Manwhore
Page 8
The windows have an open view of the city of Chicago, but I can’t absorb it for long because I see him—quiet, storm-like intensity in Armani—walk toward me in that hurricane force that is almost otherworldly.
Wow. Wow on every part of him. His face, his presence, his shoulders, his eyes. His eyes are glowing, alive—green and deep, like moving rivers, but there’s no missing the little shards of ice glinting inside, almost screaming for me to warm them.
“Miss Livingston.”
He extends his hand, and it’s when I slide my fingers into his warm grip that I notice that I can’t breathe.
Nodding and swallowing and pasting a stupid smile on my face as I pry my hand free, I watch him with mounting awe.
Once in his chair and leaning back comfortably, he sits there, the pose deceptively casual, but I can feel the energy humming from his being.
“Mr. Saint,” I mumble at last, never more aware of my attire and how out of place I must seem amid such polished luxury.
He’s staring too, in a slightly puzzled, quiet way. I bet I’m the only woman he’s ever seen in coveralls. In sneakers. I bet everyone wears their best when they’re going to see him.
Shit.
He glances at his watch, startling me when he speaks. “Clock is ticking, Miss Livingston, so you might as well shoot.” He signals to a chair across from his desk, and . . . can I just say that his voice is really quite an experience?
His presence is quite the experience. No wonder people talk about it online—hell, to whoever will listen.
His jaw all lean bone, his eyebrows two dark slashes above thick-lashed, deep-set eyes. His lips are sensual, slightly tilted at the corners. The kind of lips Gina calls “edible.”
“Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Saint,” I say.
“Saint is fine.” He leans back in his chair.
Adrenaline courses through me as I finally have no other choice but to attempt to sit on the chair he indicated, every effort I make focused on my movements. I’m trying not to recline to avoid getting paint on the fabric—a bit stiffly, I pull out the questions I wrote on my phone on my way here.
“So my main interest is, of course, your new social media platform, the first to ever really compete against Facebook . . .”
I can’t help but notice he’s distracted by my clothes as I sit across from him. I can feel his eyes on me, checking me out. Is he disgusted by my outfit? I can feel his hot eyes on me, and I’m just about squirming.
He shifts in his chair, a hand covering his face. Is he hiding a smile? Ohmigod, is his chest moving a little? He’s laughing because of my clothes! Because I’m rigid as a mannequin here, nervous and frantically wondering if I have paint on me or not.
“As you know,” I force myself to continue, but god, I’m mortified, “investors have not only been wondering whether it will remain privately held . . .”
I trail off when he stands and walks to the far end of his office. He walks in a way only confident men walk. It’s unsettling when he walks back to me, extending what looks to be a clean men’s dress shirt.
“Here, put this on.”
Holy crap. Is this his shirt? “Oh no.”
His eyes are extraordinary up close, peering down at me with a curiosity I hadn’t seen there before.
“I insist,” he says, with a hint of a smile.
My heart speeds up. “Truly,” I protest, shaking my head.
“You’ll be more comfortable.” He gestures down at me, and I feel myself go hot. He just smiles, a twinkle in his eye.
Standing to take the shirt, I pluck each button open with shaky fingers, then slip my arms into the sleeves. I start buttoning it up as he heads back to his desk, his strides slow this time, almost predatory . . . because he won’t take his eyes off me as he walks around.
The faster I try to make my fingers move, the more inept they feel. The shirt falls to the middle of my thighs—a shirt that has touched him, his chest, his skin, and suddenly I can’t stop being aware of what he’s doing; slowly lowering Chicago’s most coveted male body back into his chair.
“Okay,” I announce.
But it’s not okay. It’s so not okay right now.
I’m blushing to the tips of my ears, and his eyes are twinkling mercilessly, as though he knows it. “You wear it better than I do,” he assures me.
“You’re teasing me, Mr. Saint,” I say under my breath, lowering myself to the chair again. His shirt smells of soap, the collar starchy, loose around my neck. God. My knees feel weak. I couldn’t feel more vulnerable if I’d bared myself naked in front of him.
Wow. Wow on every part of him. His face, his presence, his shoulders, his eyes. His eyes are glowing, alive—green and deep, like moving rivers, but there’s no missing the little shards of ice glinting inside, almost screaming for me to warm them.
“Miss Livingston.”
He extends his hand, and it’s when I slide my fingers into his warm grip that I notice that I can’t breathe.
Nodding and swallowing and pasting a stupid smile on my face as I pry my hand free, I watch him with mounting awe.
Once in his chair and leaning back comfortably, he sits there, the pose deceptively casual, but I can feel the energy humming from his being.
“Mr. Saint,” I mumble at last, never more aware of my attire and how out of place I must seem amid such polished luxury.
He’s staring too, in a slightly puzzled, quiet way. I bet I’m the only woman he’s ever seen in coveralls. In sneakers. I bet everyone wears their best when they’re going to see him.
Shit.
He glances at his watch, startling me when he speaks. “Clock is ticking, Miss Livingston, so you might as well shoot.” He signals to a chair across from his desk, and . . . can I just say that his voice is really quite an experience?
His presence is quite the experience. No wonder people talk about it online—hell, to whoever will listen.
His jaw all lean bone, his eyebrows two dark slashes above thick-lashed, deep-set eyes. His lips are sensual, slightly tilted at the corners. The kind of lips Gina calls “edible.”
“Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Saint,” I say.
“Saint is fine.” He leans back in his chair.
Adrenaline courses through me as I finally have no other choice but to attempt to sit on the chair he indicated, every effort I make focused on my movements. I’m trying not to recline to avoid getting paint on the fabric—a bit stiffly, I pull out the questions I wrote on my phone on my way here.
“So my main interest is, of course, your new social media platform, the first to ever really compete against Facebook . . .”
I can’t help but notice he’s distracted by my clothes as I sit across from him. I can feel his eyes on me, checking me out. Is he disgusted by my outfit? I can feel his hot eyes on me, and I’m just about squirming.
He shifts in his chair, a hand covering his face. Is he hiding a smile? Ohmigod, is his chest moving a little? He’s laughing because of my clothes! Because I’m rigid as a mannequin here, nervous and frantically wondering if I have paint on me or not.
“As you know,” I force myself to continue, but god, I’m mortified, “investors have not only been wondering whether it will remain privately held . . .”
I trail off when he stands and walks to the far end of his office. He walks in a way only confident men walk. It’s unsettling when he walks back to me, extending what looks to be a clean men’s dress shirt.
“Here, put this on.”
Holy crap. Is this his shirt? “Oh no.”
His eyes are extraordinary up close, peering down at me with a curiosity I hadn’t seen there before.
“I insist,” he says, with a hint of a smile.
My heart speeds up. “Truly,” I protest, shaking my head.
“You’ll be more comfortable.” He gestures down at me, and I feel myself go hot. He just smiles, a twinkle in his eye.
Standing to take the shirt, I pluck each button open with shaky fingers, then slip my arms into the sleeves. I start buttoning it up as he heads back to his desk, his strides slow this time, almost predatory . . . because he won’t take his eyes off me as he walks around.
The faster I try to make my fingers move, the more inept they feel. The shirt falls to the middle of my thighs—a shirt that has touched him, his chest, his skin, and suddenly I can’t stop being aware of what he’s doing; slowly lowering Chicago’s most coveted male body back into his chair.
“Okay,” I announce.
But it’s not okay. It’s so not okay right now.
I’m blushing to the tips of my ears, and his eyes are twinkling mercilessly, as though he knows it. “You wear it better than I do,” he assures me.
“You’re teasing me, Mr. Saint,” I say under my breath, lowering myself to the chair again. His shirt smells of soap, the collar starchy, loose around my neck. God. My knees feel weak. I couldn’t feel more vulnerable if I’d bared myself naked in front of him.
