Manwhore (Manwhore #1)(65)

I pull his face down to me, trembling with desire as I kiss him, angling my head and sucking his tongue hard. He groans when I let him slide up and down between my legs. I’m so hungry that if he enters me, I’m going to get there before he does. But he’s savoring what he’s doing to me, and he seems to want to make it last. The head of his cock massages the outside of my sex.

He’s beautiful and untamed and powerful and I want him to come inside me. But I know it would be reckless, and so I pant and watch him roll on a condom and look at me, his chest jerking with his deep breaths.

We hold gazes as I part my legs and he rubs against me again. He spreads out over me again. In one swift move, he curls one of my legs around his hip, opening me, and he presses in. I groan and sink my nails into his muscles. He watches my face as he starts to penetrate me. His body shudders, and my breath leaves me when he draws out his cock and then puts it inside me, all wet from me, and so hard. I can’t think or speak, I just take him, take his mouth, take the thrill of the way his eyes watch me. My every undulation, my every gasp, every whimper of helpless abandon.

He reaches between us and rubs the pad of his thumb just a bit over my clit, and he watches, breathing hard, with the merest tiny circular rub of his thumb while he presses his cock in as deep as he wants, ready to enjoy the tightening and loosening ripples in my body.

An orgasm. Fierce and wild. It sweeps through me like a wildfire, no corner of my body untouched. Saint pins my hips down and rides me through it, keeping my orgasm going with the most delicious thrusts of my life as I twist around, my mouth seeking his. He gives me a crushing kiss, and I can feel when he reaches that point, that magical point, because the energy seems to coil in his body, which grows tauter and tauter with each thrust.

I’m still enjoying the aftershocks when his body tightens and I feel the jerks of his cock as he jets off inside me. He grabs me by the cheeks, holding my face as he slows his rhythm. We share a slow but deeply passionate kiss as our bodies loosen.

“Wow,” I say, panting.

“Yeah,” he says. A soft laugh follows, and it comes with a gleam of satisfaction in his eye. He looks pleased with my sincerity. Or maybe just . . . with sex with me.

He shifts so he’s facing the ceiling and I’m draped to his side, his arm holding me to him, the other folded under his head, his chest heaving. He looks down and brushes a tendril of wet hair from my forehead. “I’m nearly about ready to go at it again. You?”

I can’t breathe, but who needs air? “Me too.”

What am I doing? What am I doing? WHAT ARE YOU DOING, RACHEL?

“One more time before I leave,” I say, rolling over on top of him. And, oh god, he’s so good, I’d keep him if I could.

One sex marathon with multiple orgasms later . . .

“Why didn’t you tell your friends about me?” Malcolm asks.

I hesitate as I dress.

His expression is not annoyed, but I can’t say that he looks happy either. He looks a bit closed off, his lids heavy from his last orgasm, his gaze shuttered.

“Same reason I didn’t want your friends to know.”

“What reason?” he asks.

“We were just fooling around. It means nothing.” I zip my skirt and then stand there, looking at him. “You’re mad?”

“I’m curious.”

I stare. “So you’re used to parading your lovers, and they love flaunting the fact that they slept with you; I don’t do that.”

“Aren’t we a little old to play the hiding game, Rachel?”

“Aren’t we too old to be betting on whether you can have me?”

His lips twitch, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

“You can’t stand them thinking you wanted me and didn’t get me.”

“That’s right, I can’t.”

“Why?”

“ ’Cause I called dibs.”

“I don’t understand you, Malcolm. See, this is why I don’t want a relationship. It would kill me to try to figure out my man.”

“It’s killing him trying to figure you out.”

I blink.

He goes on, as if what he said wasn’t something monumental. As if my heart isn’t just something frozen with a strange hope and fear in my chest.

“See,” he continues, “usually girls like people knowing they landed in my bed. Some girls claim to have landed there and I’ve never even met them. You’re the first who’s been there but doesn’t want to be.”

I duck my head as an awful feeling of betrayal and dishonesty sweeps over me. “If I didn’t want to be here, I wouldn’t be here,” I murmur. “I’m here despite . . . despite the fact that I shouldn’t be here at all,” I explain, raising my eyes to his. I should not be here, Saint, I think miserably.

But he just stares at me with that same puzzled look he gets when he’s trying to figure me out. I grab my top and feel him watching me as I dress. This is the kind of conversation you don’t expect to have with a one-night stand. But he’s not a one-night stand. What is he? “I don’t want to be a number on that list. Just thinking of all the women you’ve slept with makes me want to go sign up for a pole-dancing course.”

He laughs. “Why?”

“Because I’m vanilla. I’m just some normal . . . girl. And you’re you.”