Manwhore +1 (Manwhore, #2)(88)

He groans as I moan and before I can climax instantly from the feel of him, he pulls out. And I’m there, shivering, suspended in the pinnacle of both physical and emotional pleasure. Gasping for air, I look at him, panting, burning, and his chest is heaving as he holds himself up on his arms above me.

He likes prolonging. I close my eyes and savor the way he does it. His lips once again tug on my nipples then trail along my abdomen. Up my neck. He smells me. Tastes me. Relishes me. Experiences me. I grab his hair, undulating beneath his hot, hard body. Savoring him back. He’s my obsession and my addiction, the only place I feel both safe and exhilarated.

“Sin,” I beg.

He pulls free from my kiss and growls, “I am obsessed with you.” Then, he grabs my hips and fills me, whispering, “I adore you,” filling me completely, watching me with those smoldering green eyes I can feel in every part of me, building up a new orgasm, cupping my breasts in his hands, and bending to lick and lave both tips.

I thrash beneath him, unsure if I can survive so much of him. So much pleasure. Such total, consuming pleasure. But I do—and he goes deeper in me.

I sigh in relief every time he thrusts back in. Sigh his name pleadingly. He takes my mouth with his, his kiss ravenous.

“I am . . . crazy . . . about you,” he rasps, moving in me so deep I can feel him in my heart. His face moves to my ear. “Let me own you, Rachel, and I’ll let you own me right back. You’re my lady now.” He kisses my forehead, my nose, and my lips.

“Don’t close your eyes; look at me,” he says, and when I lift my lashes, his eyes are luminous in his face, and he’s the hottest, sexiest thing I’ve ever seen, watching me as he f*cks me as if transfixed.

He rams his hand into my hair and makes a hard fist as he moves his body over mine, pinning me down for leverage as he watches me come for him.

I give myself over. Sin. Saint.

Malcolm inside me, Malcolm watching me with his green eyes, Malcolm clenching his jaw as he makes love to me, Malcolm who has my heart.



We spend Saturday on The Toy. He orders food from a delicious French restaurant before we sail and then the crew cleans up as we head upstairs.

We’re in the top-level sitting area now as the yacht moves through the water, sated from swimming, making out in the water, doing it in the cabin shower, and then in the bed. Relaxed from all the sex, Malcolm works for a while on a couch and I lounge nearby, with my feet on his lap and one of his hands stroking them absently as I surf my phone a little bit.

I’m steering away from anything that could be a downer. So no Saint social-media-digging shit for me. No Saint social media about his father. I hear him take a call and am happy to overhear that M4’s stock had a huge rally after the news broke that Edge went to Noel Saint’s corporation. And now I can’t stop dreaming of my new career. My new office space. My new life.

I’m thinking of all the things I want to do as the wind drags by and Malcolm finishes up, and when he shuts his laptop and I hear the unmistakable silence of powered-off electronics, I close my thoughts too as he pulls me up by the waist, then scoops me up in both arms and takes me to bed.

“I have legs,” I whisper sleepily.

He gives me one of his toe-curling smirks. “Long, lovely ones too.”

His king bed is waiting for us, sprawled in the center of the room, kind of big like him.

He sets me down in bed, but I crawl away and slip into one of his shirts as he strips, while exhaustion weighs me down after the day.

We settle into the bed a little bit; I crawl in and I plump the pillow and slide under the covers, and he joins me, flipping onto his back, pulling an arm above his head, relaxing as his free hand curls around my shoulders and presses me to his chest. I’m warm and soft inside, settling against him. The safe, warm nook in his arms. Gathered against his large, warm male body. Contentment and peace flow through me even as his body buzzes like it always does. With that never-ending thirst of his that I try to quench with me.

And we kiss a little. And as the kiss starts to heat up, we end up f*cking slow and easy, not talking, only the noises of kissing and skin touching, our breathing and the yacht engines. I almost choke when I orgasm—the pleasure is so intense I hold my breath for forever, then exhale and lie limp, surrounded by all of Sin.

He kisses me passionately when we’re done. Like he’s grateful for my affection and my companionship and my desire of him.

Then we cuddle and I set my cheek against his chest and fall asleep fast and easily, like only the warm and safe do.





HIM +1


I wake up in Malcolm’s arms Monday morning, and though I see there’s a bit of light stealing through the drapes, I can tell there’s still maybe ten or twenty minutes to dress for work . . . maybe I’ll just stay right here forever.

He’s still in bed, his eyes closed, his dark hair in a delish rumpled mess. I shift my hip, lightly trailing my fingers up his chest, noticing the claw marks of my nails on his pecs.

My eyes widen. What . . . holy shit, did I do that?

Welcome to the land of the crazy in love, Rachel. This may have been why you were so reluctant to move here?

Grinning, I rub my fingers over the marks, and his hand slides up my back. I lift my head in surprise. His lips are curled as he watches me.

“I actually clawed you last night?”

His voice is husky with sleep. “No, the girls who came in while you were sleeping did.”