Manwhore +1 (Manwhore, #2)(27)

It takes forever to fall asleep.

I should go home, but I don’t want to. I’m in hell but I don’t want to leave if he’s in hell with me. My awareness is so heightened that every sound awakens me, every shift beside me on the bed. Even the loss of warmth at the merest shift of a leg stirs me awake and urges me closer to the warm, hard wall beside me . . . but when I sleep, I lose all restraint.

I’m unzipping his pants and devouring him with kisses, dragging my mouth down his square abs, trailing my fingers across his chest muscles with a thirst that is unquenched. When I finally curl my hands around his hard length, I do so reverently. I stroke up and down his shaft as I lower my mouth and kiss him there, right where he’s most man. I make love to him with my mouth because I need to claim him. Feel him. Love him so that he loves me.

He lifts my chin. “Look at me.” The words have a bite, harsh with need.

My eyes lock with his and his are stormy green. He sees something he wants in my gaze because I sense he doesn’t want me to close my eyes. I blink and look back at him as I drag my tongue along his long, hard length. The crown of his cock is thick, swollen, pink, and as beautiful as the rest of his length. His sex is full for me, gushing for me. Between my legs, I’m gushing for him.

I murmur his name around his flesh.

“Malcolm.”

He tugs my face up close and slides his lips over mine in a tender kiss.

“Is this what you want, little one?” he asks, pulling me up so I feel him between my legs.

In a world where he can buy anything he wants, I’m his littlest thing. And he’s my biggest, grandest thing.

Full, lush lips feather over my cheek before pressing against mine. Soon he’s parted and tasted me, his tongue thrusting powerfully inside, seducing me.

He eases me back and parts my thighs, and I feel the gentle tug of his teeth on my clit. Every sensation coming to the surface. I feel my orgasm build, and I beg him, please Malcolm please—when I hear a door close, and I bolt awake.

I’m sweating in bed, soaked, shivering. I glance around, confused, when I recognize the hotel suite and hear the shower water start with a squeaky, angry jerk. I close my eyes tight and my stomach drops. Oh god. Malcolm heard me. He heard me say his name. He heard me lose my shit.

I put my face in my hands as I hear the slap of water and I know he’s showering. A cold shower?

I try to calm my breathing. Pretend nothing happened, right? I’ll pretend I never woke up and pretend I don’t remember my dream tomorrow.

No. I can’t. I can’t stay here, so close . . .

Oh. GOD.

Quietly, I climb out of bed, gather my shoes, and then cross the room. I stop to hastily scrawl a message on the hotel notepad:

Full day tomorrow. Thanks for today.

R

And then I set the pen silently next to the note and head out the door.





ON EDGE


I’m so embarrassed. So, so embarrassed I may give new definition to the word. I go back home and sit there, on my bed, smelling his soap and cologne on my clothes, completely sober and unable to sleep. If Saint had any doubts, any at all, that I still wanted him, I’m sure he’s pretty sure of how hopelessly I do.

Oh god.

And it turns out, I’m not the only one worked up about Saturday; social media seems just as frenzied about it.

My presence at the wine tasting seems to have sparked another kind of wildfire in Saint’s floozie circle on Monday.

IS IT TRUE? ARE THE RUMORS OF YOU GETTING BACK WITH YOUR GIRLFRIEND TRUE?

And back to Twitter:

@malcolmsaint spotted with HER

@malcolmsaint is it true? Are you getting back with her????? They say you were together Saturday

@tahoeroth is it true @malcolmsaint is seeing his ex-girlfriend? He’s staring at her from the podium and WTF with the look he’s giving her!!

I click on the link and stare at a picture of me standing inside McCormick Place as he was getting to my question. I didn’t even see anyone take this picture of us. In fact, at that moment I hadn’t noticed that he was giving me a very toe-curling look without regard for anyone watching.

Sighing, I tuck my phone away and search through my “ideas” file.

I’m mulling over topics when Helen tings me at my desk.

I lock my computer—something I never did before. I used to think my riches were in my brain and whatever was in my files was not as valuable as what I, myself, contained. But after Victoria copied my research file, I realized everything you value has to be locked well. Oh, life, how jaded you make us, I think as I lock it—and then I head over to Helen.

When she sees me, she gives me a big grin and gestures to one of her chairs. “Sit down.”

I shake my head and start to tell her, “No, I’m good. Helen, I’m finally having a breakthrough—”

“We’re being bought out,” she cuts me off.

“I . . . excuse me?”

So . . . there’s truth to the rumor?

Helen clucks. “See, Rachel, you should’ve taken the chair.”

We stare at each other across her desk. Helen looks about as incredulous as I, but far happier about it.

“We’ve got an offer and it’s apparently your article that caught our investor’s eye,” she continues. The look she’s sending my way practically pets me with appreciation.