Ms. Manwhore (Manwhore #2.5)(21)

His head swings lazily to the side and he looks at me with a slightly rising eyebrow. Then he reaches out and strokes the damp tendrils from my face. It’s only one touch. One tiny touch of his two fingers on my hair. Strong, warm, familiar, and a little wet. A long, pleasant shiver overtakes me.

He just smiles, and I’m clinging desperately to my responsible, sensible self, who knows we will only have one, one, wedding night.

“Don’t seduce me, Sin.” I lift the towel so he can’t see how hard my nipples have gotten.

“Me?” He lifts his hands devilishly, a mischievous spark in his eye. “I’ve done nothing yet. Nothing that I really wanted to do.”

I feel my skin color. “You have that glint in your eye, Saint. I want the perfect wedding night with you.”

“And you’re going to get it.”

“So why are you leaning forward?”

He lifts his hand. “I’m pretending I don’t know what it feels like to do this.” He eases his fingers under my hair and plays with it naturally, casually.

I close my eyes and feel relaxation spreading through me. I try not to moan. “Good. Focus on that.”

“I can’t. I need some self-control not remembering what it’s like to nibble your ears. Right here. Where it drives me crazy.”

Dizzy with anticipation and excitement, I shiver.

“You like having your fun, don’t you?” I mock him playfully.

“I like having fun with my girl.”

“With me, or making fun of me and my wish for a perfect wedding night?”

He’s hard and I’m wet and we’re panting.

“What makes it perfect is you and me. I could have you ten times tonight and want you as much tomorrow.”

“All the women in my life have advised otherwise.”

“As the only man in your life, I strongly disagree,” he says, but seems to put the matter aside in good humor.

“I bet you do.”

When he laughs, he sounds so boyish. His laugh breaks off, and his eyes start to smolder with something beyond lust, and more like need. We stare at each other: Every time our eyes lock, I want his taste in my mouth.

He’s looking at me hotly.

As if he wants more than to taste.

He reaches out and tugs the knot at the nape of my neck. “I miss the sight of you.”

My bikini top unravels.

I reach for it.

“Don’t,” he gruffly commands.

His eyes lazily rove over me, like a feather’s touch on my skin.

He brushes a finger over the back of my neck, touching my body as naturally as he breathes. “You’re blushing.” He runs a finger down my cheek. Gone in a second. His eyes flick up to mine, and then he’s looking at me with an intense and secret expression. “By the time you let me have you again, you’ll be blushing even deeper.”

“Enjoy it while it lasts. The blushes. I can’t be a blushing old lady.”

“I rather hope you will be.”

“Nope. I need to be a composed old lady.”

“I’ll do my best to decompose my old lady as frequently as I can.”

God, I have a desperate urge to kiss his devil-sucks-my-dick-every-night smile.

Unable to resist, I kiss his lips, quickly, and feel him pat my ass as he gets up and we head for our rooms. “Decompose me after the wedding.”

“I’m planning to do much more than that.”

As we gather our towels, he looks at me and says, “Hey, I sent something to your room.”

My eyes widen. “What?”

“Why do you look so uncomfortable when I get you something?”

“I’m not used to it.”

He frowns. “I need to work on that.”

“Not you, I need to.”

“I plan to spoil you, Miss Saint . . . often.”

“I’m going to let you.”

He stares down at me with heated eyes. “Good.”

“And spoil you right back.”

“Have fun with it.”

“With what? Spoiling you?”

“That too.”

“Oh. My gift! What is it? A vibrator?”

He frowns. “Why would I want anything inside you other than me?” He tsks and taps a fingertip playfully to my temple. “This abstinence isn’t doing you good, Livingston.”





VISIT BEFORE THE WEDDING


In my room I find four dresses.

The Vera Wang, Reem Acra, Yumi Katsura, and Monique Lhuillier—two of them even include handwritten notes from the designers themselves.

From simple, to Regency style, to one covered in what looks like diamond dust, these are the most beautiful dresses I’ve ever seen—the finest for his girl. I feel warm just thinking about him having a hand in making sure they were ready for our day.

I touch the materials, then I spend the next hour trying them on.

They’re so spectacular, each one as pretty as the last. I wouldn’t even know which to pick!

But no.

I think I’ve set my fear aside. I’m getting married with his mother’s engagement ring and my mother’s dress.

As I take off the last dress, Gina, Wynn, and my mother are all oohing and aahing in my living room.