Manwhore (Manwhore #1)(59)

After a few minutes of lying together, I’m obsessed. I’m addicted. I’m bewildered. I want to know how many girls he’s made out with. I want to rank as one of the best. I want to do it again. I want to touch his body. I want to let him do whatever he wants with mine. I want to stop breathing forever. “What do you like? Blow jobs? Making out . . . ? ” I whisper into his neck. “Teach me, Saint.”

“You know what I like?” he whispers huskily in my ear. “I’ll show you what I’d like to do right now.”

He’s a beautiful man, with a beautiful, muscled ass that makes my mouth water as he disappears into his spa-like bathroom. I sit up on the bed, studying his bedroom. I hadn’t really been paying attention before. It’s pretty minimalist—bare. Almost emotionless. Almost icy, like his eyes.

There are no photographs, not even of his mom or of his buddies. But there are pictures of race cars all over the room, old vintage Ferraris. I suppose to a guy who grows up with more toys than people, the toys become important somehow.

“You should get some sort of fancy fur-like coverlet for this bed,” I say, loud enough that he can hear me in the bathroom, I hope, shivering as I tug the sheet to my breasts. Things that make love to you.

Suddenly I look at him at the threshold and he just looks like a man who needs to be made love to often. Not because he’s sexy, because now that he’s made love to me, his energy is calmer, more subdued.

I like that lazy, half-lidded look he wears when he comes back out of the bathroom naked and grins when he sees me in bed with my hair falling down my shoulders and the rest of me pretty much naked under the covers.

“You felt good, Rachel,” he says, his eyes—god, my heart—his eyes look more thirsty than anything I’ve ever, ever seen.

I blush completely.

“I’d bet anything that you taste just as good too,” he says.

Oh, f*ck, he doesn’t really mean . . .

He’s looking at my legs. I’m starting to melt under the sheets. His pupils are dark and liquid with a strange mix of tenderness and need, and his cock is . . . oh. “I . . . wouldn’t know, I’m not into being given . . . you know.”

He raises an eyebrow as he ventures forward, back to bed. Okay, I don’t want him to kick me out or anything, so I ease out from under the sheets, crawl down to the floor to get my panties, and slip them on as I nervously explain, “Not sure what it is about it, but I just couldn’t ever do it. I feel too exposed.”

He stops before me when I stand up, only to graze his thumb over my panties, up, down, around. “It’s not much different than me touching you like this. Except my tongue caresses you.”

“Why do you want it? Why do men like it?”

He chuckles and guides me back down on the bed. “You won’t need to ask me that when I’m through.” He tugs my panties down my legs, and I’m already so nervous about what I can tell he wants to do my lungs have already started to overwork.

“Promise to stop if I ask you to.”

“You won’t,” he assures, caressing a hand up the inside of my thigh.

“Promise.”

“Don’t make me promise.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve broken every promise I’ve ever made, and promising will only make me want to break yours.”

“Why do you break your promises?”

“Because I can. Part your legs.” He urges my knees apart. I’m squirming inside from nerves and anticipation. He leans between my legs and takes my thighs gently in his hands, parting them. He licks his lips when he looks at me, and I don’t think he realizes he’s savoring me like that.

“Oh no!” I laugh when he starts to lower his head. I clench my legs and stop him by grabbing a fistful of sooty black hair. “It’s too intimate! I can’t.”

He trails a hand down my curves, his eyes glimmering, but not with a smile, with challenge. “Let me taste you,” he says, husky and hot.

I go quiet and melt as his lips press to my stomach, my navel, lower.

“Malcolm.” I protest at first, holding my body tense on the bed.

His first lick I tense up, my hands in his hair ready to stop him. “What if I don’t taste good?” I breathe.

He runs the tip of his tongue over my clit and dips it inside, to the complete massacre of my senses. “Mmm. You do.” His hand smooths over my navel. He licks me slowly, savoring. I peer between my legs and see his eyes are closed, his lashes two half-moons. I start relaxing and let my fingers wander up the bulging muscles of his back, then I moan softly when he tongues there, harder, as if it were my mouth.

“You’re very good at this,” I choke. Suddenly I can barely formulate an audible word, much less several.

He caresses his fingers up the inside of my thigh and rubs my clit under the pad of his thumb as he shushes me and tells me to stop talking. The ceiling blurs and I lick my lips, panting as the pleasure escalates. I grab the comforter and hang on as I come and twist.

Wow.

I am deliciously numb.

I’m still panting while he’s still kissing me there. Instead of coming up fast, he then works his way up my sex, up to my belly button, between my breasts. By the time he puts on a condom and expertly thrusts inside me, his body made for this, to take me like this, make me quake like this, I’m a big ol’ quivering mess. A big ol’ quivering mess who’s delighted that, as he holds me to his body, he says the dirtiest, hottest things to me.