Manwhore +1 (Manwhore, #2)(50)

CUBS GAME


It’s Cubs game day, and I’m running around in matching black panties and black bra. My stomach is a big jumble of nerves. I feel like I’m watching a horror movie, and it’s at that part where some stupid girl is about to open the closet, which contains some kind of serial killer/psychopath, and I can’t do anything about it. I’m that girl. And I’m about to open the closet door, except it’s Malcolm waiting on the other side of it, and I don’t know what scares me more.

Sin, on the other side of the door. My addiction. My love.

I smell like vanilla perfume and my hair is freshly ironed, feeling warm against my back, silky straight, hitting me just below my shoulder blades. I’m so excited, I feel like a teenager. I check my phone, and his last text is still glowing on the screen:

I’m on my way.

Four stupid little words and I feel like I can’t breathe. But I want to squeal like a little girl too. I haven’t seen him all week; work getting in the way, save for a few texts. As I contemplate what to wear, I’m thinking about what will happen. How I’ll be in his car with him soon, surrounded by leather in a confined space . . . and then I start thinking about whether he’ll come back to my place or not, and I find myself thinking—no, hoping—that he will.

So I pause to make sure that my bed is made, my room sparkly clean.

I finally put on an emerald-green silky blouse and a pair of white shorts that make my butt look good. I slip on some flats, spray more perfume on my neck, swipe mascara on my lashes, a little blush on my cheeks, and a smack of cherry lip stain on my lips. I’m looking in the mirror, deciding I look okay, when I hear a knock on the door.

I focus on my breathing, hearing my ballet flats tap on the floor. No one else is home. The apartment only has a couple lamps on, and I’m just now realizing that somewhere between my getting-ready routine and obsessing, the sun has gone down.

I open the door, and he’s standing there with his hands in his pockets, wearing dark jeans and a long-sleeve black T-shirt that defines his huge shoulders and is pulled tightly against his biceps. Weirdly, the nerves in my stomach subside. He’s looking at me with his green eyes. His square jaw clamped tight. His eyes are roaming from the tips of my toes to the blush on my cheeks.

He clears his throat, and when he finally speaks, I swear to god I almost start crying from how much I like the sound of it. Incredible, how much I’ve missed this voice. How his chest seems to vibrate with the power of it. How I can basically feel his warmth, emanating from his body as he stands there, and all I want to do is get sucked into his force field.

He steps closer to me, so I’m staring up at him and he’s staring down at me, and he says simply, “You look amazing.”

I can’t say anything back. My nerves won’t allow me to. It’s our second official date—after that one night I spent over.

“Mmm . . .” he says, lowering his head slightly so his lips brush the side of my neck. “Smell good too.”

I swear I’m melting right here, and as if he doesn’t even know, the bastard straightens up again and shoots me one of his trademark smiles. “Ready to go? We’ll be late.”

“Yeah.” I take a good breath. Then I look back at my apartment, turn off the lights and take my purse from the stand next to my front door.



“Talking Body” by Tove Lo is blaring on the speakers. The skybox overlooks the field, with several rows of exterior seats to get in on the action connected to the private suite—which is where we are. The moment we walk in, warm golden light fills my vision. Black leather couches, plasma TVs, and a pool table are the first things I see. Then I see a huge window looking out on the baseball field, the lights shining down. I can practically smell the peanuts and the beer. We’re on top of the whole stadium, in a glass box.

We grab drinks and then sit down on one of the couches looking directly out the huge window. We’re immediately loving the game.

“Damn right, run, Rizzo!!” Malcolm’s voice sounds deep as he bellows and shouts. “Fuuuck.” He throws his head back and groans, then returns his gaze to the field. He takes a swig of pinot noir.

I try to suppress a giggle with a sip of my little cocktail. It’s a tight game and we’re all going crazy wanting to secure the win. I should’ve been paying more attention but I do love the sportgasms Sin gets when he’s watching games. I love how serene he sits, calm and controlled, then yells from deep in his belly and pumps his fist when things go his way. And I love how he makes a piece of my brain take a walk when he puts his arm around me, and rubs his hand slowly down my arm.

He looks perfectly content now, sipping his wine, his arm around me, sitting in his majestic glass box overlooking the stadium. Might as well be his stadium, the way he sits here, as if he owns the place. Meanwhile, I’m sucking in the experience of a live game, which I’ve never, ever been to before. Gina says it’s because there were no men in my life—no father, brothers, boyfriends. Maybe she’s right. I love how the air crackles in the stadium, and how it crackles where Saint is right now.

“It’s in the bag, I can f*cking feel it,” I hear Malcolm mumble next to me. He has a look of concentration on his face.

I’m terribly amused. “If you say so.”

He stares at me for a moment before tightening his jaw and closing his eyes for a split second. If I hadn’t been looking at him, I would’ve missed it. He leans over. “I do say so. We’re going to run them into the ground.”