Manwhore +1 (29 page)

“What was that for?”

“For me.” He smiles as his thumb strokes the corner of my lips.

He shuts the door, goes around the car with a hot and satisfied look on his face, and then settles behind the wheel. As we head out of the neighborhood, I notice he drives slower than he usually does —probably because of the pie riding at my feet—and I mull out loud, “I wonder what my father would have thought of you. Would he have hated or admired that you’re so powerful?”

He lifts one brow. “Let’s put it this way. My own father can’t stand me. I don’t expect anyone else’s to.”

“Weak men don’t like strong men, they remind them of what they failed to be.”

Now both brows go up, and he shoots me such an admiring look, I almost swell inside. He cups my face and touches his thumb to the corner of my mouth. “My father’s not weak, but he’s stubborn and selfish.” He shifts gears, his thumb ring glinting as he does.

“My dad
definitely
would have warned me off you, for sure . . . but I don’t know, Sin.” Turning my head dreamily in the seat so I can get a good eyeful of the candy that Saint driving his car is, I sigh. “I think he’d admire you very much.”

“My mother would’ve loved you, baby.” With a tender curving of his lips, he reaches out and tips my chin up. “Who could not love you?”

“You,” I say, then my hands fly up and I cover my mouth. “Ohmigod, don’t say anything.”

His eyes are alight with amusement as he opens his mouth.

“DON’T SAY ANYTHING! IT DOESN’T COUNT!”

Saint just laughs huskily. “Rach—”

“DON’T! DON’T DENY IT, DON’T ACCEPT IT, JUST DON’T. I’m
so
sorry; I don’t know why I said that. I went fishing for it and it’s not fair to you.”

I start laughing and he pulls over and stops the car, grabs me with both hands and kisses me. Not a peck. A kiss I can feel in my knees and that makes my lungs spread open as I try to breathe.

“Don’t,” I plead when he’s done.

“I’m not saying anything,” he says innocently.

“Okay. Please don’t.”

I’m shaking from wanting him to say it now. Say
something
. Maybe he doesn’t feel it. Maybe I should’ve let him speak. Maybe I couldn’t take what he’d have said.
Urgh.
I can’t even look at him right now. I stare out the window as he pulls us back into traffic and feel my stomach flip when he takes my hand and gives it a squeeze, and I love him even more for that alone. Whatever his reply might have been, he’s still holding my hand. He’s still here with me.

But when I remain silent, he slows down the car a little bit and leans over and kisses my mouth softly, one hand on the wheel, the other on the back of my head.

“What was that for?” I lick my lips, look at his mouth.

And he says, “That was me doing whatever I want.” He kisses me softly again. “Get used to it.”

I wait until he hits a stoplight, then grab him. “Get used to
this
.”

We kiss a little wilder, then smile. Then the acceleration is back on.

We ride the elevator to the penthouse where he sleeps, eats, lives.

Where he’s made love to me like mad.

My heart is pounding so hard, I can’t even hear the “ding” of the elevator, just suddenly, the doors open. Saint didn’t even ask me if I was coming over—it was a given. We said we’d spend the weekend together as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. And it’s starting to feel like it is.

I step out of the elevator, the sight of his beautiful apartment hitting me with painful longing, and my lungs start struggling a little bit. I’m spending the night here again and somehow it feels as though we’re slowly evolving into something deeper, stronger, further.

I set the pie down on his shiny kitchen counter as he comes up behind me and takes my hips in one hand.

The butterflies awaken in my stomach.

He uses his hand on my hips to turn me around, and my breath catches on a moan as his lips come down on mine. Our mouths fuse effortlessly, and will I ever get used to the electric jolt of his kisses? I feel the natural high he gives me rise in my body. My pulse skipping. My mind reeling. My world narrowing to the mouth currently making slow, hot love to mine.

When his phone buzzes, interrupting us, I’m not sure what I see in his eyes but the butterflies keep moving. His gaze is as deep as a night forest.

He pecks my lips before he takes the call and steps aside. “Santori,” he says, his voice low but clear. “Yeah, I was busy. Update? Hmm . . .” He starts pacing toward the living room, frowning as he runs his hand through his hair.

I wonder who this Santori is as I remove the aluminum foil from the pie, search for a spoon, then lean over the kitchen counter, up on my toes as I take a little spoonful.

Mmmm. God. Mint and chocolate are so good together.

I’m licking the spoon when I realize Saint is staring at me. Grinning, I dip my spoon and savor it so that he realizes he’s missing out on
really
good homemade pie.

I keep watching him as he watches me back, the intensity in his stare starting to knot up my body in places only he manages to reach. I set down the spoon and . . . why is my hand trembling? Self-conscious of his very male, very powerful stare, I lick the corners of my lips, and his voice drops a decibel.

“Yeah, I can’t . . . do this now. Give me the night to think over our next move.”

He powers off his phone and tosses it aside.

My knees turn to Jell-O as he comes over. He rubs a silver thumb ring over my lips, his eyes gleaming with lights. “I thought I could get some business done, but I’d rather do you.”

Holy crap
. He looks so decisive. So determined.

One sentence from this man and I’m as hot and ready as if we’ve spent hours on foreplay.

“Do you . . .” I lick my lips and stare at his mouth, trying to level my breathing. “Do you want pie?”

He tilts my head back so we make eye contact. And he shakes his head . . . very, very slowly.

Malcolm is big on eye contact.

He’s a predator, and I’m his most willing prey.

He cradles the back of my skull while his free hand curls around my neck, and still holding my gaze until it’s impossible for him to both hold it and kiss me at the same time, he lowers his head. “I want . . . these lips of yours. They’re all I want . . .”

First he trails his tongue, hot and wet, across my lips. I moan. His smell enthralls me and the hint of his taste, along with the chocolate and peppermint, lingers on my lips. If that isn’t the most delicious form of torture, I don’t know what is.

He slides his tongue again, and I shudder and part my lips. He thrusts inside. Fierce desire pools between my thighs. He keeps me there, where he wants me, and nips my lower lip, pulling it away from the top.

I mew softly and he brings me closer so that his hard body is aligned with mine. God help me, he owns me. “Sin . . .”

“And I want . . . these.” My breasts feel sensitive and aching when his hands cover them over my top.

My heart skips a beat.

God, those lips are wearing the most devilish smile he’s ever sent my way.

With one hand, he expertly tugs my top over my head, then lowers the lace of my bra until only one nipple pops free. He takes a moment to look at it with complete appreciation. He frees my other nipple and leaves them there, exposed, with the fabric of my bra bunched up beneath them.

“I definitely want these beauties.” When he bends his head, he sucks super hard, making the tip of my nipple swell and my sex ache, needing to be filled. He turns to my other nipple, rolling it under his tongue, then sucking again.

Arching instinctively, I clutch at his back, raking my nails over the cashmere of his sweater. “I really need this . . . oh, Malcolm,
don’t stop
.”

“I’m not stopping.” He drags his teeth over my nipple and then licks. “I want your hands on me,” he quietly tells me as he forces my hand to curl around the front of his jeans, where he is thick, pulsing, and strong as steel. My mouth dries up and I lick my lips as I stroke him over the fabric, and a low growl rips up his throat. “Look at you Rachel,” he husks out, looking at my nipples. And then he dips his fingers into the pie and rubs chocolate mingled with whipped cream on each of my puckered nipples.

“Saint!” I gasp, shocked and jerking with arousal.

He ducks his head to tongue-fuck my ear, and as he does that, he asks, “Do you want me to eat you?”

Electricity crackles between us as his eyes trap and hold mine. I nod.

“What part of you?”

Ohgod.

Every
part.

Every part on the outside, every part on the inside. I want to be devoured by him and I want to devour him right back.

Nervous and so ravenous my throat hurts, I reach out and add chocolate to my lips. “Here,” I whisper shyly.

He grins. “Here?” He leans over and teases the chocolate into his mouth, lapping it gently up from the corner of my mouth.

White-hot lightning streaks through me and I think I make a sound; a needy whimper. He pulls me close and then, then, he kisses and tastes the pie from my lips, every part of my body feeling his kiss.

His eyes are heavy-lidded as he runs his fingers over the chocolate he just spread on my nipples, lightly caressing. “And here? Rachel?”

“Oh, God, Malcolm,” is all I can say, clutching his shoulders. He leans in to lick and taste me where there’s chocolate. My mouth. I moan softly. My nipple. I moan more. My other nipple. I throw my head back and just hang on to his hard shoulders.

“Delicious. Don’t move . . .” he husks out. One strong arm circles my waist to hold me on my feet.

“Never,” I whisper, taking the back of his head when he comes back to kiss my lips. I kiss him hard, our mouths tasting of us, and mint, and chocolate and whipped cream and so much desire that the air between us is
more
than warm, it’s
calescent.

I nip his lower lip as the need for him starts consuming me from the inside out. I’ve never been so brazen, so reckless, but he . . . he
does
this to me. Sexy as hell. He teases me. He eludes me. He makes me wonder what he’s thinking. He’s nice to me. He’s hot for me. God. Look at me.

I kiss him back rather ravenously, so he knows that today meant a lot to me. So much more than I imagined it would. His kiss is just as intimate, slow, savoring, no more chocolate now, just us. And when he speaks, he sounds so turned on I ache inside. “Don’t move,” he says again. His gaze lowers, just like his voice did, and he unwraps the drawstring of my skirt with slow, deft hands. When I see my panties flutter as they follow it to the floor, my heart flutters too in anticipation.

Securing me in place with one hand on my waist, he sucks on a breast again. He laps up the remainder of the chocolate and the whipped cream but it seems that the thing he wants to reach—to taste, to eat—is me. My puckered nipple
throbbing
under his kiss. Wondering where he’ll touch me next is so very thrilling that he’s making me crazed with arousal.

“Don’t move,” he murmurs against my skin, as he reaches out and scoops a little more pie.

Though my senses are in chaos, I manage to stand stock-still.

“Good girl,” he whispers huskily. Although Saint’s moves are deliberate and his voice is contemplative and controlled, there’s a black fire in his eyes right now as he rubs the chocolate over my clit. He looks really turned on, but more than that, he looks determined to devour me. He smears more pie around my belly button. Bends down to tease his tongue around my navel. Then lower, breath scalding hot, lips soft and moving, and then . . . tongue. Leisurely licking my clit. He takes the flesh between his lips and gently sucks it into his mouth while his tongue teases little circles over me.

My knees buckle, but his arm is there, keeping me on my feet.

As he kisses his way up to my belly button, arousing me beyond measure, he lifts his free hand and brushes his thumb over my jawline. “Does it feel good, Rachel?”

I nod.

As he straightens to meet my gaze with so much passion in his, the fire in my stomach hikes up another notch, he pauses as if deciding where to taste me, touch me, next.

It’s agonizing.

He trails a finger up between my legs. “This is where you want it. Isn’t it?”

I chew on the inside of my cheek and try not to squirm as he rubs a little. I’m so wet, the juices I hear slicking under his fingers are not pie or cream, it’s me.

He’s teasing, testing. He leans over and licks my mouth again.
Sampling.

I groan. “Malcolm . . .”

He pinches a wet, swollen nipple.

As he tends to the other, I dip my fingers into the pie and before he knows it, I’m slowly drawing a two-finger line along his hard jaw, to the corner of his lips.

He looks breathtaking and before he can move away, I grab him by the back of the head and I bend and taste the flavor, bitter chocolate with minty peppermint, and he opens his mouth.

We both taste like dessert and heat and there’s so much hotness we should be put away wherever the nuclear weapons are locked up because we detonate each other so fast, so well, so completely, I don’t know if we’ll survive.