Manwhore (Manwhore #1)(63)

I pace around. Suffering for the way I left.

I can’t believe how these powerful businessmen are, deep down, also such boys. But I still like one of those boys very much: the ruthless one who is too ambitious for his own sake. Who doesn’t like to lose. I like that boy; I still wanted to be with him today, and before his bozo friends arrived to chill out, I know he only wanted to be with me.

“He’s really dicking you out, isn’t he?” Gina says as if she can read my mind, turning around to see if Wynn is with her. “It’s a bad idea, Wynn. Do you agree?”

I don’t even let Wynn reply. “You two have always been pressuring me to hook up with someone. Well, I hooked up with Saint.”

“Who’s also your research material,” adds my roommate.

“Thanks, Gina, for reminding me. Fine, so I had a moment of weakness. Or . . . several. He’s so easy to be with. He’s different than what I expected, and he’s got me in a tangle.” I scowl. “Look, he’s fair game. He’s single, isn’t he?”

They’re both silent.

Gina whispers then, “You slept with him and you didn’t tell me? I’m so hurt right now, Rachel.”

“What can I say? The power of Sin compelled me to?”

“You two spent all night playing jack-in-the-box, Jill, and we knew nothing!”

I groan as we hit the lobby, then realize I don’t want to go. I stop and say, “I’m going back.”

My friends gather close around me by the elevators. “Rachel, I totally approve of the hookup, but there’s a reason he always keeps it to three times. . . .” Wynn says.

“Four, actually. He’s big on the number four.”

“And I’m not doing this to be a dick,” Gina tells me. “I’m doing this because you’re my best friend and I love you. You don’t date a lot, you never wanted to, but I’m telling you right now, I never, ever want you to feel the way I did when Paul left me. I wouldn’t want my worst enemy to feel as used, as worthless, as small, unbeautiful, and completely foolish as I did for having loved him.”

We both stare.

“You know if you go for this thing with Saint, I’ll be there to pass the Kleenex, like you were. But I hope you know that I care about you enough that when you go out there and get your heart broken, you’re going to break mine too.”

My eyes sting a little. There’s the kind of support you ask for, and the kind that just is there. We hug a little and I promise I’ve got it and ride the elevator to the penthouse again.

I walk in. My body pricks everywhere when a particularly sexy green stare lifts from what seems to be the start of a poker game and targets me. He drops his cards and stands up, a flash of pure primal need in his eyes. I feel it in my core.

My voice is husky as I whisper, “Gentlemen.” I address the two stunned men, “If you don’t mind leaving your keys with the concierge.”

Saint’s devil grin: I will never forget it.

My girl parts scream for mercy as Malcolm tells his guys they have to leave. “Now.”

My girl parts scream for mercy, for him. They scream as he points me to the bedroom as he watches the elevators take them down and then pulses an alarm code so that nobody can interrupt us while we’re here. My senses still scream as he follows me to the bedroom, and as I back in the direction of the bed, he walks straight to me.

He says nothing, just looks at me, then slides a hand around my waist and I’m yanked flush against him. I feel the feather-light brush of his lips first, warm, light, then the pressure as he locks them over mine, fitting perfectly, so perfectly he swallows my “god” . . . It’s a kiss that goes from dry to wet, from slow to fast, from light to deep. . . .

I’m starting to pant, sliding my fingers up the placket of his shirt.

And still he kisses me, longer and wetter. A soul-searing kiss. A kiss I can tell he means. He cups my breast, caresses it, his thumb on my nipple, rubbing lightly, his expert touch promising me no one will ever sate, take, or please me the way he does.

“How many women have you kissed?” I ask against his mouth, his glorious mouth. I’m jealous of all the women out there, asking his friends about him. When he only looks at my wet, reddened, Saint-kissed lips, I edge free and start backing for the bed.

How many women are asking about Saint . . . ?

I bite my lower lip and feel the ache between my legs run upward. I wonder if some of these women have done what I shocked myself wanting to secretly do when I met him, which was to just totally rip his shirt off. He exudes all kinds of sexual pheromones, and I have this big little ache and I want to smell, touch, taste that wide, flat chest and those big square arms and that full male mouth. I bet those women tasted more than I’ve ever dared. I bet—

“Come here.”

He takes my hand in his and stops me from backing away any more. And I’m breathless. He’s staring down at me with glowing green eyes and lids that fall halfway over them. . . . They look at my hair, those eyes, and at my lips, and at our joined hands.

“Kiss who?” he finally asks. His thumb strokes across the top of my hand slowly as he reels me back toward him and brushes his lips across my forehead.

“Kiss who, where? Here?” he lightly teases me in a gruff, textured voice.

“No.” I moan and laugh lightly and bury my face in his chest. He smells clean, minty, and . . . just manly. His hand is still holding mine, his fingers intertwined with mine. He reaches his other hand out and cups my cheek in it, kissing the tip of my nose. “How about here?” He dips his head and starts kissing my neck, lightly tasting me with kisses from my collarbone to the edge of my jaw.