Manwhore +1 (Manwhore, #2)(35)
I open easily and when his tongue strokes over the side of mine, I rub back languorously, a low, dull throb building between my legs.
He eases back and then he’s staring down at me with smoldering heat that’s almost frightening. He’s looking at me like I’m something else, something extraordinary, something perfect, like he can’t believe I’m trembling in his arms.
His hands frame my face, his palms swallowing it as his lips start to crush over mine harder. Groaning, he starts kissing me a little bit faster, and I can’t get enough, can’t work my mouth fast enough to get all of him that I want. I push my fingers into his hair—his hair! And let him use the small of my back to press my breasts against his chest as he sucks on my tongue, slow and greedy. Saint is kissing me like he wants me more than the world he likes to conquer and more than the moon he’s never been able to get.
We kiss a little more.
I pour all my love into the kiss. My walls are crumbled at my feet when the kiss stops, but I have no energy to pull them up right now. My lids are heavy, but so are his. I’m struggling to breathe, but his chest is pushing against his shirt as he breathes deeper too.
“I missed you,” I whisper.
He murmurs into the top of my head, “I missed you too.”
We fall silent then, simply in each other’s arms, until we reach our destination.
I’ve never been both so relaxed and at the same time buzzing all over.
When the car halts, Saint wipes my lipstick off his face, strokes his thumbs over my lips while I fix my hair, then he steps out first to a few audible gasps outside. He stretches his hand into the car for me, I slip my hand into his and then let him pull me out, immediately stunned by the dozens of heads in line at the entrance of the party already fixed in our direction. They spot Saint and immediately their curiosities are piqued as to who he’s with, so they glance at me and can’t seem to hide their surprised faces.
I’m shaking inside but his hand, oh, it feels so steady as we head over to the bouncer to be admitted inside.
He squeezes my fingers to catch my attention. “The look in your eyes. What are you afraid of??” he asks as the bouncer swiftly recognizes him and tugs open the door for us.
“The world.”
He grins down at me, so tall and powerful. “Relax,” he says. “The world’s in my pocket.”
And I feel relief flood me as I let myself believe it.
The ballroom is glistening when we arrive. It seems like all of the rich in the city are present. I force myself to hold my head high.
Modern glass chandeliers hang like tangled wires from the ceiling, while a wall of shimmering waterfalls greets us to the right. There’s a live orchestra, chocolate fountains, and perfect round tables covered in white linens and silverware, complete with Tiffany chairs to match. We venture deep into the crowd, walking amidst an impressive amount of glittering dresses, men in black ties, women in exotic perfumes. I’m aware of how those women watch Saint, and the men watch me. God, it’s incredible, the eyes he draws. Even if people don’t know who he is, Malcolm’s presence is so magnetic you instantly know he’s someone.
“Don’t let them own you, Rachel.”
“I won’t,” I say.
“You’re with me.”
I look into his eyes. “I know.”
“Then let’s make a round and I’ll take you away . . . if you’re good,” he warns. And there, suddenly, is the spark of mischief in his eyes that I’ve missed so much.
With a brief look at my mouth that reminds me of the kisses he just gave me, he leads me to our table and introduces me to our table companions. I keep expecting to be sneered at, shunned. But soon I realize, no. These people respect Malcolm too much for that.
And they steal him away every second they can too.
I engage in a brief conversation with a couple he introduced me to, shaking my head when three different women come to flirt with Saint.
When we finally come back together, I can’t help but tease him. “Can’t you be alone for a minute? Without anyone catering to you?”
He smiles at me and turns me to a spectacular-looking older woman. “Rachel Livingston, this is Norma Dean. She’s our host.”
“Oh, I’m familiar with your work! I read your piece on this thing right here.” She smacks Malcolm’s chest. “And I was hooked by your voice. Such a lovely, smart, passionate girl. What took you so long to snatch her up?” she chides.
“Traffic.”
When I look up, Malcolm’s lips are curled slightly and his eyes are twinkling and a ribbon of heat unfurls in my stomach.
And then I realize after her comment that maybe, incredibly, some of these people also respect me.
He soon leads me back to our table and introduces me to a few CEOs and their wives, philanthropists and entrepreneurs. They’re all older than us and very friendly.
I feel like I belong, even though I’ve never belonged here before, and I realize as we sit here discussing everything from ponies that they bought for their daughters, to business merger news, to the best hairstylists in town, that Malcolm wouldn’t have brought me somewhere if he thought I’d be shunned or laughed at. He respects these people too, and expects them to respect me. Every time one of them says his name and leans forward a bit in their seat to talk to him, they do so with such admiration that I realize he knows that my just being in this space of his will protect me. And I do feel safe.