Ms. Manwhore (Manwhore #2.5)(9)

“Of course.”

Then I’m being pulled away again. We go up a flight of stairs that stand close to the elevator.

We reach the top and I see another room with a dividing wall in the middle, and another huge window with perhaps the best view in the world. Skyscrapers sit below us and the clouds seem to be within a hand’s reach. It’s like we’re on top of the world.

Malcolm comes up behind me. “This is our room.”

I picture the bed somewhere here. All I picture is a freaking bed. With a thick suede headboard—a cushion for my head when he f*cks me deep. I’m immediately bombarded with images of Malcolm and me lounging in bed on a Sunday morning. Laughing about something I said, a plate of grapes on the nightstand as he feeds me some for breakfast. The sun rising through our huge window. The white bedsheets tangled at our feet. His hands traveling up my back and down my legs, while he nestles his head in my neck, his lips lazily traveling along my jaw. I get goose bumps at the thought.

“This is incredible.”

Turning, I wrap my arms around his waist, tipping my head up to look at his face. “Just when I’m finding my balance, you sweep me off my feet again.” I kiss his neck. And then his jaw.

He cups my face in his hands and gives me a slow, delicious kiss. I break the kiss because I start to get breathless, and I look around again. We’ll have a fireplace here also, and there’s a door that leads to a terrace.

“Well, what about children? All of these floors too hard for them?” I ask.

He looks down at me with the most curious look on his face, his eyes searching mine with a little heat and anticipation.

“Hand-woven rugs. Plush, thick carpets for them. We’ll keep them safe. I’ll take care of you all.”

He takes me to see the bathroom and I spot another room adjoining it. It has that perfect wood smell because, inside, there are all sorts of aisles with white-lacquered mahogany cabinets. The ceiling has a beautiful cut-glass dome that lets in the sunlight. It looks ethereal, like a church, but Saint informs me it’s just my closet.

My closet? What twisted, delicious, fabulous world is this? This man will be the death of me, I swear. And I will die happy.

Saint’s closet is to the other side of the bathroom, all of his cabinets in coffee-colored wood, a dome exactly like mine but with a modern design to match the masculine mood.

Between the closets, the bathroom has two sinks, one to each side. One huge shower with the most beautiful tile design in gray and white, a waterfall showerhead hanging from the ceiling, and at the end of the room, a marble bathtub that spreads out endlessly. It’s smooth and sleek, and the sexiest bathtub I’ve ever seen.

“That’s quite a Jacuzzi.”

I lift my lashes to his, and see a smile touch his eyes.

He has been watching me all this time.

“Enough room for you and I to play around in.”

My lungs practically collapse when he says that and I can feel my heartbeat between my legs.

He just smirks and leads me down the stairs again and toward black granite counters.

“Kitchen,” he says, showing me a huge island in the middle. The work is still under way but I’m amazed by how clean and tidy everything is.

Awe-inspiring colorful Murano glasses that look alarmingly by Dale Chihuly hang from the ceiling, lit from behind. Sleek cabinets frame a set of stainless steel refrigerators. The wrappings are still on. There’s a pair of Wolf stoves. And vacant spots within the cabinets seem to be waiting for even more state-of-the-art equipment.

“This looks fit for a chef . . . and I can’t cook.”

He laughs softly.

He picks me up by my hips and sets me down on the counter. He pushes my legs apart so he’s nestled in between, and the smell of his cologne engulfs me in our bubble. His slight scruff scrapes the skin of my neck as he kisses along my collarbone.

“We won’t be doing much cooking,” he murmurs. “I see you here, in my shirt.” He places a kiss on my neck. “Your hair is messy, and tangled, and you’re making me deviled eggs.”

“Deviled eggs for Sin?” I try to laugh but it comes out choked because he’s doing some very sexy stuff right now that I can’t pull my mind away from enough to think.

“Yeah, or . . . waffles, crepes, or omelets,” he adds, his hands rubbing against my thighs and traveling under the silky material of my shirt to my lower back.

“And you smell like roses”—another kiss—“like that shampoo you always use.” He kisses my jaw again, pushing my hair back to let his tongue rub against the slight pulse on the side of my neck.

“I’m sitting right here, looking at you in my shirt, thinking about all the things I’m going to do to you later”—another delicious kiss—“in our bed.”

I moan right then. He looks up to me with smoky green eyes and kisses my lips, his hot tongue rubbing against mine. I can’t breathe. I hug him to me because I want him so close I want him to become part of me. His skin feels hot under his shirt. I wrap my legs around his hips.

He laughs against my lips. “I take it you’re warming up to the kitchen.”

I feel like my heart is going to explode in my chest because this man is everything to me, and he is here, between my legs, telling me about our future. About me making him breakfast. About our bed. Our bathtub. About our kids.