Manwhore (Manwhore #1)(79)

Still nothing.

I’m so restless, I can’t write, and my deadline looms like a DEAD END sign ahead. I thought things would have cooled down with Saint by now, but instead . . . where is this going?

Distracting myself, I start looking for new links when I see an article online.

Tiger Can’t Change His Stripes—Saint Reverts to Old Ways After Rumored Split with Possible Girlfriend

And I see an image of him, sharp in a suit, with the event banner in the distance. Today’s event banner, to be exact. And a beautiful blonde who looks like me standing with him, looking dotingly up into his face.

My face just pales, and my stomach aches. I lift my finger to his face. He looks so detached and remote. I can’t believe this is the same man who was teasing me only hours ago.

I sit there and see her with her arm linked in his, and he looks beautiful. It’s the most coveted spot in Chicago, that arm of his. Who wouldn’t be happy and proud to stand by Saint’s side?

You, because that’s not your place; your place is at Edge, in your own safe life, not in the crazy whirlwind of his. Slamming my laptop shut, I head out to the living room, having no room for jealousy tonight or anything other than writer’s block. No, thanks. Getting possessive over a man who’s proven to be unattainable for years is not what I need right now.

What I need is to let my brain rest so that my muse can come back.

What I also need right now is to start focusing on my project, not on sex and Sin.

“What are you watching?” I go sit next to Gina.

“Moulin Rouge,” she says, sniffling.

“Oh, I can’t watch Moulin Rouge right now!” I pound my fist on the seat beneath me; all the anger I feel bubbles up with that sentence, and I end up heading to my room as the song “Come What May” follows me.

I curl up on my bed with my phone in my hand, staring at his name. Don’t text him, Rachel. He’s with another girl, the perfect out for you so you can stop seeing him and get straight back to work.

I lie in bed a little after midnight and then I see:

SIN

Can I come over?

I scowl. I don’t answer, but I keep the phone in my hand, unable to set it aside.

It vibrates.

SIN the screen blinks.

My heart leaps as I sit up, inhale, then answer as casually as I can. “Hey, I thought you had something tonight.”

“For you, I do,” he growls softly, voice husky with lust. “Can I come over?”

WAAAAANT.

I want him, want him. WAAANT HIM. Just his voice on the phone runs in my veins like a shot of arousal. “I’m sleeping.”

“Lucky you.”

“Did you have a good time tonight?” I ask.

Is she going to be your favorite now?

“It was okay.”

“Oh.”

“I put an end to the rumors about us. Press should be off your back for a while.”

“Oh.” Delighted surprise flits through me. Is that why he was with her? “Thank you, I guess.”

“Maybe now you’ll go with me sometime to one of these events, Rachel.”

“I can’t,” I say, bed squeaking as I shift to my side and get more comfortable. “But what did you do tonight? Tell me what I missed out on.” I pull my covers over me, waiting for his voice to soothe me like it does.

“Same ole. Most interesting thing of the night was meeting one of my employees. A man who was in a coma, woke up able to speak several languages.”

I laugh. “That’s unbelievable! I love hearing about such inexplicably fascinating things.”

“I thought you’d find it interesting,” he says with pleasure. I hear the sound of a car door. Did he get home just now?

“Which ones? Languages, I mean.”

“German, French, and Russian.” Silence. Then . . . the elevator ting? “See, Rachel”—a teasing tone comes into his voice—“you would’ve enjoyed yourself. I’d have taken care of you tonight.”

“Oh, I’m sure you would have. Plus I have a thing for other languages. A man speaking German, oof.”

“I can speak German in your ear tonight.”

I laugh, then fall sober. I hear footsteps, then the door. I picture him in his room, want to be there with every inch of me. “No, we really can’t,” I breathe.

I hear a creak.

Did he just jump into bed?

“We can, you’re just afraid to,” he murmurs.

“Aren’t you? Afraid? Concerned?”

“I’m not concerned, I’m fascinated by this. By us.”

I feel all my shyness returning. Saint is so perceptive.

Does he feel this pull as strongly as I do?

When I hear him again, his voice surprises me with that deep, almost reassuring quality, its timbre as thick as syrup. “Considering I never expected to have an addiction like you, much less for it to last the week, I’m not letting this go, Rachel,” he whispers.

Hot from the tip of my head to my toes, I stare at the ceiling, warm and afraid, uncertain what to say and where we’d go if I admitted just how far into him I really am. I feel him in my body, still. I feel him still inside me. In places you can’t tattoo. In places nobody’s ever ventured to.

“A challenge, then,” I say. “I’m a challenge.”