Manwhore +1 (Manwhore, #2)(66)

“Am not.”

“Because I’ve had many women?” Probing green eyes challenge me as he coasts his hand down my side. “Because I like to take what I want?”

“Like . . .” I lick my lips. “What do you want . . .”

He edges back and stands and tugs the rest of the drawstring open until his trunks slide down his powerful legs.

He reaches over to the drawer, pulls out a condom, tears it open, and hands it to me with a challenging spark in his eyes and an adorable curl to his lips. “Put this on me.”

I edge up on my knees and stroke him lovingly even though I chide with a scowl, “You’re kind of a dictator in bed. Which is why you’ll never be my boss—”

He ducks his head and kisses me. I go breathless and let him ease me down on the bed. His hands slide up my arms and he laces his fingers through mine, smiling down at me.

“You like that?” he grins a little as he keeps my hands secured under his.

“No,” I lie.

“Yeah, you do.” Between searing kisses and slow, drugging kisses, he looks down at me. He stares at me as my body moves like a bow as he takes me. I pant. I beg. And I hold his gaze, memorizing him, powerful and smooth as he eases inside me.

Malcolm.

He wants me to call him Malcolm again.

He holds my gaze, watching me with violently tender eyes, as if he’s been living for this moment.

Holding my wrists in one hand, he cups my face and starts to move. It’s so hot, this powerlessness, the way he holds me down, and I want him to; the way one hand engulfs my face and his thumb rubs my lips as I open them and gasp. I start coming apart when he drives fully inside me. He slows down his motions as I climax. Twisting in his grip, I tremble and feel broken open even as my hips rock up so he can break and take some more, his hold on my wrists firm and wickedly exciting.

“That’s right,” he heatedly kisses my mouth, wetly tasting me with the same violent tenderness I see in his eyes. “Give me all of it . . . that’s right . . . don’t stop coming for me . . .”

“You . . .” I bite his lip as I circle my hips as seductively as I can. “Come . . . with me . . . Malcolm, come with me . . .” A helpless groan leaves me as his hips keep pounding into mine.

He drags his hands down my arms and then flips me around unexpectedly, pulls me up on all fours, and drives inside me again. “I’m here,” he husks out, taking me by the hair as he sinks in deeper, groaning my name in my ear.

My orgasm, which had been receding, seems to start up again. He’s reveling in me, his thrusts deep, fast, powerful, and oh so good. His mouth is everywhere at once. Wet. Hot. Out of control. His grip tighter. His body desperate for me. No. He is desperate for me.

He hisses near the back of my ear and stiffens inside me, and I come. I come and twist beneath him, aware of how he’s clutching me closer, his arms vises and his lips hungrily tugging my ear—the ear I know he loves that matches my “other” one.

Minutes later, we’re both limp, I’m draped over his side, and his chest starts rumbling.

I frown a little. Is he . . . chuckling?

I lift my head, confused. His voice is husky as he holds me a little closer to his chest, his lids halfway over his eyes. “You’re a little devil too.” He rubs his thumb over my lip, and then he grins at me like he loves it.



We spend the next day on The Toy again. We eat, sunbathe, drink a little wine, and splash into the water. I can also officially tell the girls that without setting a single finger on it, I can now knot a cherry stem.





CHERRY BLUES


I wake up in my bed Sunday, very late at night—or, rather, too early on Monday.

Confused, I pad out to the living room to find it empty. I head to Gina’s room. “Remind me not to drink on a boat,” I tell Gina, grabbing my head as I lean heavily on the door frame.

She groans in the bed.

“Saint?”

Gina stirs a little. “You were knocked out, he carried you in.”

“Why didn’t he stay?”

“He stayed in your room a bit, and then he left. You looked like the dead would wake up sooner than you.”

“When did he leave?”

“An hour ago.”

“I’m sorry I woke you, I think I’m still a little intoxicated.” I lean on her door a bit and sigh. “Gina, we had such a great time. We talked . . . we swam . . . we ate cherries . . . we had dinner. I had only two glasses of wine. Two! And I can’t remember the rest.”

“It’s the damn wind and the rocking motion, it knocks me out every time.”

I groan and deeply, deeply regret those drinks I had.

“Close the door,” she mumbles as I go out.

Back in the room, I turn on the lamp and get my phone, writing, Thanks for bringing me home.

But instead of sending the text, I try calling to see if he answers. When I hear his voice, my veins start buzzing with something even more powerful than alcohol.

“Thank you for bringing me home. I enjoyed spending time with you very much,” I whisper.

“Me too.”

I glance at the time; it’s past 3 a.m. My voice is awkward with drink and sleep. “I wanted you to spend the night.”

“There’s no way to describe what I’m going to do to you when I do.”