Ms. Manwhore (Manwhore #2.5)(29)

I set about to investigate while Saint welcomes the luggage the driver has lugged up the steps. I see that we have a fully stocked kitchen, macadamia butters and jellies stacked near the coffee and tea offerings.

Walking into the master bathroom, my damp feet squeaking with each step, I peer into the mirror . . . to the reality that I look like hell. My hair wet. My silk shirt caked to my body. My makeup streaked down my face. My Saint’s perfect bride has just vanished—poof, back into the dream I imagined her from.

A heavy sense of inadequacy slaps me.

I scrub my face clean with soap and frantically try to brush my hair with my fingers. But I still don’t look like the perfect, beautiful bride I wanted him to see.

FUCK. ME. RIGHT. HERE.

Urgh!!!!

A messy bride is so not what Saint deserves.

“That will be all,” he says to the driver, then looks at me and closes the door.

Thunder crashes nearby. The wind whistles. There’s a storm outside, billowing trees, fierce, but not as fierce as the storm inside. There’s a storm inside my body, inside this room, and its name is Malcolm Saint. The storm within a storm, his force field protecting me, drawing me in with more power than any sweeping wind.

The tension that has been building all day thickens when he settles all the intensity of his attention on me.

A tingling awareness crawls over my skin. The kind I feel when he is near. I drink in every detail of his physique. The dark figure of him in the spectacularly large house, big and powerful. He stands there, devilishly handsome. Wet from head to toe. Those black jeans he wears so well hanging low on his hips, his muscular torso caked with rain. The scent of his soap reaches me. Suddenly I burn to make him breathless and groan, to feel his big body tighten for me. Quiver for me.

I want to lick his collarbone and feel and taste every inch of his gold velvet skin.

He starts coming forward, his eyes taking a leisurely trek across every inch of my body, as if he’s savoring the sight of me too.

My voice feels thick as cotton when I shake my head and say, “I need . . . to fix myself.”

“You’re perfect.”

“No, really, this isn’t . . . you deserve for me to smell divine . . .” I trail off when Saint stops before me. Between those wet lashes of his, his eyes couldn’t be more admiring or adoring of me.

“You smell like you—your shampoo, your soap, you, and rain.”

“You smell like rain too.”

He pulls the hair out of my face. “This is pretty perfect for me.”

“You, looking at me like this. You’re perfect.” His wet clothes are sticking deliciously to his body. I reach out and squeeze his biceps. Hard as rock. I press up to him, closer. He tugs a button on my blouse open. Kisses there. Below my pulse point, on the little triangle of skin he revealed. He tugs another button open. Kisses there.

I reach out to do the same, freeing one button on his shirt.

He watches me through his lashes as I undo another.

“You want to go first?” He wipes my wet hair away as he asks, voice raspy like tree bark.

I nod.

I’m shivering.

“You cold? Want a bath?”

“No. I want you inside me.” I push at his chest, urging him to lower himself to the nearest chair. I drop at his feet and work the rest of the buttons until I’m able to spread his shirt apart, revealing his muscled abs, his cut torso.

I run my fingers over his shoulders and push his shirt back, watching his chest flex as he shrugs it off.

My fingers wander over all the muscles and skin I just revealed. “Dibs on every part I kiss,” I say.

He watches me, his eyes filling with a raw, deep longing as I lean forward to press kisses on his abs. Up his chest. He lets me, his muscles hardening under my fingers as I lean on him to brush my lips downward now as I unfasten his jeans.

I unzip him, and when he slowly comes to his feet, I’m readily pulling his jeans down his long, muscled, hair-dusted legs.

He’s letting me, watching me, eye-f*cking me.

When he’s all golden, wet skin, he lowers himself again and I edge up to press my curves to his hard body. All these muscles are so perfectly natural, produced by sports. Polo. Skydiving. Yachting. The gym. Perfection.

“You missed a spot,” he says huskily, sliding a hand up my back.

I kiss his hard-on as tenderly as I did the rest of him.

His expression is all wicked eyes and devil’s grin. He trails his eyes over my face. “You tired?”

A pulsing knot within me demands more. “Not anymore.”

He eases a tendril of wet hair behind my ear, and then he leans forward and whispers in my ear, “You are going to be really exhausted by the end of the night.”

“Oh god, I’m so turned on right now.”

He leads me up to my feet. “My turn.”

I’m shaking wetly as he towers before me and looks possessively into my eyes. He unzips my damp white skirt. With a long, gentle tug, he eases it off my hips and it hits the floor. The scent of rain mingled with his shampoo invades the air as he opens up my shirt, his fingers slow and easy.

My knees go weak when I hear the long, hot breath he expels as he parts the fabric. Green eyes, violent with lust, admire my lacey, see-through panties and my matching bra. I can see by the way his pupils are dilating that Malcolm hasn’t failed to notice the dusky pink of my nipples through the flimsy material.