Manwhore (Manwhore #1)(48)

He opens the flap of the sleeping bag. I slip in, making sure there’s some distance between us, because I don’t want to seem eager. I settle into the surprisingly comfortable sleeping bag, looking up at the ceiling. I can hear soft chatter outside. The crickets chirping. The wind rustling the leaves. And I can feel Malcolm’s body beside me. His heat. His cologne. I don’t dare look at him because I know that if I do, anything can happen. We’re surrounded by a couple dozen people, but inside our little tent, our little bubble, there is just me and him. No one else. And that scares the crap out of me.

Just then I feel Malcolm shift, and his hand makes its way across my stomach, to my waist, and he draws me up against him until my back is to his chest.

Holy shit, I’m spooning him. Or he’s spooning me. Holy shit.

I focus on breathing. The back of my head is tucked beneath his chin, and I can feel his chest expand with every breath. His heat flows through my cotton T-shirt, warming my stomach and back. His face is so close to mine, if I turn around my lips will touch his.

I nervously move my arm to cover his, and he turns his hand to intertwine our fingers.

All I can hear is my heart banging in my chest and my pulse ringing in my ears. Just being around him makes me lose myself. He makes me feel a thousand different things, so I snuggle a little closer to him, the daredevil that I am, telling myself there’s nothing wrong with wanting a little warmth. Even though it’s not that cool in here. He nuzzles my head, tightens his hold on me, and places a little kiss on the top of my head. The feeling I get when he does that is indescribable. I feel butterflies in my stomach, and my throat tightens. I want to turn around and wrap my arms around him, and I want to kiss him, because feeling his huge chest against me makes me crazy. He is enveloping me completely, holding me in his arms, his big, strong, warm arms. Being drawn against his chest, having his arm hold me against him. It’s the safest I’ve ever felt.

I crack my eyes open, hearing voices outside. I hear movement, some laughter, and the sunlight is shining through the tent’s ceiling.

The tent’s ceiling.

Malcolm Saint’s tent’s ceiling.

Malcolm Saint, who’s currently lying beneath me.

HOOOOLY SHIT.

My arm is thrown across his chest, and my head is settled in the crook of his shoulder.

My leg is thrown across his body, resting between his legs.

What the hell is wrong with me? Holy crap.

Second thing I notice: he feels very muscular against me.

Okay.

My heart is beating so fast I can feel it threatening to burst out of my chest and run away.

I start to unwind myself from Malcolm, and I feel him stir, tightening his arm around me. He groans a little, and I can feel him move his arm a little lower.

I try to unwind myself more, and his hand ends up splayed across my butt cheek. His hand is huge; it covers my whole butt cheek. I try to contain my panic and some other emotions boiling up in me as I manage to lie on my back. Malcolm shifts again. He drags me up against him and I gasp. The bastard is awake, isn’t he?

His face is nestled between my breasts.

“Malcolm!” I shout-whisper.

He stays silent.

“Malcolm, I swear to god, someone could come in here any minute; get your face off my boobs!”

At that he laughs and picks his head up, looking at me quietly.

My breath catches in my throat. He looks gorgeous. His lazy stare, his bed hair, his body deliciously warm and holding mine. I feel something stir in the pit of my stomach. He lowers his head back down.

“Don’t be mad at me,” he whispers to my neck. His voice sounds even deeper in the morning. I groan inwardly because my anger vanished the moment he opened his eyes and smiled at me.

I don’t answer, because I know my voice will betray me.

He looks up at me again. I frown and attempt to scowl at him, but I don’t think it works that well, because he just smirks and lowers himself back to my breasts, then moves lower still. He plants a kiss on my stomach; then he raises himself up and places another kiss on my neck.

“Are you mad at me?” he says again.

I don’t even know what he asked me.

“What?” I ask.

He places a kiss on my shoulder, then takes my hand and kisses the inside of my wrist. He keeps my hand in his, his fingers playing with mine. “Are you mad at me?” he teases, brushing my hair behind my ear in a move that suddenly just fills me with longing.

“Yeah, I’m mad. I’m mad because . . . What are you doing here? I can’t sleep with you.”

He chuckles.

“I can’t sleep with you, Saint. I won’t.”

His gaze goes liquid as he rubs his thumb up my arm. “Yeah, you will, Rachel,” he promises.

“I won’t,” I promise him.

All the laughter fades from his eyes and he says nothing. He surveys me, and I can almost hear the wheels turn in his head as he figures out how to break my walls.

“Is there a man in your life?”

“No!”

“Then I don’t see a problem.”

“The problem is”—I jab a finger in the direction of the tent’s zipper—“Tammy . . . and all your other floozies. I don’t want to be one of them!”

“Then don’t be one of them,” he whispers in my ear.