Manwhore +1 (Manwhore, #2)(32)

My heart stutters when I recognize the pen.

It’s the pen from the hotel room.

I’m singed by his fingertips on mine as he brings my palm to his lap. His eyes blaze between his lashes when he notices me tremble, and his gaze never leaves my face as he scrawls something on my palm. Then he curls my fingers closed.

“Don’t underestimate me,” he whispers.

I savor the possessive way he looks at me as he speaks, so thickly it’s almost inaudible, as he slowly—torturously slowly—lets go of my hand. “Good night, Rachel.”

I feel his eyes on my retreating back as I head toward my building.

When I turn by the door, my sexy parts tingle as I see him one last time; he’s lounging back with an arm draped on the passenger seat, predatorily, with deceptive relaxation, but I’ve never seen eyes look at me so intensely as he stares at me through the open car window.

Helpless to free myself from his gaze, I feel for the door handle, manage to open it, and then exhale when I’m inside.

Shutting the door, I put my fingers on the glass. I can feel Saint through it and the rumble of his car as he starts it back up. I feel his chest under my fingertips and the energy of his being, like a bolt of white-hot liquid lightning flowing through my veins.

I force myself to go upstairs, then walk into my apartment and then lean on the shut door, breathless and I open my hand to read what he wrote.

Dibs.





BLACK TIE


“I say the baby blue.”

“I vote the light pink.”

“Baby blue. The perfect event deserves the perfect dress, just like the perfect man deserves the perfect girl,” Gina argues with Wynn.

“I’m not perfect, but I want to look perfect tonight,” I tell them both.

“Your billionaire just struck gold with you tonight, you look like a million bucks—well invested and soon to yield.”

“Wynn!” I laugh.

“I still don’t get why you didn’t just bring him up to your room yesterday and let him stake a physical claim on you.”

“Because . . . we haven’t been together in a month.”

“Exactly why you shouldn’t have talked at all! What’s there to talk about? He wants you, you want him.”

I rummage through my earrings for a pair of small silver studs that bring out the gray in my eyes. “He . . . well, we’ve gone over it, I’ve told you two.”

“No, you haven’t. You get red and that’s it. You can’t talk about him without spacing out . . .”

I groan. My friends, Gina and Wynn, they want to know that I’m going to be all right.

“He read my article,” I say.

They’re looking impatient, their faces alive with anticipation. And I’m remembering. I feel his hands cup my face again. I feel his eyes on me again. His lips so close, and so far away. And suddenly . . . on the very edge of my lips. I look down at the palm of my hand, the invisible Dibs that unfortunately washed off after a week of showers.

“He asked me to go out with him tonight.”

Gina opened one of my wines and when she comes back with three foam cups, I tell myself—please don’t ever let Sin see we’re drinking this wine in foam cups. “Publicly?” she asks, handing a cup to each of us.

“Finally?” Wynn asks, taking a sip.

Setting mine aside, I nod as the butterflies fly fly fly in me. Still hidden in my closet is his shirt. I pulled it out of hiding last night—a shirt that brings back every memory—then I quickly stripped and slipped my arms into the sleeves, buttoning it up.

And that’s how I slept.

It felt like hot, sheet-clawing sex on my skin. I lay in bed, my hormones all crazed, telling myself that I’m not going to do anything sexy until he does it to me.

“And I said yes. And he told me to get a dress.”

He’d said it low but casual, as if it were the most natural thing for him to do for me, in his voice that never fails to get to me. Then I refrain from telling them the rest; that he marked my hand with a pen . . . and I went to my bed, and called my mother in the darkness, and told her . . . and unexpectedly, burst out crying from the happiness when I heard her voice.

“We’re doing this black tie thing and if it’s the last thing I do, I want to look incredible tonight,” I admit, looking at myself in the mirror above my vanity.

I haven’t looked this happy in a while—but I haven’t felt this happy in my life.

“This dress does the trick. The side slit is perfect, the strapless bare shoulders, the way it goes all the way down to your toes. You want to say: you know I’m naughty deep down but it’s only for you,” Wynn says.

“Oh please, like he’s not naughtier than anything we’ve ever known,” Gina groans.

I laugh. My cheeks flare red as I think about him and wonder if he’s as desperate to be with me as I am with him.

“But did he read your article? Something in it must’ve done something to him.”

Wynn brings out the copy of the magazine I have hidden under my bed, mainly because it has a picture of him, and taps on the last sentence. “This part: I’d leap blindly into the air if only there were even a 0.01 percent chance that he’d still be there, waiting to catch me.”

“Wynn. You two. Help me get ready!”