Ms. Manwhore
Page 14
He starts to unbutton the shirt of his I’m wearing, easing it off my shoulders to reveal my bare breasts. My legs still tingle from where he touched me. My insides feel like hot candle wax. He makes me want to melt. Combust. Explode.
I hear a sound and feel a little shock of cold in a perfect circle around my navel, and I’m dead. Whipped fucking cream. Around, and then into, my belly button.
His mouth kisses down my neck, toward the cream. Sucking on my skin, his tongue rubbing against my skin. Cue more goose bumps. And a rush of more when he tugs my panties down my legs.
His takes my knees and hooks my legs around his hips as he dips his head and starts lapping up the cream. I moan and grip his hair, loving the feel of it between my fingers.
I can feel his chest between my legs, right where I want him.
Where I want him and can’t have him.
He takes my hands in his, our fingers interlacing, and he holds them at my sides. He’s sucking on my abdomen. I feel like butter. My belly feels warm. I’m tingling all over. My head is turning to mush. I don’t want to think—I can’ t think. He just feels so . . . good. Just so, so good. Gentle, firm mouth. Strong, smooth hands. Soft hair brushing against my breasts as he slowly trails his tongue upward.
I open my eyes, and when he looks at me, I see he’s dying for it too. Just like I am.
“I can’t wait to be inside you again,” he growls softly. “My cock is jealous of my tongue and what it’s about to do.”
“Oh god, Saint, you’re killing me.”
“No, you’re killing me. Little one, you’re killing me . But the next time I’m inside you, you’ll be my wife. Wife. I’ve got patience for you to spare.” He kisses my mouth tenderly, and I gasp and pant. His body is buzzing with pent-up desire. Hunger of the kind that eats you up inside.
I can’t move, don’t stop him, don’t breathe . . . I never breathe right when he touches me, when he’s near.
He slides himself lower, slowly, making sure to rub between my legs, and I bite the inside of my cheek when he adds a healthy dose of whipped cream to my aching, throbbing, clenching wet sex. I shudder.
He looks ravenous when he bends his head and kisses me there, between my quaking thighs, and inside my body, and right up to my heart. His kiss is tender, possessive, completely breathtaking. He kisses completely. Takes everything I have. Leaves me breathless. I arch. Moan.
He groans and tightens his arms around me, his kiss deepening, his tongue thrusting mercilessly. He kisses me like that, over and over again. He tastes. Devours. Tasting me harder, deeper.
It’s not the whipped cream he likes to taste, and I know it. He grows greedier when I’m sure there’s no more whipped cream left . . . and only me. The way I want him.
Saint likes me like this, when I’m vulnerable and trusting him. And I’m a vulnerable mess right now. All noises and moaning and writhing.
He groans as I get wetter and wetter, my hips moving to the pleasure of his mouth. Turning to dust in his arms. I wrap my fingers around the back of his head, pressing him between my legs. His dark head moves, and he just kisses me, kisses the life out of me and tortures the hell out of himself as I climax on a hiss of breath, body bowing for him.
When he comes up, breathing harshly, every muscle is hard and flexed with need, taut from his denial.
I moan. “I want the whipped cream on you.”
He kisses me. For a whole minute, his hands holding the back of my head, his mouth slow and leisurely savoring as he ducks his head over mine and sucks and nips and tastes, curling my toes.
Everything falls away.
I kiss him back, hungry, so very hungry for him always . I kiss him with my heart, my lips, with my mind, my hands on his shoulders, my soul.
“I agreed to wait until the wedding.” His eyes twinkle with a devil’s glint, but his jaw sets determinedly. “I hope you’ll be ready for me.”
I can’t sleep. I’m anxious, excited. The wedding day feels so close now that Sin’s home.
I nudge him in bed during the night, and he lifts a brow. “Hmm.”
“Are you asleep?”
He rolls to his stomach and shoves his arm under his pillow, groaning. “Not anymore.”
“You’re jet-lagged. Go back to sleep. Sorry.”
“Why are you not sleeping?”
“The invitations came in.”
He looks at me as I steal away for a second, pull out the invitation, and show him the intertwined M and R, then the wording inside.
“Perfect,” he says.
I smile and set it on the nightstand. “Do you think guests will keep a lid on it? Once the invites are out?”
He lifts his head and squints. Then drags a hand down his face. “No.” He pulls me close. “We’ve got security anyway. No cameras, no press, no access, no anything.”
“We can’t stop them from speculating. Can we?” It’s a waste of effort and energy to even try.
“No. We can’t.” He signals to my smartphone on the nightstand. “Whatever is in there . . . stays in there. Not here.” He taps my brain. “Or here.” He taps my heart. “All right?”
I nod.
“Go back to bed; you’re jet-lagged.” I slip my shoulder under his head and run my hands through his hair.
He turns and exhales near my neck. He kisses my forehead. Tightens his hold. “God, I missed you.”
READY
Saint teased me on Whipped Cream Night. He wanted to know if I was ready.
I am so ready.
The fleet of M4 airplanes is ready.
Invitations are out.
Gifts are flowing in and they sit perfectly wrapped, waiting to be opened.
The invitations specify only the time and date we leave from O’Hare, and the date guests will be flown back. Apparently nobody is going to know where we’re going beforehand.
Everything is set.
Malcolm Saint and I are getting married next weekend.
LEAKED
Secret wedding info leaked!
Speculation on magnate Malcolm Saint’s marriage to reporter Rachel Livingston has simmered across the city. Sources confirm there has been a secret wedding scheduled at a very exclusive private island resort for sometime this month. No more than fifty close relatives, business associates, and friends will be in attendance.
More to come . . .
THE ISLAND
The M4 fleet of airplanes leaves early Wednesday to this perfect resort island, a favorite among celebrities. Private residences and beach bungalows occupy most of the land, along with a central resort hotel building where all cars arrive and depart from; the rest of the island is accessible only by golf carts, bicycles, or on foot.
Our reception will be held at the island botanical gardens, a mere three-minute walk from the chapel.
When the fleet of M4 airplanes land, Saint, my mother, and I emerge from one of the planes. Another brings Tahoe, Callan, and a dozen of Saint’s friends. Another flies in Wynn, Gina, Valentine, Sandy, and my old Edge colleagues. One more carries Saint’s business acquaintances. A handful more fly in our security and wedding crew.
Everyone is impressed by the lush surroundings and the deliciously warm breeze because Malcolm Saint and I are getting married in paradise.
“Wow.” Tahoe strides over and slaps Malcolm’s back, his Texan drawl coming out. “You did good, man.”
I hear a sound and feel a little shock of cold in a perfect circle around my navel, and I’m dead. Whipped fucking cream. Around, and then into, my belly button.
His mouth kisses down my neck, toward the cream. Sucking on my skin, his tongue rubbing against my skin. Cue more goose bumps. And a rush of more when he tugs my panties down my legs.
His takes my knees and hooks my legs around his hips as he dips his head and starts lapping up the cream. I moan and grip his hair, loving the feel of it between my fingers.
I can feel his chest between my legs, right where I want him.
Where I want him and can’t have him.
He takes my hands in his, our fingers interlacing, and he holds them at my sides. He’s sucking on my abdomen. I feel like butter. My belly feels warm. I’m tingling all over. My head is turning to mush. I don’t want to think—I can’ t think. He just feels so . . . good. Just so, so good. Gentle, firm mouth. Strong, smooth hands. Soft hair brushing against my breasts as he slowly trails his tongue upward.
I open my eyes, and when he looks at me, I see he’s dying for it too. Just like I am.
“I can’t wait to be inside you again,” he growls softly. “My cock is jealous of my tongue and what it’s about to do.”
“Oh god, Saint, you’re killing me.”
“No, you’re killing me. Little one, you’re killing me . But the next time I’m inside you, you’ll be my wife. Wife. I’ve got patience for you to spare.” He kisses my mouth tenderly, and I gasp and pant. His body is buzzing with pent-up desire. Hunger of the kind that eats you up inside.
I can’t move, don’t stop him, don’t breathe . . . I never breathe right when he touches me, when he’s near.
He slides himself lower, slowly, making sure to rub between my legs, and I bite the inside of my cheek when he adds a healthy dose of whipped cream to my aching, throbbing, clenching wet sex. I shudder.
He looks ravenous when he bends his head and kisses me there, between my quaking thighs, and inside my body, and right up to my heart. His kiss is tender, possessive, completely breathtaking. He kisses completely. Takes everything I have. Leaves me breathless. I arch. Moan.
He groans and tightens his arms around me, his kiss deepening, his tongue thrusting mercilessly. He kisses me like that, over and over again. He tastes. Devours. Tasting me harder, deeper.
It’s not the whipped cream he likes to taste, and I know it. He grows greedier when I’m sure there’s no more whipped cream left . . . and only me. The way I want him.
Saint likes me like this, when I’m vulnerable and trusting him. And I’m a vulnerable mess right now. All noises and moaning and writhing.
He groans as I get wetter and wetter, my hips moving to the pleasure of his mouth. Turning to dust in his arms. I wrap my fingers around the back of his head, pressing him between my legs. His dark head moves, and he just kisses me, kisses the life out of me and tortures the hell out of himself as I climax on a hiss of breath, body bowing for him.
When he comes up, breathing harshly, every muscle is hard and flexed with need, taut from his denial.
I moan. “I want the whipped cream on you.”
He kisses me. For a whole minute, his hands holding the back of my head, his mouth slow and leisurely savoring as he ducks his head over mine and sucks and nips and tastes, curling my toes.
Everything falls away.
I kiss him back, hungry, so very hungry for him always . I kiss him with my heart, my lips, with my mind, my hands on his shoulders, my soul.
“I agreed to wait until the wedding.” His eyes twinkle with a devil’s glint, but his jaw sets determinedly. “I hope you’ll be ready for me.”
I can’t sleep. I’m anxious, excited. The wedding day feels so close now that Sin’s home.
I nudge him in bed during the night, and he lifts a brow. “Hmm.”
“Are you asleep?”
He rolls to his stomach and shoves his arm under his pillow, groaning. “Not anymore.”
“You’re jet-lagged. Go back to sleep. Sorry.”
“Why are you not sleeping?”
“The invitations came in.”
He looks at me as I steal away for a second, pull out the invitation, and show him the intertwined M and R, then the wording inside.
“Perfect,” he says.
I smile and set it on the nightstand. “Do you think guests will keep a lid on it? Once the invites are out?”
He lifts his head and squints. Then drags a hand down his face. “No.” He pulls me close. “We’ve got security anyway. No cameras, no press, no access, no anything.”
“We can’t stop them from speculating. Can we?” It’s a waste of effort and energy to even try.
“No. We can’t.” He signals to my smartphone on the nightstand. “Whatever is in there . . . stays in there. Not here.” He taps my brain. “Or here.” He taps my heart. “All right?”
I nod.
“Go back to bed; you’re jet-lagged.” I slip my shoulder under his head and run my hands through his hair.
He turns and exhales near my neck. He kisses my forehead. Tightens his hold. “God, I missed you.”
READY
Saint teased me on Whipped Cream Night. He wanted to know if I was ready.
I am so ready.
The fleet of M4 airplanes is ready.
Invitations are out.
Gifts are flowing in and they sit perfectly wrapped, waiting to be opened.
The invitations specify only the time and date we leave from O’Hare, and the date guests will be flown back. Apparently nobody is going to know where we’re going beforehand.
Everything is set.
Malcolm Saint and I are getting married next weekend.
LEAKED
Secret wedding info leaked!
Speculation on magnate Malcolm Saint’s marriage to reporter Rachel Livingston has simmered across the city. Sources confirm there has been a secret wedding scheduled at a very exclusive private island resort for sometime this month. No more than fifty close relatives, business associates, and friends will be in attendance.
More to come . . .
THE ISLAND
The M4 fleet of airplanes leaves early Wednesday to this perfect resort island, a favorite among celebrities. Private residences and beach bungalows occupy most of the land, along with a central resort hotel building where all cars arrive and depart from; the rest of the island is accessible only by golf carts, bicycles, or on foot.
Our reception will be held at the island botanical gardens, a mere three-minute walk from the chapel.
When the fleet of M4 airplanes land, Saint, my mother, and I emerge from one of the planes. Another brings Tahoe, Callan, and a dozen of Saint’s friends. Another flies in Wynn, Gina, Valentine, Sandy, and my old Edge colleagues. One more carries Saint’s business acquaintances. A handful more fly in our security and wedding crew.
Everyone is impressed by the lush surroundings and the deliciously warm breeze because Malcolm Saint and I are getting married in paradise.
“Wow.” Tahoe strides over and slaps Malcolm’s back, his Texan drawl coming out. “You did good, man.”
