “Mmm. You do.” His hand smooths over my navel. He licks me slowly, savoring. I peer between my legs and see his eyes are closed, his lashes two half-moons. I start relaxing and let my fingers wander up the bulging muscles of his back, then I moan softly when he tongues there, harder, as if it were my mouth.
“You’re very good at this,” I choke. Suddenly I can barely formulate an audible word, much less several.
He caresses his fingers up the inside of my thigh and rubs my clit under the pad of his thumb as he shushes me and tells me to stop talking. The ceiling blurs and I lick my lips, panting as the pleasure escalates. I grab the comforter and hang on as I come and twist.
Wow.
I am deliciously numb.
I’m still panting while he’s still kissing me there. Instead of coming up fast, he then works his way up my sex, up to my belly button, between my breasts. By the time he puts on a condom and expertly thrusts inside me, his body made for this, to take me like this, make me quake like this, I’m a big ol’ quivering mess. A big ol’ quivering mess who’s delighted that, as he holds me to his body, he says the dirtiest, hottest things to me.
I’ve got to go.
Saint looks so delectable in bed as I gather my clothes that I almost can’t bear to look back when I’m finally dressed and at the door. Whatever just happened here, I don’t think either of us wants to face it. Especially not him. He once told me he didn’t do sleepovers . . . and though I slept with him before, this was so different, I couldn’t take it if he had regrets because . . . I don’t.
I sensed him put up a huge wall as soon as he was done coming. He roared out my name, hard and deep, like a war cry that made me explode on the spot. We were both mute afterward. When he came back to bed after getting rid of the condom, he didn’t touch me as he doodled on his phone.
I quietly start dressing, eager to go to my bed, where I can process this better. Or try to forget. He just crosses his arms behind his head and stares back at me, and I hear him call his driver to pick me up at the door.
“?’Bye, Saint.”
I see him nod and hear him murmur, “Let me know when you get home, Rachel” as I head to the elevator.
“I will,” I murmur.
And once in my bedroom, I text.
I’m home
I can still taste you
I smile and slide into my bed, groaning into my pillow, thinking of that big, hard, beautiful part of him. “I want to taste you too.”
21
AFFAIR
Facebook wall:
Saint, saw those pics of you with a new chick on The Toy. Got bets going on if she’s a weekend-deal?
Twitter:
@MalcolmSaint hey I’m not sure you lost my number? It’s Deenah from the Ice Box—call me
Please follow me @MalcolmSaint!
Instagram:
Who’s the chick on The Toy, Saint? She the flavor of the hour?
After scanning Sin’s Twitter feed, I toss my phone aside, turning around in bed, wanting him again. Pale morning breaks overhead. It steals in through my blinds and falls on my second pillow. I imagine him lying on it, the sheets draped low on his hips. I’m here, close, so I can tuck my face into the crook of his neck like I did yesterday.
“You won’t,” he assures, caressing a hand up the inside of my thigh.
“Promise.”
“Don’t make me promise.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve broken every promise I’ve ever made, and promising will only make me want to break yours.”
“Why do you break your promises?”
“Because I can. Part your legs.” He urges my knees apart. I’m squirming inside from nerves and anticipation. He leans between my legs and takes my thighs gently in his hands, parting them. He licks his lips when he looks at me, and I don’t think he realizes he’s savoring me like that.
“Oh no!” I laugh when he starts to lower his head. I clench my legs and stop him by grabbing a fistful of sooty black hair. “It’s too intimate! I can’t.”
He trails a hand down my curves, his eyes glimmering, but not with a smile, with challenge. “Let me taste you,” he says, husky and hot.
I go quiet and melt as his lips press to my stomach, my navel, lower.
“Malcolm.” I protest at first, holding my body tense on the bed.
His first lick I tense up, my hands in his hair ready to stop him. “What if I don’t taste good?” I breathe.
He runs the tip of his tongue over my clit and dips it inside, to the complete massacre of my senses. “Mmm. You do.” His hand smooths over my navel. He licks me slowly, savoring. I peer between my legs and see his eyes are closed, his lashes two half-moons. I start relaxing and let my fingers wander up the bulging muscles of his back, then I moan softly when he tongues there, harder, as if it were my mouth.
“You’re very good at this,” I choke. Suddenly I can barely formulate an audible word, much less several.
He caresses his fingers up the inside of my thigh and rubs my clit under the pad of his thumb as he shushes me and tells me to stop talking. The ceiling blurs and I lick my lips, panting as the pleasure escalates. I grab the comforter and hang on as I come and twist.
Wow.
I am deliciously numb.
I’m still panting while he’s still kissing me there. Instead of coming up fast, he then works his way up my sex, up to my belly button, between my breasts. By the time he puts on a condom and expertly thrusts inside me, his body made for this, to take me like this, make me quake like this, I’m a big ol’ quivering mess. A big ol’ quivering mess who’s delighted that, as he holds me to his body, he says the dirtiest, hottest things to me.
I’ve got to go.
Saint looks so delectable in bed as I gather my clothes that I almost can’t bear to look back when I’m finally dressed and at the door. Whatever just happened here, I don’t think either of us wants to face it. Especially not him. He once told me he didn’t do sleepovers . . . and though I slept with him before, this was so different, I couldn’t take it if he had regrets because . . . I don’t.
I sensed him put up a huge wall as soon as he was done coming. He roared out my name, hard and deep, like a war cry that made me explode on the spot. We were both mute afterward. When he came back to bed after getting rid of the condom, he didn’t touch me as he doodled on his phone.
I quietly start dressing, eager to go to my bed, where I can process this better. Or try to forget. He just crosses his arms behind his head and stares back at me, and I hear him call his driver to pick me up at the door.
“?’Bye, Saint.”
I see him nod and hear him murmur, “Let me know when you get home, Rachel” as I head to the elevator.
“I will,” I murmur.
And once in my bedroom, I text.
I’m home
I can still taste you
I smile and slide into my bed, groaning into my pillow, thinking of that big, hard, beautiful part of him. “I want to taste you too.”
21
AFFAIR
Facebook wall:
Saint, saw those pics of you with a new chick on The Toy. Got bets going on if she’s a weekend-deal?
Twitter:
@MalcolmSaint hey I’m not sure you lost my number? It’s Deenah from the Ice Box—call me
Please follow me @MalcolmSaint!
Instagram:
Who’s the chick on The Toy, Saint? She the flavor of the hour?
After scanning Sin’s Twitter feed, I toss my phone aside, turning around in bed, wanting him again. Pale morning breaks overhead. It steals in through my blinds and falls on my second pillow. I imagine him lying on it, the sheets draped low on his hips. I’m here, close, so I can tuck my face into the crook of his neck like I did yesterday.
