Ms. Manwhore (Manwhore #2.5)(17)

“Not tonight,” he says, ducking into the water before they reach him. He leaves them both pouting behind him and pops up behind me and pokes my back. “Hey,” he says.

I notice the girls hop onto the yacht and each of them slips into one of his white shirts.

A pulsing knot forms in my stomach as I turn and stare into his green eyes and we just float there, staring, and there seems nothing else but dark water, the sky above, and him, the darkest thing that’s ever had such a pull to me. “Hey,” I say.

“Come here,” he whispers.

I start awake.

It’s 5 a.m. in Chicago—which would make it 3 p.m. in Dubai—and the girls are still partying and wake me.

“Rachel, pick up your phone,” Gina says.

She’s got her iPhone pressed to her ear as I stir and groggily search for mine. She lowers hers for a moment and tells me, “They’re flying. Your man’s as good as married. He seemed to leave his dick home. Hang on.” She places it on speaker and I hear Tahoe’s Texan drawl.

“Congrats, Rachel. You’re still his number-one girl. There were redheads, brunettes, double Ds. Carmichael and I got them all.”

Gina takes him off speaker, and I grin like a dope because I’m still the apple of my Sin’s eye.

“He wants to talk to you.”

“Tahoe?”

“Saint!”

Leaping forward, I take the phone, my voice groggy and slurring with sleep. “Hello, bachelor.”

His voice is husky with drink and no sleep. “Hello, bride.”

The words feather all over my body. There’s something so warm and enchanting in the way he says “bride.”

Hmm, just a tad possessive too?

“I’m flying this bird straight home. Nonstop. Full speed,” he says quietly.

I clench the phone tighter as my body grips in complete anticipation. “Okay. Did you have fun?”

“Lots,” he says. But he sounds weary. Weary of traveling maybe?

“Did you miss me?”

“Lots more. I called you, but no answer.”

Belatedly, I realize that Wynn, Gina, Valentine, and Sandy are watching me with curious looks, so I move to the window and lower my voice. “I slept through my party.”

“No whipped cream, baby?” His voice drops an octave, and I think I detect a silken thread of warning in his voice.

“No.”

“Good.” His voice, though quiet, has an ominous quality. “I’ll keep my record clean of murder for now.”

I make my tone match his. “I guess I’ll let the brunettes, redheads, and double Ds live for now.”

He chuckles, a laugh that’s long and soft, so close that I remember how warm his breath feels when he laughs in my ear. “Mrs. Saint,” he begins, unapologetically delighted, “you’re an angel.”

“And you, Mr. Saint, are a devil.”

“In fifteen hours your devil’s home.”

When I hang up, everything in me has gone butter. My thighs butter, my heart butter, with the added bonus of butterflies in my tummy too.





HOME


Since it’s a fifteen-hour flight, I get to hang around with the girls, a little hungover for the day, then by early afternoon I head to the penthouse to shower and change.

By 7 p.m. I am waiting for him in his apartment, wandering around a little bit and fixing my things. I don’t want my Rachel Invasion to wear on him too soon, and I was a little less careful when I had a bedroom all to myself.

Exhaustion wears me down. But if my head touches our bed, I’ll be asleep. I curl in the seating area in the living room, with a perfect view of the elevators to one side and Chicago to the other, and stare out the window, watching the flickering city lights as I doze off.

I hear the elevator ting and I perk up as adrenaline shoots me to my feet.

It’s like electricity ignites in the room the moment Malcolm steps into the penthouse.

I see him, he sees me. The air heats and crackles like a live thing, leaping in arcs from him to me, from me to him. His gaze latches on to mine and my heart dances as I stare at him with homesickness and longing and happiness times a million.

The air of confidence around him radiates like a power line, lures me like a flame in the dark.

He drops his luggage. “Wow, look at you.”

There’s a jolt of excitement in me when I recognize the admiration in his voice. I’m wearing one of his white button-down shirts for sleep but it never ceases to amaze him. I rasp, “Look at you.”

“How are you, Rachel?”

A wave of intense feelings overtakes me as I nod over his concern. “How are you?”

“Good.” The prolonged anticipation of the moment before he walks forward to take me in his arms is almost unbearable. We exchange a huge hug. A hug that is tight and warm and goes on for a minute, telling me that he missed me. His nearness kindles me to a burn as I savor the strength and warmth of his embrace. He smells of the leather of his brand-new airplane. And wood. And soap. And Saint. Oh god, Saint.

“Glad to be home.”

“Really?”

The truth in his eyes is nearly heartrending. “Really.” He smiles down at me as he spreads a hand on my face to brush my hair back, then he opens his other hand on the small of my back and smashes me to his chest to greedily fit his lips to mine. I’m all too willing. Ready. Soft. And warm.