Ms. Manwhore (Manwhore #2.5)(10)

My heart gives another squeeze. I’m panting, holding on to his shoulders.

His soft hair is tickling my jaw as he starts unbuttoning my shirt. He’s going slowly. Painfully slowly. His fingers rubbing against my skin, and with every button he undoes, I become undone.

He pushes the straps of my bra down and pulls my legs tighter around him. “You drive me crazy,” he whispers.

I pull his head up to kiss him, and he gives me the longest kiss of my life. I am pouring myself into this kiss, letting my lips and my tongue tell him everything he needs to know. That I crave him. That I love him. That I’m completely his to have, and cherish. I see us lounging by that fireplace he wants to put in the living room, I see us having drinks in the kitchen without friends, I see us looking out at Chicago, late at night, the lights of the buildings imitating the stars in the sky.

We’re home. We. Not him, not me. We. This will be our home.



We kiss for a little while, hands wandering, mouths savoring. I could go on and on like this with him, but the elevator pings and I realize we’re getting company. A handful of contractors start to shuffle inside, back from the hour-long break Saint requested they take so he could show me around. Sin buttons up my shirt and I quickly arrange my hair and hop off the counter, then I wander the apartment while the contractors consult with him.

From their conversation, I hear that he bought the whole top floor and the floor beneath it. Two-level penthouse, twenty-one-foot ceilings on the bottom one, twenty-five-foot ceilings on the top one. They’re being connected through a private elevator, as well as a staircase that curves upward from the lower floor, connecting to the foyer of the penthouse.

My mother used to say that a big house was every woman’s dream. That is, until you moved into it, and it became a nightmare to keep clean. I can’t imagine this place ever being my nightmare.

As Saint talks to some of the contractors, I walk across the empty space. He’s hired an architect to design a huge play area down below. Upstairs is for our friends, near the huge bar and terrace. The floor below has another terrace where he’s making preparations for a pool that’s only a couple of feet deep, for the kids; there will be a mini golf as well.

He’s thought of everything. Nannies’ rooms. Where our children can have parties. Where we can get together with friends. He’s thought of double offices. Huge bathrooms. And an extra room where I can keep a crib and a nursery upstairs. We won’t move our little Saint downstairs until there are a few more and he’s a little older. Our spot of paradise in Chicago.

And I get my own closet.

I walk back to our room and admire it. Even the bathtub has a view, I see now that I admire it again. On one side I can watch the city. On the other I can watch my husband in the see-through, pristine glass shower.

Life is full of tough choices.





NOTRE DAME


Saint speaks at the University of Notre Dame on Friday. He talks about building momentum for start-up businesses during an hour-long conference in a packed auditorium flooded with the youngest, brightest minds in the country.

Notre Dame is one of the oldest universities in the country and, I’ve just decided, it has to be one of the most beautiful. When we drove into the campus it was like driving into another world. It consists of 1,250 acres of land, with huge old trees growing amid modern Gothic buildings—one of the largest of which is topped with a regal gold dome.

We drove up for the conference, but we stay for the rest of the day so that we can look at the stadium, the library, and some of the chapels, many of which are actually situated in the residence halls. We have lunch with the dean of the College of Business and we’re heading back to the city when Sin gets a call from Tahoe. The Bluetooth picks up. I’m still dazed about the beautiful campus straight out of Harry Potter when Tahoe’s voice flares out from the Bug’s speakers.

“Saint!”

“What’s up, T?”

“I’ve got four words for you. Bachelor Party. Monte-f*cking-Carlo.”

He shoots me a sidelong glance, a glint of humor lighting up his eyes. “Can’t. I’ve got a packed schedule with the wedding coming up. Need to get everything set if I want peace during my honeymoon.”

“Bachelor party. Monte-FUCKING-Carlo, Saint.”

“Can’t.” Malcolm calmly keeps driving. “Unless you want to move it to Dubai. Got a project I’m cracking open soon.”

“Fine. Dubai’s our baby. When do we leave?”

“Next Friday, seven a.m. at O’Hare.”

“About time I tested out that new G650 of yours. How about some bikini-clad flight attendants?”

Another sidelong glance. This one with even more sparks dancing in his eyes. “Got to say, T. You’re on a roll here. You just went up high on Rachel’s blacklist.”

“Ah, well damn. Hey, Rachel,” Tahoe says.

“Hi, Tahoe.”

“And it’s a no on the flight attendants,” Saint says, reaching out to cut off the call. “No monkey business in my Gulfstream.”

He cuts off without a goodbye, and I look at him.

“You men don’t lose time with pleasantries, do you? No hello, no goodbye, just in and out.”

He speeds up a little on a stretch of highway that’s pretty clear, and chuckles low in his throat.