Manwhore +1 (Manwhore, #2)(57)

He’s running his hands up and down my sides as he samples the skin of my neck, the tips of my breasts, my navel, like he truly doesn’t know where to start. He’s savoring, but at the same time, hungry. His lips nip and bite and his tongue swipes out to taste, his hands kneading as they go, his muscles taut with tension, his energy intense, I wonder if I’m enough to appease him.

He licks his tongue into my belly button and parts my legs with one wandering hand. I stare up at the ceiling and groan as I try to calm my body down, rolling my head to the side as pleasure rocks me.

He teases his thumb over my folds first, and then brings his two longest fingers to stroke over the outside. I fist his hair and pull him away from my breast, pulling him up hungrily to my mouth. He gives me the kiss I want, but then tears free and edges back. His eyes miss no detail of me splayed on his bed. My wet folds slick under his two fingers. My breasts rising and falling. My face, which feels soft and weak with desire.

One nipple disappears into his mouth again. His hair gleams in the lamplight, shadows cast across his muscles. He’s still in jeans. And I’m so very naked, so very caressed, so very turned on and vulnerable as he inches his head down. I sense him look at me down there as he uses his two hands to spread my legs open.

“Oh, Malcolm.” I’m red all over.

He leans down and sucks my clit. I arch up and groan.

He rubs me under his tongue and as I rock my hips instinctively, taken over, his fingers are there, ready to penetrate me. He watches me arch. I should’ve known he’d want everything. Take everything. He warned me he would. My instinct of self-preservation wars against the pleasure arrowing through me and the need to be taken by him.

I sigh his name and let my legs skew open. He whispers my name reverently and sucks and kisses me a little more.

“Saint, I’m going to—”

He doesn’t stop until I come. I’m still shuddering when he stands to undress; I’m too weak to cover myself. To pretend I have control over this kind of want. It’s like he knows my walls are up and he’s determined to crumble them.

I didn’t know desire like this existed. I see him stand there, rolling on a condom, ready to take me and I lie here, spread open and aching for him to. I relax in anticipatory relief when his naked body covers mine, and he opens me up to receive him.

I groan as he wraps my arms around his neck and my legs around his hips, my head falling back . . . ready, eager, wanting. He kisses my breasts, grabbing my ass and tilting my hips upward as he drives inside. Our bodies tighten in pleasure as we connect.

I feel him stretch me . . . take me.

Then we begin to move. Quiet. Only our breathing audible.

My every sense is sensitized to a million.

I stare, in hazy ecstasy, up into his face, lit by the lamplight and golden and perfect, and ohmigod, his eyes look so hot for me. So violent and fiercely tender for me as he stares down at me. I knot up inside.

My chest flutters as I wonder if he can see it right in my eyes in every wild beat of my heart, I love you I love you Iloveyou . . .

I stay staring as we move, my hands caressing his chest, his body hoisted up by one arm while his free hand makes love to my skin. And then we start kissing, and we don’t stop, the connection of our bodies too delicious, our mouths tasting, savoring, hot, wet, mine eager and soft, his more demanding and thirsty, our bodies moving together.

We lie there after he goes clean up, silent and sweaty and I’ve lost all modesty at the moment. I feel raw and open and unable to pull myself together right now.

I let him kiss my mouth for a while; my lips are red and I like it. I like his bed, I like our bodies tangled, I like that he broke me down and I get to stay and sleep here as I pull myself together again. I realize his breathing is deeper and shift a little, and he’s asleep. I reach up and touch his lips and quietly set a kiss on them.

I know Saint usually has trouble sleeping and I wonder how many nights he’s lain here, in this bed, without shutting his eyes. Enough that he’s fast asleep now, as if he too feels at peace having me back in his arms. I take his arm and curl it around me. And kiss the corner of his lips.

“Good night, Sin,” I whisper.

I never thought I could love a guy this freaking hard.





SOMETHING NEW


Helen loved my “Things That Obsess Us” piece inspired by the Cubs game, and I’m excited to be writing again. I’m hopeful these newest pieces will help me open the door to one of my job prospects.

I was already at Lokus this week, and I’ve already queried every one of the places Saint mentioned. But my phone is silent.

Sometimes at night, when Saint leaves bed to work, or sometimes even when he’s holding me, I quietly worry about my options.

Or lack of them.

Valentine tells me that sometimes it takes time. That I may have to freelance, but I’m scared to lose the security of a full-time job, especially with my mother and our lack of health insurance for her.

Helen hasn’t mentioned Noel Saint again. But . . . can the deal please fall apart?

I know Helen doesn’t want me to leave. She’s trying her damnedest to act as if Edge isn’t in the midst of an acquisition, but I can tell by her shut office door and the flurry of meetings with her bosses that it’s happening.

There’s a long-standing war of wills going on between Noel and Malcolm. I mean, why else would his father, whose business mostly involves real estate, just happen to be interested in journalism, just as his son is being seen with me?