Ms. Manwhore (Manwhore #2.5)(28)

Updates from @VictoryVictoria on Twitter: Respecting the couples wish for privacy so no o pics from the Saint wedding, Twitterville, sorry!!!

But I can confirm the wedding took place earlier today!

The bride wore a vintage dress with decadent cleavage The groom made angels siiiiiiiiigh I will say . . . congratulations to the pair!

Who to stalk while the honeys are mooning around the world?

@VictoryVictoria Imagine @malcolmsaint on his honeymoon, OH MY WOW

@VictoryVictoria Definitely a hornymoon if Saint’s involved. Or WHORNYMOON

Wonder how long it’ll last.





SOMEWHERE


We fly all day across the Pacific, toward a little island near Bali he rented for us alone. At first, when we board the Gulfstream, the adrenaline is running through my veins. I’m reliving the teary farewells from my friends, the hard slaps on the back Saint got from his friends, and my mother’s hug.

I can’t stop reliving any of the things that happened at the wedding.

We partied across the botanical gardens, decorated in hanging tree lights and more white orchids, tables draped in crisp white linens, Tiffany chairs, and Christofle silverware. We dined on a five-course meal worthy of the finest restaurant—and catered by one—and then Malcolm pulled me to the dance floor and into his arms, guests floating around us as we laughed, and drank, and kissed, and stayed close.

He embraced me from behind as we conversed with our guests. “Twenty-four hours,” he whispered in my ear.

“What’s that?”

He brushed a strand of hair back and pulled my back closer against him. “Wedding party, plus the flight to Somewhere. Twenty-four hours left for me to make you mine.”

Now I’m in his arms, on the big bed in the bedroom at the back of the plane. Sunlight streams through the windows as Saint kisses me.

His hands are under my lace top, slipping to touch my skin. I’m seared where he touches. Where his mouth lands. On my mouth, the corners of my mouth, my jaw, my ears, my neck.

“Can it be night already?” I whisper.

“Rachel . . .” and the word is a husky murmur as he eases back to look at me. So hungry, like me. So very frustrated I can feel his need for me like I feel mine. He kisses the corner of my mouth. “I’m not taking my wife for the first time on an airplane. That’s for later.” He flashes out a grin that liquefies me. But I know he knows that the moment we walk through the doors of our Somewhere, I will be all his.

“Come here.” Malcolm spoons me and buries his head in the back of my neck, his arm a vise around my hip. A bottomless peace and satisfaction fill me as our bodies fit together so right, my body covered by his bigger one. It feels perfect, like a clean room. A finished job. An orgasm. God, a cataclysmic orgasm, like the kind this man gives me. My . . . husband.

He’s wearing the wedding ring I gave him, on his long, tanned, strong finger, glinting in perfect platinum as he holds his hand on my hip.

I doze to sleep with a throbbing, relentless ache in my body but a smile in my heart and on my face, and we sleep, and sleep, and then shift positions—him on his back, me on my side, spooning his side, and we sleep again.

We land in a tiny airport that’s hardly an airport at all, but there’s a beautiful car waiting for us, driving us across unpaved paths into the middle of nowhere. It starts raining. One minute there’s sun, the next there’s a storm. I reject the idea as absurd—it’s not in the plan—but then I look out the car window. The heavens suddenly open up and a torrential downpour starts. My dormant brain cells wake up a little when thunder crashes nearby.

Fuuck!

A tropical storm.

The car stops moving on our way up a hill, and I peer out the left window and glimpse a stunning staircase leading up the cliff.

“Car won’t go up, sir.” The driver shifts. “We can wait out the rain . . . a couple of hours, at most . . .”

I can tell by Saint’s flash of frustration that he’s not spending an hour or two hiding from anything. Saint tips him. “We’ll take the stairs.”

He steps into the pouring rain. With one swift move, he scoops me out and into his arms. “Hang on,” he says. He grins tenderly, and I laugh. Wet raindrops fringe his lashes. I grasp his wet neck and ball myself up from the rain, watching, enraptured, as a rivulet of rainwater slides down his throat and to his hard pecs. I want to catch it with my tongue, tongue him up, head to toe.

“We’re going to get a cold!” I shout through the noise of the storm.

He presses his wet nose to my ear. “Maybe. I’ll keep you warm.”

“You’re supposed to carry me through the door, not up a thousand steps.”

“Well, there’s the door.”

I smile as we spot it, still dozens of steps away. The house sits atop a rocky cliff, looking at the sea and surrounded by green foliage swaying in the wind. Nothing but angry clouds above.

Malcolm gets us inside and sets me on my feet. We remove our shoes and leave my classic taupe pumps and his sleek black Guccis on the mat to dry. What is it about bare feet and men in jeans? My husband gets a thousand gold stars for hotness.

He surveys the house like a connoisseur as we both pad barefoot through its rooms. Him in jeans, me in my Vera Wang white skirt and jacket.

We’ll be staying in this high-end Indonesian home, exotic and rustic on the outside, a city man’s dream on the contemporary inside. Wide windows; wood ceiling beams, large and thick; smooth-looking contemporary furniture.