Manwhore +1 (Manwhore, #2)(62)

His smile is brief and regretful.

“I’m over it, but he’s never backed off from trying to step on my heels. For years I’ve been weeding out his hired snoops, who are rabid to know what I’m after next.” He looks fondly at me and winks. “I move too fast for him. But damn me if I shouldn’t have seen this coming after . . .” He trails off.

I ache in my ribs, my chest, my stomach. “I’m sorry, Malcolm.”

“Edge is worthless to him without you. He’s testing me out to see how much I care.”

“But we’re not formally together. After what happened, why would he think you cared?”

“Because I do.” His green eyes flash almost violently, hot and fast. “I just do.” And then, a low, amused laugh follows when I just stare at him stupidly. “Rachel, it’s obvious.”

He drags a hand through his hair, looking away thoughtfully while shocking me. No. Stunning me.

“Cathy and the girls would share looks when I scheduled an appointment with you. Otis would get a look on his face when I’d ask him to pick you up. Roth and Carmichael still won’t let me hear the end of it. People who don’t know me at all speculated about you and me. It’s very obvious.”

“What’s obvious?”

He shoots me a look, then his lips curl a little and he runs his knuckles down my jawline. “That I’m into you.”

He touches his thumb to my chin and there are dozens of hot, tangled sensations all over me.

“I swear, those looks you give me, Rachel,” he murmurs under his breath.

“What looks?” I laugh, flustered. We’re so relaxed, bantering; I missed this so much. The way his eyes look at me, openly amused. There’s something unguarded and warm in his humor. It’s enchanting because he’s always so in control at work.

“This one.” His thumbs brush over the outside corners of my eyes. “This one.” He uses his thumbs to shape a smile on my lips, his green eyes both humorous and tender. “This one,” he adds huskily, brushing his thumb over a frown on my forehead. “And the one that tells me you want me here.” He cups my sex, then brings his dark head close to my ear. “The one that says you’re scared and want to be saved. And the one when you’re happy, as if I gave you the world, like when I bought you lingerie.”

“Oh, I bet you loved that last one, hmm? You like the ones that cater to your ego best?” I bring my hand up to stifle my laugh. “The ones that go straight to here.” I then give a tap to his head, and he’s just smiling.

“Do you know,” I stroke a hand aimlessly up and down his abs, his pecs, “the story of Psyche and Cupid?”

He cocks an amused eyebrow.

“Psyche’s beauty compelled men to worship her, incurring Venus’s wrath, and Venus commissioned Cupid to enact her revenge. But upon seeing her, Cupid accidentally pricked himself with his own arrow and fell in love with Psyche, so he hatched a plan to make her his wife. Now, Psyche believed she was fated to marry a monster, and when Cupid himself told her not to look at him, she was pretty worried about who he was. She didn’t trust what she couldn’t see, and one day, encouraged by her jealous sisters to kill him, she dared to look upon him. And he was so beautiful . . . her Cupid . . .” I blush. “So just when she realized he wasn’t the monster she thought he was, she lost him. Cupid told her that love couldn’t dwell with suspicion, and he left her.” I blush more.

“Go on.” He leans back, paying the kind of attention to me that only he does, intense and a little bit nerve-racking.

“Then Psyche realized she had to return to serve Venus, who put her through terrible trials. But Cupid started interfering—he rescued Psyche from a deep sleep and finally made her his wife.”

His laugh is slow and marvelous, catching.

“Little one, I can’t possibly be Cupid in that story.”

When he lifts his brows in a dare, I realize, he is Cupid to me, mischievous and conniving, but demanding loyalty when he unexpectedly falls for Psyche.

But Saint doesn’t want to be Cupid. He shoots me a look that warns me what will happen if he is. Delicious sex torture?

Oh god.

I wonder how stupid I might have sounded, basically assuming that he loved me. Stupid Rachel.

“Well, your true form, Hades,” I improvise, “stole Persephone and took her to the underworld, where he abused her sexually before they ended up falling in love. You know what always puzzles me?” I add.

“What?” His eyes gleam like glassy volcanic rock.

“Zeus, the most powerful ‘good’ god, was always having affairs on his wife. The ‘bad’ god, Hades, was pretty much obsessed with Persephone, and seemed far more in love with her than Zeus was with his wife. For all his sins, Hades was so much more devoted. I think . . . there’s always something beautiful breeding in the darkness and pain.”

“Is there?” he asks quietly.

I nod soberly. “So no, you’re not Cupid in that story, I guess.” Then I tease, “You’re Zeus and Hades. A saint here,” I touch his heart, “and a sinner here,” I touch his thickening erection.

He laughs softly and pulls me to his chaise, and we lie there, soaking up the sun in silence.

The lake is mostly calm, save for a few Jet Skis passing by, an occasional boat. I think about his father, how calm and rational Malcolm has been throughout this.