Manwhore (Manwhore #1)(78)

“What?”

“They’re not the blonde I want.”

I stare.

My knot as tight as ever.

“They’re not you, Rachel,” he specifies.

He leans forward to seize my chin, forcing me to look at him.

“Now, why do you want me to look at them? Do you like girls?”

I burst out laughing and push at his hand. “Malcolm,” I chide.

“Do you?” he laughs, taking my chin again, teasing me.

“No! I would never share my man!”

With a low laugh, he leans back on the lounger, taking his sunglasses from my hand and trying them on my face. I giggle and pose; he chuckles and gives me goose bumps as he does then he plucks them off and encloses them in his big hands.

“That must sound terribly boring to a man like you,” I say. “That I won’t share my man.”

“I’m not contesting it.”

“The boring part?”

“The second part.”

“You’d be monogamous for a girl?”

“I would be, for my girl.” He leans forward again. “See, I’ve never had a girl I saw as mine. They’ve all been public property.” Smirking, he sets his sunglasses next to his phone under his lounger, then looks at me with the same brilliant, thick-lashed, deep-set eyes that have been appearing nonstop in my dreams. “But there’s this one girl. My private property.”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about, but if she had any sense in her, she’d run away as fast as possible. It’s not sexy to be considered anyone’s property, Malcolm.”

“Come here. You know I’m talking about you.” His arm sweeps out and he seizes me by the waist.

“No, I don’t, because we said we were just sleeping together, just—”

I squirm a little as he draws me to his lap. “Why do you fight me on this?” He smiles and scowls, both at the same time, then settles me down on his lap and stares right into me—dead serious. “I’m good at the one-night-stand thing,” he tells me. “I’m excellent at fooling around. I was made to f*ck around. If anyone can tell the difference between f*cking around and the real thing, it’s me.”

Oh god. I’m melting.

I spread my hands on the sides of his jaw. “You were made for great things. Everyone can see that.”

“You want to be with me,” he murmurs. “I see the way you blush, hear you stop breathing, and I like being the cause of both.” He stares at me soberly, and I’m scared. I’m so scared, I’m trembling in his arms, on his lap.

“I’m not your girl, Saint. I’m probably the only girl you know who doesn’t want to be your girlfriend. I think you’re suffering from the wanting-what-you-can’t-have syndrome.”

He looks down at me, tender-eyed, as if he understands the battle in me. As if he’s been there or knows instinctively that I’m going to lose—but he will still have no pity on me. “I don’t think so, Rachel. I’ve got you right where I want you.”

“On your big yacht.” I roll my eyes.

“Nah. Next to me.” The comment makes my stomach dip and the backs of my ears flush hot.

“You’re teasing me.”

“You’re blushing.”

“It’s a suntan. I’m tanning right now. You know. On your big yacht. You’ve lost the ability to make me shy. I no longer blush.”

He tugs my bikini top open, and I yell, “Malcolm!”

“Not a suntan,” he says, his stare hot on my breasts as I scramble to tie the top up again. “You’re blushing all over, every inch of you,” he says approvingly.

Before I know it, we’re kissing, hot and lazily, for what feels like a minute and an hour. We’re so hot by the time we peel our lips apart, I’m sure he’ll pursue this in the bedroom, but he’s got a dinner, and we have to head to the docks before we can get into it.

“You sure you don’t want to come?” He rumples my hair on his way past me.

“And be the feast for all those reporters? No, thank you,” I mumble, stealing glimpses of him as he covers that god’s body in his sexy business clothes.

He zips up his slacks, then starts to work his buttons with fast, nimble fingers. “It bothers you that they’re after you?”

I shrug as I force myself into my slim-fit jeans. “How do you live with it?”

“I don’t have a choice.” He looks at me, watching me and my jeans battle it out. “It’s new to them because you’re new to me. Are you uncomfortable, Rachel?”

“A little. Not in my jeans, with those *s who are after you and, now, me.”

He chuckles deliciously, then shakes his head and rakes his fingers through his hair. “Then I’ll take care of it.”

“Don’t, it’ll fade away along with your interest,” I call after him.

“Not happening anytime soon,” he says flatly, out of the room already.

By that night I have several texts from Helen.

Rachel I need something this week.

Call me when you can

I hope everything is going smoothly

And I’ve got the worst case of writer’s block. I have a brick in my head instead of a brain, and it’s absolutely silent. I stare at my screen, unable to write even one sentence. Nothing. I open my box of note cards and notes, then turn back to my online list of links.