Manwhore +1 (Manwhore, #2)(67)

“Please do,” I beg.

Silence.

“I want you so much, Sin . . .”

Silence.

“You can do anything you want with me as long as you promise to do it again.”

“Now that’s a promise I’d like to keep,” he whispers huskily.

“I know you don’t like to make promises but your word is gold, and if you’d stayed over, I would’ve let you devour me. But not all of me, you know. You need to leave enough . . . just so that tomorrow when I’m sober, you can tell me what you did to me.”

“So I get everything but your ears?” His voice sounds close to the speaker again and absolutely amused.

“Yes!” I say happily.

“While I devour every part of you with my mouth?”

Every part! Ohgod, yes.

“I’m not sure I can resist your ears,” he says in a tragic tone.

Desire building and building.

“Okay,” I breathe. “Take my ears too.”

“You’re certain? I’d own all of your senses now.”

I breathe out, “I’m certain.”

“Rachel, I want you undone for me—absolutely wrecked.”

“Okay, Saint.”

I am!

“Okay?” he coaxes. Still amused.

“Hmm. I’m game, Saint. Bases loaded.”

“Spend the weekend with me after your mother’s?”

“I’d love to. I’ll be on all five senses. Very attuned to your naughty plans.”

“I’ll hide the wine,” he teases.

“Malcolm!” I laugh, then, worriedly, “Did I say something?”

“Nothing you haven’t said before.”

“Malcolm! What did I say, you dick?”

He chuckles. “Nothing I wouldn’t mind hearing again, Rachel.”

When we hang up, I stare at my ceiling. Oh god, did I tell him I loved him? Drunk? Why can’t I say it like a normal, courageous person when I’m sober, looking into his eyes?

I try to remember and I can’t, I just can’t remember if I said it.

But if I did . . . he wants to hear it again?

I could’ve just talked dirty, which would be sooo unlike me and something Saint would probably love to hear too.

I sigh, plump my pillow, and turn off my lamp, getting haunted and aroused by the simple thought of a knotted cherry stem.





A SAINT IN MY HOME


Tonight is the night Saint meets my mother, and I don’t know who’s more excited, my mother or I.

Before I go to my mom’s, I stop by the pharmacy to stock her up on her medicines, then I buy her three bags of fresh, organic groceries and have neatly stored everything in her medicine cabinet and fridge. Then it’s off to help her with preparations for tonight’s dinner. I’ve made sure that the house is sparkly clean, the table set with our prettiest plates and topped with a pretty white rose centerpiece. Mom, apron and all, buzzes busily through the kitchen, stacking things in the hot drawer.

The excitement in our home is palpable.

Since my early teens, my mother has seen me focused exclusively on my career. I’d never really daydreamed about boys before. She’s as unprepared for me to bring a man home as I am—even though I’m sure she’s been hoping that I’d one day find “someone.”

Well.

I have.

Holy crap, I have! And my mother wants to meet him, and most shocking of all, he wants to meet my mother too.

Exhaling in satisfaction, I give one last look at our home. It looks spotless and homey. Though, a little bit self-consciously, I realize my mother’s house is kind of a shrine to me and the accomplishments I’ve earned so far: framed newspaper articles I wrote for my high school paper. My first piece for Edge. Letters from some readers I’d touched that I had stored away.

“I was reading up on him just this morning . . .” Mom says as she comes out to give one satisfied look at the house. “He looks very powerful. Very beautiful.”

“He is. He’s both. Also smart. Motivated.”

I pat her hand and kiss her cheek, and she asks, “He’s really coming?”

“No, Momma. I just wanted to put us to work for fun.”

She smiles one of her tender mother smiles and this time, she’s the one who pats my hand. “It’s good that he’s coming, Rachel,” she assures.

My stomach squeezes at that, and I grin and nod.

I’m both nervous and excited for him to be here. “Remember you promised not to drill him with questions, okay, Mother?”

“Of course!” my mother says as she heads back to the kitchen.

Oh god. Please let them like each other.

Pulling back the gauze curtain, I peer out the window to see his Pagani Huayra slide to a screeching halt before our home.

Oh, Sin. Speeding. Really?

I’m smiling, but I pretend that I’m not as I swing open the door and shake my head in disapproval while I watch him get out of the car. He’s wearing a black cashmere sweater and a pair of dark-wash jeans, a bottle of wine firm in his hand, and he’s making my heart race as he eats up the distance between us.

Sin is absolutely at home in the night, though it feels like every streetlight nearby is fawning on him, casting attractive shadows on his face and body.