Manwhore (Manwhore #1)(23)

A tremor runs through me as he ducks his head. And then, oh god. He places one single kiss on the corner of my lips. I tremble to the tips of my feet.

The tremor intensifies as Malcolm takes my chin and turns me so that his green, green eyes look into mine. They’re cautious and still so hungry. I’m telling myself this can’t be real! He couldn’t possibly want you like this!

I’m afraid to be kissed. Afraid to want it. He smells even better than in my dream, feels even better, and I want him so much more, more than more.

He’s breathing fast, clearly fighting for control. And I want him to lose.

No. No, the only one with everything to lose is me.

“Mm. Wow,” I say, clutching at the ache in my stomach as I straighten. “Wow, it does taste different when you’re being fed. I can taste your germs on it.”

He sits there, a small smile lighting his lips like the sun.

“Saint!” the boys call. He doesn’t respond to them.

“You two up for skinny-dipping?” That’s the first thing Tahoe says when he appears on deck.

“Rachel and I are talking up here, but go on ahead,” he dismisses, not even turning. He settles back to occupy most of the couch. I lean back uneasily, and he takes a piece of my hair to play with.

“You’re up to mischief, aren’t you?” I laugh.

“If you’ll join me, yes.” He flashes the picture of me on his cell phone screen, his voice dropping. “If I delete this . . . you let me drive you home tonight.”

“You’ve been driving me home for days.”

“My driver has been driving you home—not me.” His voice is low but firm, final. “There’s a big difference, I guarantee it, Rachel.”

My smile fades at the predatory air surrounding him. I’m as seduced by it as I am scared.

“I need to get home early. I’m sure you’d rather be with your friends.”

“If I would, I wouldn’t be asking you.” His thumb hovers above the “delete” icon, his expectant gaze on me. “Rachel?” he insists.

“If you delete it, I’ll think about it,” I offer.

His hard jaw seems to tighten reflexively in challenge, and in one slow second, he lowers his thumb and presses “delete.”

“There,” he says, his eyes twinkling happily in the dark. “Now I drive you home.”

There mere thought of it unnerves me. My apartment is my safe haven. I imagine his presence near all my frilly, girly things. What does he want there? If his shirt invaded my thoughts and my space, I can’t imagine what Saint himself will do. I nod, merely because I want, need, to leave an option open, but specify, “Yes, but not tonight.”

And then I just need some distance, from his eyes, from the way my body feels overworked—my heart leaping, every part of me overreacting to his smile, his glance, his smell.

So I head down to the lower deck without even telling him where I’m going, and I leap into the cold water in the tiny bikini—crash! Cold! And then I swim up, wooting when I do.

Tahoe swims nearby, and he blinks at me, his grin turning naughty. “Well, well, well . . .”

“Cut it, T.”

At the voice, I look up. Saint leans over the rail with that small smile, watching me.

I sit that night taking notes feverishly.

Okay, focus on just the facts, Livingston. I exhale and try to push one tiny green grape out of my head. Green eyes asking—demanding—I let him bring me home. And I can’t believe I almost said yes.

He’s a loner—he seemed detached from the group. Always one step ahead, somewhere else.

He is used to women flocking to him. (Are they an afterthought? Background noise? He didn’t seem especially attentive to anyone, but they pole-dance and make out to amuse him!)

I go brush my teeth and head to bed. I settle under my covers. Try to go to sleep. But other things keep coming back to me.

The fact that when he fed me the grape I could feel his hard chest against my breasts and his breath on my face.

The fact that I could always seem to smell him when the air hit me a certain way, and hear him above everyone else.

I try to push these thoughts away, but the more I try, the more they surface. God, I don’t want to dwell on this. I don’t. But if I want this exposé to be good, I can’t block out parts. I can’t pick and choose what’s convenient for me to deal with and what’s not. I grab my pad again and start with one word.

Electric

He electrifies the air.

Then I write down a few more.

Consuming

If he’s around, you hardly notice anything else.

Stubborn

He’s impossible to bargain with.

HE STILL LOVES TO TEASE ME!!!!!

He poked and prodded me about the picture, the grapes, the shirt, even being Rosie’s hero. . . .

I set the pad aside and turn off my lamp, but even in the dark, I still see him watching me in the water from above. And I still feel his fingers on my shoulders as I hopped onboard the yacht again only to feel him wrap a warm towel around me.

10

CAMPOUT

For the last twenty-four hours, I’ve been surfing the Net and clicking through all his newly tagged pictures. There are also some older pictures of girls in bikinis playing mini golf at his place. And pictures of him getting out of a chopper with girl pilots wearing nothing but tiny shorts.