Ms. Manwhore (Manwhore #2.5)(13)

“My . . . invasion was a success. As you can see. It’s all yin and yang now,” I say, my voice thick with lust.

Still bare-chested, he opens a drawer on the side I just overtook and peers inside. “Pink.”

“Yes.”

I see him check out the second drawer on the same side. Also mine. While he scans all of my neatly organized cosmetics, clips, toothbrush, and comb, I tug the hairband that has been holding my hair back and send my hair tumbling down my shoulders.

I tap the outside of a drawer on the opposite side of the sink. “This side is yours. And that side is mine.” I signal to my side, with the pink stuff, and grin.

His green eyes look liquid like seas as he slowly winds an arm around me and pulls me to his chest. “You’re mine.”

My breath catches happily, and our eyes meet. We both look so satisfied right now, it’s like we’re smiling with our eyes.

And suddenly I burn with need.

I want those hot eyes.

I want him to look at me with those eyes on our honeymoon. Eyes that inflame me like they do now. That unapologetically say that they want me, and only me, for eternity. I take his hand and lead us into the bedroom, and then I let go and just stand there, visually making love to his features.

I adore this man.

God, I adore him so much that I can’t fathom ever surviving losing him again.

He’s unzipping my tracksuit jacket and my body is swiftly responding to what I know is coming next.

I want it so much my throat feels tight with raw need, but as Malcolm smiles down at me and I feel the weight of his smoldering green gaze on me, I suddenly ache to see those eyes smolder just like this on our wedding night.

“Malcolm . . .” I begin, curling my fingers around his hand to stop him.

And suddenly I know that I’m going to do this, that I will only have one wedding, to this man. One wedding night in our entire lives. Waiting to be with each other again would be so worth it. Because my guy, he deserves a perfect bride and a wedding night that he will never forget.

And I want to be that bride, I want to be the girl that he can’t wait to touch, that he can’t wait to be inside of.

“I was thinking about possibly . . . abstaining from sex until the wedding.”

I step back a little, fighting my own hormones and need for this man.

He looks at me intently. His smile starts to disappear as he lifts one dark eyebrow. Then two. “You’re not kidding.”

I slowly shake my head. “Unfortunately no.” I gaze into his eyes and already miss him. “This would make the wedding night so perfect. Almost like the first time. I mean it’s just a week and we’ll be busy anyway.”

“Are you asking me? Or telling me?”

“If I ask you, you’ll say no.”

“So you’re telling me.” The eyes looking at me through those sable lashes are already brimming in frustration. They’re silently demanding that I say no.

But I can’t. I only nod.

He laughs and scrapes his hand down his face.

“Saint . . . come on.”

“Do I get you one last time? Before the wedding?” His hungry tree-bark voice is back full force. “Do I?”

I walk toward the window to gather my strength, then turn. “I need to do this cold turkey or I can’t do this at all.”

With long, purposeful strides, he comes over and lifts me in his arms. “I strongly disagree.” A warning cloud settles over his features.

“Come on. Please.”

He shakes his head and sets a soft kiss on my lips. “Not for a thousand pleases.”

“Four thousand?”

He sets me down on my feet, but keeps me so close to him that he leaves no room between us at all. He frowns as he looks down at me. “I get you tonight. All night.”

“Malcolm. You’re a shark in negotiations. You’ll say another night tomorrow and so on.”

“I never change the deal,” he says calmly. “This is irrelevant to our wedding night.”

“But it’s not.”

He takes my chin between his thumb and forefinger and angles my face upward, his voice uncompromising yet oddly gentle. “I get you tonight, Rachel. All night. No sleep. Nothing but you naked under my sheets.”

My sex is swollen and clenched in need, my knees rubbery. The mere thought of not having Malcolm again until the wedding is painful.

Saint’s expression is calm, but the look in his eyes is raw and primal, possessive and determined.

He waits patiently for my answer, and as I battle inside, he ghosts the pad of his thumb across the corner of my lips, and I moan softly and tremble.

I cannot deny him one night; I cannot deny myself one night.

“Okay,” I say.

One beat later, he bends to my ear and whispers my name in pure male lust—Rachel—his lips curving sensually as he inches back and f*cks me with his eyes. Then he scoops me up and tosses me on the bed, falling on top of me.

“Saint!” I cry, laughing in protest, but he smothers my mouth with his hot one and I curl my limbs around him, needing him to breathe.





DRESS


I’m sore and f*cked to within an inch of my wonderful life the next day, and I’m thinking about sex with him all through the next week as I shop for the honeymoon to . . . somewhere.