Ms. Manwhore (Manwhore #2.5)(8)

On Tuesday, the prenups have been drafted and signed. Saint has given me more than I even wanted—but he was insistent. He wants me to feel safe. His lawyers weren’t that pleased with the terms he offered me—I could tell by their slightly pinched eyebrows—but Malcolm only had eyes for me, and he wore a perfect, satisfied smile as I signed it.

Wednesday at noon, Saint takes a lunch break to go with me and meet with Chicago’s most famous wedding coordinator. He does business on his phone while I get to pick out Tiffany cake, flowers, and invitations. By the time we’re done and we’re heading back to M4, it seems all I need to get married is a wedding dress. And that afternoon, while hunting for dresses with Mother, Gina, and Wynn, I discover that couture wedding dresses are difficult to find on such short notice.



I still don’t have a dress by Thursday afternoon when Malcolm steals me away from work. He blindfolds me . . .

. . . and the suspense is killing me.

We step off an elevator that seemed to go up forever. Then I hear the click of my heels on what sounds like a marble floor. The air smells of fresh wind and concrete. Malcolm’s hand, strongly gripping mine, leads me along the darkness. Thanks to this blindfold, that’s all I can see: blackness. His thumb rubs against my knuckles as he holds my hand and mumbles commands. “Careful,” “hold on to my hand,” “watch the boxes.”

There are bubbles of excitement in my stomach as I follow him.

Where are we?

I know he’s being careful to go slow, since usually one of his steps equals three of mine in heels. But he’s winding through the area slowly, and then we stop, and a wall of heat is now pressing against my back. My awareness of him heightens, and a surge of anticipation floods me as I wait for him to remove the blindfold. He pushes my hair to the side and presses a hot kiss to the back of my neck before reaching up to untie the velvet covering.

“What do you think?” he whispers into my ear.

God. I still shudder when he talks to me.

I shudder when he looks at me.

Stands close to me.

Exhaling, I finally open my eyes to see sky. Pure sky, the bluest of blue, specked with clouds. A huge window spanning the width of a wall stands in front of us, and Chicago sits below us. The room is flooded in light, and the clouds outside almost seem as if they will drift right into the room at any minute.

I’m . . . speechless.

Saint’s apartment is the most luxurious thing I’ve ever been in.

Until now.

We’re inside what would make the next list of Architectural Digest’s most jaw-dropping apartment penthouses in the world. Twenty-five-foot ceilings. A terrace outside with an infinity pool that seems to blend into the sky. Limestone walls, marble and limestone floors. Thick wood beams crossing strong and proud from one end of the ceiling to the next. Dark mahogany cabinets. And so many windows it’s like you’re part of the sky.

I’m speechless as I quickly start exploring. My heels click on the floor as I trail my hands against a modern wall in soft gray tones, as elegant as you please. The place is huge. At least six thousand square feet. I see what seems to be another elevator at the far end—separate from the set of elevators we arrived in—and when I spot the sweeping staircase, I realize that it leads to a second floor.

I whirl around and look at Malcolm, who wears a black button shirt and black slacks today. He seems to pull in his surroundings like a black hole, power and money clinging to him. He fits right into the spectacular setting as if it was made for him. I give him an awed glance. “This is amazing.” A sudden thought strikes me, and my eyes flare wide. “Is this . . . ?”

“Ours.”

My stomach flips in excitement. “You’re not teasing me?” I laugh in disbelief.

He walks toward me and takes my hand, kissing my forehead. “Here, I’ll show you around.”

I just follow, dumbstruck as I look around the massive apartment/house/villa/castle nestled in the heart of Chicago.

He stops in a huge room that has a view of our park. The park where we slept together for the first time. Not slept as in sex, but just slept. For the first time. I can see it from here. I can see . . . everything.

“This is the living area,” he says, in that delicious rumbling voice of his. He spreads his hands wide, and I realize there’s room for at least three or four lounging sections.

“And then,” he continues, signaling to the center of the room, “a fireplace can divide our lounge areas in two. Two plasma TVs, one on each side,” he says, matter-of-factly.

I step in. “What? No, no fireplace. It’ll block the view of the window.”

I point outside.

He frowns. “I want a fireplace though. We’ll read right here. Chill out by the bar.”

“Well, we can put it here.” I point to the back of the room.

He assesses the area. “Fine, whatever, we’ll plan that later.”

I smile privately, intending to bait him a little bit.

He takes my hand and I’m led through a series of corridors into another room.

This one has a wall of mirrors on one side, cabinets, and state-of-the-art gym equipment. And it connects by a glass door to a freaking indoor pool.

I arch a brow.

His smile is absolutely cocky. “Indoor exercise room. For when it rains and outdoor sports are out.”