Manwhore (Manwhore #1)(21)

Dangerously, primitively darker.

I can’t stand the knot in my stomach, completely merciless when he’s near. I shift to the side and ask his friends, “What did you all do? You’re so famous for your parties, I can’t imagine what happens at the after-parties.”

“I skinny-dipped.” Tahoe grins. “Callan got a bit too far into his cups to remember.”

And SAINT?

“Saint and I had a good time,” one of the women fawning over Malcolm says.

I feel my cheeks burn. Don’t look at him. Don’t look at him.

“We gave him quite a show,” the other says with a little purr that makes my bile sort of rise.

This is golden information. Really. This is the kind of material that the spiciest exposés are made of. But I can’t seem to manage to force myself to stay and hear the rest. The walls of my stomach seem to be caving in, and without being able to stop myself, I quietly get to my feet and ask if I can go into a cabin to rest a little.

I don’t even wait for anyone to assent; I just head around to the sitting area, avoiding anyone’s gaze—avoiding his gaze. Since I’m suddenly craving air, I instead end up heading to the top deck. At the bow, I just lean on the railing and stare out at the lake. At the horizon. At a little piece of moon.

I get my phone out and try to write something. Writing always makes me feel better. Complete.

But I can’t concentrate.

I set it aside and stare out at the lake.

Minutes later, fireworks explode in the sky while the group watches and hoots from below. The sight is mesmerizing. I exhale and watch the lights shoot up from Navy Pier and burst up high. It’s so still right here, on the lake at night. I’ve always wanted to find a nice, warm spot where nothing is moving, where everything is as it should be, and I want to stay here, still and quiet, in that spot. Funny to find that spot when your world is spinning out of control.

I type one word into my phone to feel better. The first one that comes to mind when I see the lake and sky touch at the horizon.

Endless

The wind ruffles my hair, and I tie it into a bun at my nape as I turn to the top-deck sitting area. That’s when I see him. He’s sitting with his torso lightly stretching his shirt, the glow of his phone illuminating his profile. I didn’t hear him approach. Why isn’t he below? Why won’t this stupid knot inside me ease?

“Taking over the world is a full-time job for you, I see,” I whisper.

He slowly stands, the button-down shirt he wears casually falling open to reveal his swim trunks and his smooth, hard abs and chest and neck. He seems taller and larger when he steps closer. The air shifts quickly in temperature, or maybe it’s me, warming and blushing because he was here the whole time. And he is so beautiful. He’s the first beautiful thing I’ve ever seen that actually hurts to look at.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to break your concentration. I’ll leave you to it,” I whisper.

“Stay.”

The abrupt command stops me from leaving. My blush seems to spread to the marrow of my bones because of the way he’s staring at me now. His breath moves the hair at the top of my head as he whispers:

“I want to make you blush, from here”—he touches my forehead and briefly glances at the ground—“to the tips of your feet.”

He’s smiling down at me, his chest so close I can feel it warm me against the breeze. I feel like he’s a hurricane and I’m the lake, calm on the outside, holding a thousand and one secrets within.

“Why couldn’t you look at me down there?” he murmurs, his voice breaking with huskiness as he lifts his large hand and runs the backs of his fingers down my cheek.

A hot ache grows inside me. “Saint. Don’t.”

He lifts his phone and shows me a picture on the screen. “I like this picture of you. You look soft and thoughtful. I can see your chin, one of your elfin ears sticking out of your hair.”

“You took a picture of me!”

“I did.” His thumb caresses the picture on the screen and my spine tightens, because I can almost feel the touch.

“Erase it,” I say, shocked.

“Ah. Bargaining again.”

“Saint. Don’t. Delete that picture. I’m not interested in you like that. In being on your phone.”

He eases back, searching my face. “Come here, sit with me.”

He heads to the couch and settles his large body right at the center. Wow. So he expects me to follow?

With a deep breath, I force myself to go there, to that couch he now so thoroughly occupies. I’m sitting at the edge while he continues taking up the center. We stare at each other, me scowling, him in amusement, and then our heads turn and we’re staring at the last fireworks in the distance.

“You’re mad at me because I had my driver take you home?” he says, his eyes gleaming ruthlessly.

“You said that, not me,” I return.

He chuckles softly, the sound low and male, distracting. As is his big body, somehow sucking up the space around him like a vortex.

“I might have let you come to the after-party if you’d accepted my gift.” He drags his thumb thoughtfully along the raspy square of his jaw. “A man has his pride, Rachel. How do you think I feel when I see my shirt back in my office?”