Manwhore +1 (Manwhore, #2)(48)

I nervously bite the inside of my cheek. “I didn’t think you’d want me to wear it while you were hating me.”

“I wasn’t hating you.” He keeps walking forward and for some reason I find myself backing away. Maybe because I feel vulnerable that he sees me so at home in his shirt. Maybe because I just poured my heart out to him in an email he might never read.

“I don’t respect a lot of people, Rachel, it’s hard for me.” His gaze searches mine. “I respect you.” He reaches out to stop me from walking and cups my face in one hand to force me in place. “I get you, Rachel. I may not say it, words are your turf, not mine, but I get you. You’re the only woman I’ve ever gone this far with. Ever even wanted to. Promise me now that if you don’t find anything by the time my father takes over, you’ll come with me—and I’ll believe you.”

His eyes are so green right now, heavy like anchors holding me down. We stare at each other as if we’re both trying to understand what the other needs. Him, calmly, and me with so much longing inside me, I feel soft like a noodle.

I know that he’s never done this before, being with someone like he is with me, and I haven’t either. I close my eyes when his thumb starts to caress the skin on my neck where he holds me. “I do. I promise.”

He smiles then—a slow, male, grateful smile—then he pulls me close to his chest. “Was that hard now?” he chides.

“No. But you are.” I smile against his neck.

He laughs softly as he reaches between us and chucks my chin. “It happens when you’re around.”

“Does it? I hadn’t noticed.” I smile.

His smile flashes back at me. “It’s pretty much permanent.”

Ohgod, he’s making me so wet. I shove him away and back away a little with a mock-frown. “Rumor has it it’s like that all the time when any lady’s around.”

He starts after me. “I’m a hungry man. I won’t apologize for my appetite.”

“And you used to like a buffet?” I hop on my bed and avoid him when he reaches out to grab me.

His eyes twinkle, his teeth white against his tan. “Why not? If I’m hungry.”

“Do you still crave it?” I hop back down and keep backing around my room, while Saint, Saint continues calmly coming after me.

“That hunger of yours is so big maybe nothing will ever satisfy it,” I continue taunting.

“Maybe.” He catches me in a swift move, pulls me close, and he leans to my ear, voice dropping, “I still think you wear my shirt better than I do,” he says huskily.

I moan and press closer. “Saint.” Fuck me right now. On the bed, the floor, and against the wall.

He playfully, and oh-so-wickedly, pops open one button and runs the knuckles of his fist inside to caress the skin between my collarbones.

“I want you,” I whisper, giddy and gooey inside. “See, I’m ambitious too.”

His voice is pure husky. “Good, aim high. Always. I like my girls greedy.”

“Plural! You’re such a piece of work.” I shove at his hard chest playfully and back away again with a mock frown.

“And you like me anyway.” He keeps coming forward, and I swear the smile he’s wearing right now is about as hormone-wrecking as his hard-on is.

“I’m aiming . . . high . . . it’s just that I’m trying to put a name to us and it frustrates me not to have one.”

What am I, exactly, to you? I want to ask, but Saint pops open another button, and whispers, “Only you would want a word. But there’s no word for this.”

He grabs a little bit of loose hair from my nape as he tilts my head up so he can kiss me. And . . . kiss me.

Our lips collide, his firming over mine, making me soften as his tongue dips into my mouth and a spiral of heat swirls in my stomach. I start pulling him by the shoulders as we kiss, backing us eagerly to the bed.

The backs of my knees hit the mattress and I end up sitting there, then lying there, and he leans over me, his mouth still slowly, powerfully moving over mine. The heat of his slow and thorough kiss burns me to ash.

I trap back a moan and look up at him dazedly as he sits down next to me and holds me to his chest with one arm. I start kissing his neck and jaw and sit here in a pile of lust, feeling his hand run down my side to stroke up the side of my bare leg.

“So we’re clear then,” he murmurs against my mouth, delivering one of his most demanding looks.

I lick my lips and nod.

He shoves his tongue into my mouth again. Leaning over me, he’s all raw manpower. Dominant and possessive, unapologetic, he circles my tongue with his. Pressing, circling, stroking, stoking my fire, the space between our upper bodies nonexistent. He caresses my side with his hand, moving it up to the little triangle of skin he revealed under my throat.

I grab his jaw to speed up the kiss. But he won’t have it.

“Easy. Let me savor you,” he quietly coaxes as he slows down, prolonging it for us as he sips from me like a wineglass.

The fabric of his shirt I’ve been wearing is so flimsy compared to the hard substance of Saint’s chest against mine.

I hear the air-conditioning, the noises of the city. Feel my soft bed beneath me as his mouth roams over my neck. The weight of his upper body on mine makes me sigh. The smooth skin of our chests rubbing. The wet warmth of his mouth on my skin. My fingertips digging into the back of his head. The hard wall of his chest to my breasts. Smell the scent of his neck. Hear our breathing. I’m breathless and still, he caresses me with his fingers between my collarbones.