Manwhore (Manwhore #1)(37)

“Her?”

“Me,” I specify, shaking my head. “I’m referring to me, she’s the one who hurt me.” I tighten my arms because seeing him in my place makes my mind keep going elsewhere, to another time, at the top of the Interface building. I can’t believe I’ve kissed those lips. I can’t believe he kissed me for so long.

He laughs softly, runs a hand through his hair. “Then no, I won’t punch her.” A pause, a laden look.

Then kiss her again, I think recklessly.

Groaning inwardly at the thought, I put my face in my hand for a moment.

Saint seems to be beyond puzzled by me right now.

“Is this a girl thing?” His voice brings my head up, his tone a mix of confusion and amusement that, coming from such a hard and closed man, is unexpectedly sweet.

“It’s a me thing,” I admit. “I saw someone tonight—she works where I work. She’s always so spot-on. Everything she writes is absolute gold. Her topics, her metaphors, her similes!”

His chuckle fills the room—a rich, beautiful sound—and then he reclines farther back in the chair, the embodiment of a businessman relaxing.

“I’m personally a fan of your work, Rachel.”

My . . . what!?

“You always lay out your topics with refreshing honesty.”

“You’ve been reading me?” I’m sure my voice and round eyes betray my surprise.

That small smile again, combined with a scowl this time. “You think I give interviews to just anyone?”

“Honest?” I ask.

When he nods, I dip my head low. “I thought you saw my boobs pushing out of that top on my profile picture and told Dean you’d see me.”

His eyes crinkle with humor, but then we stare for long, heavy minutes, and our smiles fade.

“I read your column before that interview was granted.”

“I must’ve been such a disappointment in person. That first interview? It’s the most embarrassing interview I’ve ever had,” I admit.

We stare again.

I want him to say something, so I wait.

“I thought you were lovely.”

I’m blushing red.

He’s not known to be big on compliments, or a big flatterer. He’s known to be blunt, his honesty close to making people uncomfortable.

I’m uncomfortable now because I feel him looking at me with new intensity, and when he speaks again, the girl inside me feels euphoric.

“It gave me great pleasure to watch you walk out with my shirt. It seems every single one of my employees who saw you knew that I wanted you. Everyone knew this except maybe me.”

My breath catches.

“Oh,” I say, when I manage to expel it.

“I didn’t know then,” he specifies, his stare unflinching.

The desire I feel is so absolute, so powerful, I cannot think of anything else but him and the fact that I cannot have him.

I’m acutely aware of the distance between us—of exactly how many feet lie between him and me in my living room. I turn on a lamp, and the room becomes more alive; all the light seems to make love to him, to the angles of his face.

“Why are you here, Saint? If it was because of what happened at Interface, I made a mistake.”

“Then let’s make another one. A bigger one.”

I laugh nervously. “What is this? Am I a challenge to you now?”

His lips quirk. “A challenge is something you stop wanting once you acquire it. I can’t know if you’re a challenge yet until I make you mine.”

I can’t believe how sexy that short little word, mine, is when the man I want utters it. I want to hear him say it so many more times, in my ear, closer to me. Oh god. Livingston, get under control.

But how can I? The tension is so thick in the air. I inhale the scent of him with every breath; every breath reminds me my body is tight and throbbing, every breath hurts because of him.

He’s watching me as if he wants to figure me out. “So, your friend . . .”

“Victoria. She’s my age, but she’s had short stories published already, she’s writing a children’s book for sex education, she makes success look so effortless. I can never do as much, think of the concepts she comes up with.”

“Use it, use it to become better. You do your best when someone else is right there trying to beat you. I was . . .” he begins, then laughs softly as if amused at himself. “Okay, let’s try this.” He edges forward in his seat. “I was a disappointment to my father.” He speaks casually, but he watches me as if he wants to be sure his words have an effect. “I’m not sure if it’s been since I was born, or later . . . when I got sick. Dad never forgave me that weakness. He asked for DNA testing, sure my mother had had an affair, wanting to prove I wasn’t his son. I got bigger, faster, stronger, just because the one man I wanted to prove myself to underestimated me.”

“Was he a tough dad?”

“Tough as nails. Nothing anyone did was good enough to suit him.”

“Is that why nothing you get is good enough, why you’re always chasing after more?”

“Not because of him. It’s because it never feels like enough. I never stop unless I want someone else to catch up.”

“You’re tough as nails too.”