Manwhore +1 (Manwhore, #2)(51)

At one point some friends below the box start yelling his name, and we head outside to the line of seats adjoining the box. “Saint! You f*cking all-star!” one of the guys shouts, then asks if his crew can come up, eyeing me rakishly.

Saint simply says, “No,” and flips them the finger. He takes my arm and leads me to an outside seat, then sits beside me and leans forward as we continue to watch the game.

Between those gaps in the plays, we watch the Jumbotron. I’m laughing, watching the couples smack kisses on each other as soon as they appear on-screen. A young dark-haired man flashes on the screen. My body jolts with pure feminine awareness. He’s alone on-screen as I—and the rest of the spectators—register who he is, and then the camera shifts a little to include . . . me . . . just as I feel fingers sliding underneath my hair, tugging me around, and his lips take mine.

I hear the cheers and, stunned, I can’t look back at the screen. Only at Sin’s yummy mouth, which I just felt kiss me.

His eyes twinkle as he draws me closer for another kiss, this one just for him, for his eyes only. His very hot male eyes.

He seems very calm and at peace with himself once the Jumbotron moves on to its next victims.

Three innings later, I’m still feeling shy and girly. But Sin’s recovered and is fully in the game. It’s the bottom of the ninth and the game is almost over. One strike and the Cubs lose against the Cardinals. Our Cubbies. Up to bat is Sweeney, who’s had a few home runs this year. We still have a shot and our guys could win.

“Now we’re talking. Bases loaded,” he says, clapping, then lifting his brows at me as he gestures toward the three bases forming a perfect arrow in front of us.

My lips ripple as I try to tame a smile. I’d forgotten how he loves anything competitive. It gives me a secret little tingle when I see his passion right out there, flashing in his eyes.

I suddenly ache to play with him. “I bet you were an expert at the bases, juvenile as that sounds.” I raise an eyebrow. I wonder when it all began, and I’m fishing for it. That little sliver of knowledge of how he became the most wanted man in Chicago. I wouldn’t be surprised if it started during elementary school. He did get a headline when he was born—and the headlines have never stopped following him.

“Were?” he jokes. “Am.” He lowers his head to mine and runs the tip of his nose against my temple. “I still got game.” He places a small kiss where his nose used to be.

“I would know. You’re such a big-time player, the umpire should be up here calling the plays.”

He doesn’t laugh like I thought he would. His eyes look darker, as if he doesn’t like me calling him a player, and I can tell his energy changed just now.

I peer at him, and he’s studying my hand as he draws his thumb up from the base to my fingertips. Tingles race through my skin, bubbles through my veins. He has a look of concentration, like he’s just discovered something he’s never seen before. Like he’s definitely playing with a toy he never expected to play with. He lifts his lashes to look at me. The momentary glimpse of the fiery heat in his gaze makes me drop my eyes back down to stare at our hands, my stomach gripping nervously.

He lifts our hands and slowly kisses my knuckles. When he lowers them, I’m panting little breaths. He smiles at me and I smile at him as he lets go, his touch lingering on my skin.

“You turn me on like nothing else,” he whispers.

He kisses me softly but briefly. Then he snaps out of it and turns back to watch the player on home base. The ball is hurtling through the air, and with a smack, I realize the batter made contact and the ball is heading somewhere out in midfield.

Malcolm is ecstatic. The whole stadium is screaming. If the Cubs get two men in, they’ll win the game . . .

One hit.

The crowds stand.

Malcolm stands.

I stand.

A roar outside, and suddenly I’m crushed in his arms and flung in the air so hard my breath leaves me.

“Malcolm!” I cry. He catches me, kisses me, squeezes me and twirls me around, grinning down at me. And when he sets me down, his eyes go from fiery celebration to something stormy and uncontrollable.

He slides his arms around me and pulls me into his chest, and this hug is different. “I just want to make you smile,” he says, gazing back at me and I guess I’m still smiling.

“I like your smile too,” I admit.

We hug again, and stay there, watching the stadium. We’re starting to feel like a couple, like Wynn and her boyfriend are, like Saint was made to hold me just like this. His huge hands just cradle me to him as the stadium empties and we wait to leave.

He’s rubbing his hands against my back slowly, moving his head until his lips are rubbing against my neck. It feels amazing. Beautiful. Warm. Soft. And I can feel my breaths coming faster, but a tightness is here. He’s holding me, and just when I think I can’t possibly like it more, he keeps embracing me and doesn’t let go as we finally walk out. He leads me out of the stadium.



It feels cold outside in the parking lot, I can see the trees folding, swaying, bending with the force of the cold Chicago wind. The Windy City—the name came about because of the hot airs some city politicians and braggarts put on in earlier centuries, though many people think it’s because of the wind. And this is exactly why.

As we wait for Claude to bring the car, some people are approaching to greet him. A man with two girls, one on each arm, who smiles and exclaims, “Saint!”