Ms. Manwhore
Page 4
Liquid heat pools in my tummy. I can tell by his slow-spreading grin he’s delighted to have surprised me.
We’re all chatting amicably but in my peripherals, I steal little peeks of him. All of him. His hand curved around his coffee cup, overwhelming it, his thumb on the ear—my stomach swirling with heat when I remember what he did with it.
He’s the only one drinking coffee too. Thank you, sex marathon. I still wouldn ’t change you for the world.
He was looking ahead as we talked with our friends but he seems to sense my stare, turns to look at me, his smile fading as our gazes lock again.
I love being seen like this. There’s this sensation in the middle of my chest, tight and achy. The way he concentrates so fully on me, nothing else; just me, as if I’m all he sees. I know it’s not true; Saint is always aware of his surroundings. But the kind of force with which he looks at me seeps into my bones. Inside that gaze are a new intensity and awareness that tell me, without a shadow of a doubt, what he wants and expects from me. Truth and loyalty . . . and everything.
“So. Is she going to keep working?” Callan asks then.
“She’ll be my wife; she can do whatever the hell she likes.”
“Exactly, like not work,” Callan says.
“She’s too much a woman to shop all day,” Gina says. “She has shit to offer the world, and her man’s a big man; she needs to be a big girl too.”
“Exactly. Am I supposed to drop everything simply because I’m the biggest Sinner that ever lived?” I turn to Saint.
“Only when I ask you to.”
“Saint.” I shove him playfully in the chest, and he grabs my hand and flattens it against him.
“I’m excited for you, Rachel,” Wynn says. “You get a wedding coordinator, you get to pick the cake . . . please tell me you’re going to do cute little figures on top?”
“No. Just . . . no, Wynn.”
“Ohmigod, you have to. It’s going to be the wedding of the century.”
“The press is going to feast on it for weeks,” Emmett says, nodding his blond head.
My stomach contracts.
Malcolm appeases me with a gentle squeeze on my shoulder. “I’ll keep them out.”
Gina heads off to the wine cellar, and minutes later, Tahoe stands and follows her. They end up meeting by the door. They start chatting and before I know it, I hear a familiar soft laugh.
The sound of Gina when she was with Paul. Gina when she was happy. Gina when she was flirting .
Tahoe, unaware perhaps of how rare Gina’s laugh is, takes two bottles of wine from her and heads toward us, and Gina follows him with another bottle.
Gina grins at us and drops down in her seat. “If you ever need a pitiful friend who’ll drink all your wine, I’m totally here for you, Saint.” She lifts the bottle and says, “The box you sent over to Rachel created a new addiction.”
“I’ll make sure Rachel keeps you stocked,” Saint says calmly.
I smile at Malcolm. I know he’s nice to my friends because of me, and maybe they’re growing on him. I still appreciate what he does.
“I’ll be visiting Napa next month, Gina. You’re invited,” Tahoe says gruffly, watching her with his blue eyes looking bluer than usual. “After the wedding,” he specifies.
Gina is frozen in place, visibly and uncharacteristically uncertain. “I’m not sure I can . . .”
Tahoe doesn’t speak; he is clearly waiting for more.
Wynn straightens in her seat. “Dude, are you blushing?” she asks Gina, frowning.
“No!” Gina says, then she lowers her voice. “No.” She glances at Tahoe and quickly looks away, and then she smirks and signals at me. “I leave that to Rachel.”
When she speaks, I feel Saint’s gaze slowly trekking across my face, greedily drinking up my quickly warming cheeks.
It’s like a touch of summer sunlight, to have his eyes on me. The moment they touch me, I warm up all over.
After opening and emptying all three bottles of wine, our friends leave.
I take some of the glasses to the kitchen and then come back to find Malcolm booting up his laptop and tossing his Bluetooth headpiece nearby.
I sit down next to him again. “I don’t want a big wedding. All that talk about wedding preparations . . . I just want you.”
“I want my wife to have a big wedding.”
“Let’s go to city hall and just do it.”
He kisses my lips. “I’ll think about it.”
“Make me your wife now.”
“You’re already mine. This says you’re mine.” He taps my necklaces. “You’ll wear a ring to match. Right next to this one.” He touches my engagement ring.
“Why are you determined I have a big wedding?”
“Because you’re only getting married once.”
“Once to you, ” I tease.
He smiles. “If I set the bar high, no one will even attempt to compete. Once to me is once.”
I smile. “Okay, I’ll meet a wedding coordinator. I’m getting a white dress. And the hottest groom there will ever be. Marrying me. Once .”
“That’s what I said.”
I glance at an invitation, one of the dozens that arrive per week. This time it says Mr. Malcolm Saint and Miss Rachel Livingston .
“What do you think it will say in a few months?”
He looks at it. “It’ll say Mr. and Mrs. Malcolm Saint.”
“Nah, it’ll say Malcolm Saint and his lusty, luscious little wife who he can’t get out of bed,” I tease.
He laughs, then raises one dark eyebrow. “It’ll say Mr. and Mrs. Malcolm Saint. And that’s final.”
“What about Livingston?”
“Enjoy it while it lasts.”
“Sin!”
“Sinner,” he absently shoots back as he reads the invitation, then shoves it back into the envelope.
“We’re not in agreement yet.”
“Yes we are.”
“No we aren’t.”
“I’ll get it on the prenup, little one.”
I groan. Seriously. Prenups. Though I know a man like Malcolm absolutely could not marry without one. “I understand we need one,” I say.
“Don’t worry,” he answers softly. “My lawyers insist we do this. But I’ll look out for you.”
“And I’ll sign it then. I’ll sign it because I love you and trust you and because I want to marry you.”
“So do I.”
“So will you indulge me? Your wife? And let me keep Livingston . . .”
“I’ll indulge you in other ways. You, indulge me,” he says huskily, “and take my name.”
Take his name.
Because I love him.
Because when I look into his eyes, nothing else exists but him.
Because even when I don’t look into his eyes, nothing else exists but him.
“I’ll think about it,” I say, throwing his words back at him with a smile. “And you think about the wedding.”
I go slip into my jeans and a sweater, then I grab my bag.
“Where do you think you’re going at this hour?”
“I have a campout with End the Violence. Remember?”
We’re all chatting amicably but in my peripherals, I steal little peeks of him. All of him. His hand curved around his coffee cup, overwhelming it, his thumb on the ear—my stomach swirling with heat when I remember what he did with it.
He’s the only one drinking coffee too. Thank you, sex marathon. I still wouldn ’t change you for the world.
He was looking ahead as we talked with our friends but he seems to sense my stare, turns to look at me, his smile fading as our gazes lock again.
I love being seen like this. There’s this sensation in the middle of my chest, tight and achy. The way he concentrates so fully on me, nothing else; just me, as if I’m all he sees. I know it’s not true; Saint is always aware of his surroundings. But the kind of force with which he looks at me seeps into my bones. Inside that gaze are a new intensity and awareness that tell me, without a shadow of a doubt, what he wants and expects from me. Truth and loyalty . . . and everything.
“So. Is she going to keep working?” Callan asks then.
“She’ll be my wife; she can do whatever the hell she likes.”
“Exactly, like not work,” Callan says.
“She’s too much a woman to shop all day,” Gina says. “She has shit to offer the world, and her man’s a big man; she needs to be a big girl too.”
“Exactly. Am I supposed to drop everything simply because I’m the biggest Sinner that ever lived?” I turn to Saint.
“Only when I ask you to.”
“Saint.” I shove him playfully in the chest, and he grabs my hand and flattens it against him.
“I’m excited for you, Rachel,” Wynn says. “You get a wedding coordinator, you get to pick the cake . . . please tell me you’re going to do cute little figures on top?”
“No. Just . . . no, Wynn.”
“Ohmigod, you have to. It’s going to be the wedding of the century.”
“The press is going to feast on it for weeks,” Emmett says, nodding his blond head.
My stomach contracts.
Malcolm appeases me with a gentle squeeze on my shoulder. “I’ll keep them out.”
Gina heads off to the wine cellar, and minutes later, Tahoe stands and follows her. They end up meeting by the door. They start chatting and before I know it, I hear a familiar soft laugh.
The sound of Gina when she was with Paul. Gina when she was happy. Gina when she was flirting .
Tahoe, unaware perhaps of how rare Gina’s laugh is, takes two bottles of wine from her and heads toward us, and Gina follows him with another bottle.
Gina grins at us and drops down in her seat. “If you ever need a pitiful friend who’ll drink all your wine, I’m totally here for you, Saint.” She lifts the bottle and says, “The box you sent over to Rachel created a new addiction.”
“I’ll make sure Rachel keeps you stocked,” Saint says calmly.
I smile at Malcolm. I know he’s nice to my friends because of me, and maybe they’re growing on him. I still appreciate what he does.
“I’ll be visiting Napa next month, Gina. You’re invited,” Tahoe says gruffly, watching her with his blue eyes looking bluer than usual. “After the wedding,” he specifies.
Gina is frozen in place, visibly and uncharacteristically uncertain. “I’m not sure I can . . .”
Tahoe doesn’t speak; he is clearly waiting for more.
Wynn straightens in her seat. “Dude, are you blushing?” she asks Gina, frowning.
“No!” Gina says, then she lowers her voice. “No.” She glances at Tahoe and quickly looks away, and then she smirks and signals at me. “I leave that to Rachel.”
When she speaks, I feel Saint’s gaze slowly trekking across my face, greedily drinking up my quickly warming cheeks.
It’s like a touch of summer sunlight, to have his eyes on me. The moment they touch me, I warm up all over.
After opening and emptying all three bottles of wine, our friends leave.
I take some of the glasses to the kitchen and then come back to find Malcolm booting up his laptop and tossing his Bluetooth headpiece nearby.
I sit down next to him again. “I don’t want a big wedding. All that talk about wedding preparations . . . I just want you.”
“I want my wife to have a big wedding.”
“Let’s go to city hall and just do it.”
He kisses my lips. “I’ll think about it.”
“Make me your wife now.”
“You’re already mine. This says you’re mine.” He taps my necklaces. “You’ll wear a ring to match. Right next to this one.” He touches my engagement ring.
“Why are you determined I have a big wedding?”
“Because you’re only getting married once.”
“Once to you, ” I tease.
He smiles. “If I set the bar high, no one will even attempt to compete. Once to me is once.”
I smile. “Okay, I’ll meet a wedding coordinator. I’m getting a white dress. And the hottest groom there will ever be. Marrying me. Once .”
“That’s what I said.”
I glance at an invitation, one of the dozens that arrive per week. This time it says Mr. Malcolm Saint and Miss Rachel Livingston .
“What do you think it will say in a few months?”
He looks at it. “It’ll say Mr. and Mrs. Malcolm Saint.”
“Nah, it’ll say Malcolm Saint and his lusty, luscious little wife who he can’t get out of bed,” I tease.
He laughs, then raises one dark eyebrow. “It’ll say Mr. and Mrs. Malcolm Saint. And that’s final.”
“What about Livingston?”
“Enjoy it while it lasts.”
“Sin!”
“Sinner,” he absently shoots back as he reads the invitation, then shoves it back into the envelope.
“We’re not in agreement yet.”
“Yes we are.”
“No we aren’t.”
“I’ll get it on the prenup, little one.”
I groan. Seriously. Prenups. Though I know a man like Malcolm absolutely could not marry without one. “I understand we need one,” I say.
“Don’t worry,” he answers softly. “My lawyers insist we do this. But I’ll look out for you.”
“And I’ll sign it then. I’ll sign it because I love you and trust you and because I want to marry you.”
“So do I.”
“So will you indulge me? Your wife? And let me keep Livingston . . .”
“I’ll indulge you in other ways. You, indulge me,” he says huskily, “and take my name.”
Take his name.
Because I love him.
Because when I look into his eyes, nothing else exists but him.
Because even when I don’t look into his eyes, nothing else exists but him.
“I’ll think about it,” I say, throwing his words back at him with a smile. “And you think about the wedding.”
I go slip into my jeans and a sweater, then I grab my bag.
“Where do you think you’re going at this hour?”
“I have a campout with End the Violence. Remember?”
