Manwhore +1 (Manwhore, #2)(63)

“You won’t let him goad you into doing anything reckless . . . will you?”

He laughs. “I’m over reckless.” He shifts his shoulders so he can look at me. “But on my word, he won’t be hurting you. Slowly, deliberately, very subtly, I’ll crush him if he comes near you.”

“He won’t come near me. I’ll leave before then.”

He cups my face in a gesture of male gratitude, and asks, “How are you going to introduce me to your mother?”

I smile. “She already knows you’re not saintly at all,” I tease.

He looks at me quietly, the silence stretching.

“She’s worried,” I admit.

“Is she?”

“She thinks you’re too worldly.”

“That’s a negative against me?”

“And too rich.”

“Really now?” His brows slant thoughtfully.

“She’s worried you’re a player and that you won’t be able to help yourself and play with me.”

His eyebrows furrow even more. “Well, it won’t be the first time I’m underestimated.”

“But she likes you! It’s just that . . . she’s been a victim of what she’s heard. She was rooting for us but it was hard to hide from her that I was so . . . sad.”

He tips my head back; his eyes darken. “You put yourself there. Not me.”

I drop my eyes. “I know. Are you sure you want to? Go?” I ask hesitantly.

“Yeah, I want to.” He moves his hand up to play with a little tendril of hair by my ear, his voice dropping an octave. “I’m not a saint. But you, Rachel . . .” He trails off as though searching for words.

“I’m not a saint either.” I’m laughing at that. “I’m a sinner,” I assure him; then I smirk a little and playfully push at his shoulder with the heel of my palm. “And you’re my Sin.”

He catches my wrist in his grip, and my laugh fades as he pulls me closer.

The glow of lust in his eyes as he studies me opens up a painful ache in my midsection. I am rabid for him. He’s my Achilles’ heel, the greatest pleasures in my life somehow now tied to his smiles. And right now, I quiver with the knowledge that he wants me.

So many years of being practical, and now I feel my romantic side taking over. I’ve spent every night for almost the past month reliving the ways he’s spoken to me, looked at me. He is unattainable, and yet he’s all my fantasies, all my dreams, put into one single human being, with warm flesh and a thudding heart and a beautiful face with a mouthwateringly muscled body.

His expression is fully relaxed now, his lips wearing just the hint of a smile as he asks, “Are you hungry?”

For you, I think, but I shake my head no.

He gets to his feet, pours us some wine and pops a cherry into his mouth. He knots the stem and shows me his perfect knot. “You ever do that?” His deep voice as he sits near me warms me up.

“It means you’re good with your tongue.”

His gentle laugh ripples through the air, and oh, I feel his smile between my ribs, between my legs.

He heads back to the table. Joining him by the little fruit buffet, I eat a cherry, put aside the seed, and try to knot the stem. He eats another while he watches. After a minute, I give up and shake my head, taking the straight stem out of my mouth and showing him.

“Nope,” I confirm, laughing.

He just smiles down at me, his voice low and husky. “Nobody ever gets it right the first time.”

He grabs another one and knots it again, moving his tongue slowly inside his mouth in a way that causes all kinds of lusty thoughts to run through me. There’s a curious swooping pull to my insides as I watch him do it, and when his lips curl upward as he gazes at me, the swooping is followed by a shock wave that rocks me.

Before I can take another one, he grabs my wrist, his other hand lifting to rest on my face. He brushes my lips with the pad of his thumb. I shiver involuntarily.

I’m entranced by the thoughtfulness on his face as he draws my cheek to his chest and caresses my hair. We stay like that. The very air over the water seems electrified. He runs his hand through my hair and the sensation is so sweet and so intoxicating, I can’t move.

He obviously knows he affects me. But he seems affected too, his body stone-like and buzzing with tension.

As if getting control of himself, he peers down at me. “Do you want me to teach you how to knot one up? Or want a dip in the water?”

I glance at the cherries, and his lips curl. My toes curl in response. Reaching out, he raises a cherry, dangling it from the stem.

I ease down onto the chaise near the buffet table and start to feel warm from his body heat, suddenly so very near.

He leans over, holding the cherry by the stem, and I part my lips and pluck it off. I bite into it with my molars and feel the cool juice slide down my throat. I’ve never been more aware of him watching me eat as I take the little seed out of my mouth and I set it on a small plate on the table.

He sits beside me, his shoulder touching mine, his face looking down at me, and I swear the sun looks better on his face than in the sky.

My lips part when he offers the stem, and I pull it into my mouth and give it a try. He bends his head closer to speak through the noise of the wind. “Curl it around your tongue.” His voice is absolutely low. “Like this.”