Manwhore +1 (Manwhore, #2)(55)

“It’s okay,” Gina says, shrugging. “I’ll happily be driven home in Saint’s car.” She smirks.

Sin watches me, his green eyes reeling me in, pulling me under. He looks expectant and . . . adorable and . . . irresistible. Ohgod. Is this going too fast for us having just started back up?

No way.

Or . . . yes.

Maybe.

“Rachel.” He steps closer, and I can see he understands my hesitation—we’re supposed to be taking it slow—and his voice low as his lips brush my ear. “You don’t want to leave any more than I want you to leave.”

“You’re asking me to sleep over again?” I put an inch between us to search his face. “Your friends are still here—”

“You want my bed more than yours right now, and I want you in there.”

God, I’m in so deep. So very deep I’m almost frightened but he makes me reckless enough to want to go even deeper.

“Okay,” I say, smiling at him a little.

“Okay?” His eyes lighten at that, and he tips my chin up and firmly kisses my mouth.

It’s so warm, so absolutely perfect, his mouth, that I smile against it and tell him, only so he hears, “I’ll be in your bed.”

And him, only to me, lips grazing my earlobe: “You won’t be alone there for long.”



I head to his room, first check on my present, then drop down on the side of the bed that I always end up on, taking a minute to think about today.

When he smiled?

I think the jerk tapped a vein and injected me with pure happiness.

I think of me and him, and sports, and how his passion flared, and how we as people go crazy over the stuff we love.

Which reminds me . . .

I need to start a new article. As I try to stay awake and wait for him, I pull out my cell phone and write down notes and ideas in an email to myself.

I write about the stuff we get crazy over. Obsessed. Like our favorite sports teams. The Cubs can lose a thousand times and we still love them. They can f*ck up, and we still believe in them.

I take down a lot of ideas while absently listening to the men laugh in the living room, somehow specially attuned to Malcolm’s laugh. I like his laugh more than any other. It’s deep and it resonates in his chest, but it’s never too loud or obnoxious. Another obsession.

Smiling while I reread the email with ideas, I send it to myself and text my mom, who usually paints until very late during the weekends.

Are you up? I try.

Just finished cleaning up the studio, she replies. Off to bed! Everything all right??

More than all right. Mom! You’re going to get to meet him!! I don’t need to tell her who “him” is; she knows exactly who’s got her daughter hooked.

Almost instantaneously she writes back, WHEN? Are you bringing him over for dinner?

Don’t worry about that, I can order something for us and bring it over.

My phone rings. I pick up to hear her immediately chiding me. “Rachel, absolutely not. You’re not gonna bring anything. It’s gonna be homemade and delicious! He’s your first boyfriend!”

“Well, he’s not . . . kinda, I hope so.” I exhale and shake my head. “Don’t call him my boyfriend yet, I don’t want to jinx it. We’re still working things out. Make your yummy peppermint chocolate pie for me.”

“What does he like? Fancy things?”

I laugh just as the men outside release a round of simultaneous laughter. “No, Mom, he enjoys normal things. He likes . . . me.” And I’m so vanilla to a physical man like Sin. “Don’t worry, whatever you make is fine.”

“When are you coming?”

“You tell us when,” I counter.

“Fine, give me a week or two to prepare.”

“Okay. Love you, Momma.”

“Rachel.” She stops me from hanging up. After a deep, excited breath, “I look forward to meeting this man I’ve heard about.”

God, the things my mother must have heard. Probably that he’s a manwhore.

“He’s not a saint, Momma,” I quietly tell her. “But I like him very much.”



After a couple minutes of hearing the men banter, I start to get sleepy, but the anticipation of knowing Saint is coming to bed soon keeps me from fully relaxing. I study his big bed underneath me. I consider pulling back the comforter and stripping to my undies. Would that be too slutty? Yeah. Yeah it would be.

And maybe he’d like it?

I start to take off my shoes and quietly strip to my bra and panties when I realize the guys are protesting.

“Ah man, we’re having a good time.”

“Fuck, Saint. Seriously?”

Ohmigod, he’s kicking them out.

I’m so excited and suddenly panicked, I’m scrambling to get naked as I hear the guys shuffle out.

I’m standing in the middle of his room wondering if I’m going to be a slut, shouldn’t I go all the way and just get naked? All naked?

I hear silence next and the sound of familiar footsteps make their way to me. Feeling a kick of adrenaline, I yank my bra off over my head and nearly stumble as I pull off my panties and toss them aside and scramble into bed.

I pull the sheets up to my chest when I hear him answer some sort of message, speaking in another language. I comb a hand through my hair then spread it out behind me on the pillow, hearing his voice growl some business instruction.