Manwhore +1 (Manwhore, #2)(70)

Now both brows go up, and he shoots me such an admiring look, I almost swell inside. He cups my face and touches his thumb to the corner of my mouth. “My father’s not weak, but he’s stubborn and selfish.” He shifts gears, his thumb ring glinting as he does.

“My dad definitely would have warned me off you, for sure . . . but I don’t know, Sin.” Turning my head dreamily in the seat so I can get a good eyeful of the candy that Saint driving his car is, I sigh. “I think he’d admire you very much.”

“My mother would’ve loved you, baby.” With a tender curving of his lips, he reaches out and tips my chin up. “Who could not love you?”

“You,” I say, then my hands fly up and I cover my mouth. “Ohmigod, don’t say anything.”

His eyes are alight with amusement as he opens his mouth.

“DON’T SAY ANYTHING! IT DOESN’T COUNT!”

Saint just laughs huskily. “Rach—”

“DON’T! DON’T DENY IT, DON’T ACCEPT IT, JUST DON’T. I’m so sorry; I don’t know why I said that. I went fishing for it and it’s not fair to you.”

I start laughing and he pulls over and stops the car, grabs me with both hands and kisses me. Not a peck. A kiss I can feel in my knees and that makes my lungs spread open as I try to breathe.

“Don’t,” I plead when he’s done.

“I’m not saying anything,” he says innocently.

“Okay. Please don’t.”

I’m shaking from wanting him to say it now. Say something. Maybe he doesn’t feel it. Maybe I should’ve let him speak. Maybe I couldn’t take what he’d have said. Urgh. I can’t even look at him right now. I stare out the window as he pulls us back into traffic and feel my stomach flip when he takes my hand and gives it a squeeze, and I love him even more for that alone. Whatever his reply might have been, he’s still holding my hand. He’s still here with me.

But when I remain silent, he slows down the car a little bit and leans over and kisses my mouth softly, one hand on the wheel, the other on the back of my head.

“What was that for?” I lick my lips, look at his mouth.

And he says, “That was me doing whatever I want.” He kisses me softly again. “Get used to it.”

I wait until he hits a stoplight, then grab him. “Get used to this.”

We kiss a little wilder, then smile. Then the acceleration is back on.



We ride the elevator to the penthouse where he sleeps, eats, lives.

Where he’s made love to me like mad.

My heart is pounding so hard, I can’t even hear the “ding” of the elevator, just suddenly, the doors open. Saint didn’t even ask me if I was coming over—it was a given. We said we’d spend the weekend together as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. And it’s starting to feel like it is.

I step out of the elevator, the sight of his beautiful apartment hitting me with painful longing, and my lungs start struggling a little bit. I’m spending the night here again and somehow it feels as though we’re slowly evolving into something deeper, stronger, further.

I set the pie down on his shiny kitchen counter as he comes up behind me and takes my hips in one hand.

The butterflies awaken in my stomach.

He uses his hand on my hips to turn me around, and my breath catches on a moan as his lips come down on mine. Our mouths fuse effortlessly, and will I ever get used to the electric jolt of his kisses? I feel the natural high he gives me rise in my body. My pulse skipping. My mind reeling. My world narrowing to the mouth currently making slow, hot love to mine.

When his phone buzzes, interrupting us, I’m not sure what I see in his eyes but the butterflies keep moving. His gaze is as deep as a night forest.

He pecks my lips before he takes the call and steps aside. “Santori,” he says, his voice low but clear. “Yeah, I was busy. Update? Hmm . . .” He starts pacing toward the living room, frowning as he runs his hand through his hair.

I wonder who this Santori is as I remove the aluminum foil from the pie, search for a spoon, then lean over the kitchen counter, up on my toes as I take a little spoonful.

Mmmm. God. Mint and chocolate are so good together.

I’m licking the spoon when I realize Saint is staring at me. Grinning, I dip my spoon and savor it so that he realizes he’s missing out on really good homemade pie.

I keep watching him as he watches me back, the intensity in his stare starting to knot up my body in places only he manages to reach. I set down the spoon and . . . why is my hand trembling? Self-conscious of his very male, very powerful stare, I lick the corners of my lips, and his voice drops a decibel.

“Yeah, I can’t . . . do this now. Give me the night to think over our next move.”

He powers off his phone and tosses it aside.

My knees turn to Jell-O as he comes over. He rubs a silver thumb ring over my lips, his eyes gleaming with lights. “I thought I could get some business done, but I’d rather do you.”

Holy crap. He looks so decisive. So determined.

One sentence from this man and I’m as hot and ready as if we’ve spent hours on foreplay.

“Do you . . .” I lick my lips and stare at his mouth, trying to level my breathing. “Do you want pie?”

He tilts my head back so we make eye contact. And he shakes his head . . . very, very slowly.