Manwhore +1 (Manwhore, #2)(59)

Dibs . . .

Oh, shit. Dear brain, can we please try to forget that?

But every time Saint touches me, I feel his fingers and his tongue are saying dibs and dibs and dibs . . .

The word is no longer visible on my hand, but I feel branded by it.

Gina leads me downstairs to the Chanel department, where I stock up on eye shadow and eyeliner. When we walk out of the store, we see some people across the street all staring in the same direction—a few more even stop walking to gape. I follow their gazes and stop in my tracks, my heart in my throat.

A silver Bentley’s parked at the curb. Something buzzes over my skin as Malcolm heads toward me. He is absolute sin in f*cking jeans and a polo that makes love to him.

A few paces behind him is Otis, walking with Saint’s same long stride. Malcolm signals at his driver to get my tiny bag and then he looks down at me.

“She’s ready for your yacht, Saint. She’s got the perfect bikini. But unfortunately she’s not ready for anything else,” Gina says.

“That’s not true!” I groan.

Gina chuckles and waves at us dismissively as she heads off to where she was meeting Wynn for brunch.

When I turn back to my green-eyed devil, I see he’s just looking at me. “You didn’t buy what I told you to.”

I scowl in confusion when I realize he’s walking me back toward the store.

The salespeople seem startled enough that I deduce Saint doesn’t come here often, but they seem to know him or about him. Oh yes, they do. The level of chatter around this man starts to spread in hushed tones across the store.

He leads me into the women’s department and then into . . .

The lingerie department.

My heart stops as he winds through the racks, his big, muscular body contrasting with the flimsy bits of nothing hanging all around him. He brushes his lips over my ear. “Let’s get you some things.”

“Malcolm,” I say, as his voice in my ear leaves a lingering earthquake in my tummy. I shake my head. “I already bought the bathing suit, I’m not comfortable buying anything else.”

He’s already scanning the articles on a panty table, his brow furrowed as he hunts down the perfect pieces for me. “You won’t be buying it. I will.”

God.

He doesn’t waste time.

“How about this?” He’s dangling a red lace thong between his fingers.

I shake my head and feel myself flush.

“This?” His eyes begin to light up when he notices I’m beet red, and I bite down on the inside of my cheek. Play his game, Livingston!

“Too mainstream.” I dismiss it with a flick of my fingers. He lifts his brows.

“Well, in that case.” He hunts around the tables for another pair of lingerie. He picks up a yellow thong with a bow on the back, which I assume would be perched right between the tops of my butt cheeks.

I take it between my fingers. It’s made of lace, and the bow is soft silk.

“You want me to look like a present or what?” I playfully tease, gesturing to the bow.

He teases right back, his adorable smile part devil and part saint. “If I get to unwrap you? Yes.”

My body temperature is suddenly too high for what I assume is healthy so I step away toward the bra area, finding the matching one to the yellow thong he seems to like so much.

I walk around the store, picking up other stuff. I’m playing along, a little excited and more than a little reckless. Some black lace stockings with a matching garter, a white silk cami set, and Malcolm brings three more thongs (dark blue, white, and purple), and a tiny-looking corset, oh god.

“This has to go on you.” Now he’s being just wicked.

“If you want a corpse in your bed. Saint, these don’t let you breathe.”

He discards that and goes to find a pearl thong. “All right. So this.” He looks at me coaxingly.

“That’s sooo uncomfortable. I like my pearls on my neck and soft things between my . . .” I go up on my toes and add, “Cheeks.”

He catches me by the hips and pulls me close. “Try it on for me.”

“Nobody tries on underwear before they buy.” I walk around when he follows me and wraps his arms around me.

“Then let’s buy it. Try something on for me. A nightie. Sheer and pretty where I can see your blush just beneath.”

I scan the store quickly. “I don’t see any nightie here with that description . . .”

He produces a flimsy-looking gauzy thing from behind his back, eyes glinting.

“Malcolm.” I groan, and though I keep rummaging through the offerings, now I’m just looking for things to tease him. I grab a pair of huge granny panties. The kind that cover you up to your breasts and cut unattractively down on your leg. “This looks comfortable.”

“Like hell.”

“And this.” I pull out the plainest, biggest bra I can find. “Would you let me buy these?”

“Yeah minx. And we’ll use them for a bonfire.”

His eyes turn devilish and he grabs the big panties, the big bra, and the little nightie, and then tugs me to the dressing rooms, and I’m acutely aware of the salesladies possibly watching us. He yanks open a velvet dressing-room curtain, and when I go in, he follows me inside.

“Sin! What if they see you in here?”