I can’t believe how sexy that short little word, mine, is when the man I want utters it. I want to hear him say it so many more times, in my ear, closer to me. Oh god. Livingston, get under control.
But how can I? The tension is so thick in the air. I inhale the scent of him with every breath; every breath reminds me my body is tight and throbbing, every breath hurts because of him.
He’s watching me as if he wants to figure me out. “So, your friend . . .”
“Victoria. She’s my age, but she’s had short stories published already, she’s writing a children’s book for sex education, she makes success look so effortless. I can never do as much, think of the concepts she comes up with.”
“Use it, use it to become better. You do your best when someone else is right there trying to beat you. I was . . .” he begins, then laughs softly as if amused at himself. “Okay, let’s try this.” He edges forward in his seat. “I was a disappointment to my father.” He speaks casually, but he watches me as if he wants to be sure his words have an effect. “I’m not sure if it’s been since I was born, or later . . . when I got sick. Dad never forgave me that weakness. He asked for DNA testing, sure my mother had had an affair, wanting to prove I wasn’t his son. I got bigger, faster, stronger, just because the one man I wanted to prove myself to underestimated me.”
“Was he a tough dad?”
“Tough as nails. Nothing anyone did was good enough to suit him.”
“Is that why nothing you get is good enough, why you’re always chasing after more?”
“Not because of him. It’s because it never feels like enough. I never stop unless I want someone else to catch up.”
“You’re tough as nails too.”
He laughs and shakes his head, his hand restlessly running over his head. “You okay now?”
I nod. “Thank you,” I whisper.
“For what?”
“You being here right now is holding me back from a pretty nasty hell.”
He stands, and my heart stops beating as he comes and drops next to me. I’m pudding when he tugs me into the nook in his strong arm. “Come here.” He holds me for a while, his arm encircling me. He’s not soft at all—his chest is hard, his shoulders square—but I feel his warmth and heartbeat, and suddenly I realize I’m pressing my mouth to his throat.
He circles my waist with his arm and traps me against his chest. He caresses my neck from my collarbone to the edge of my jaw.
I slide my hand up his chest.
He meets my eyes with blazing force, and I start chasing my breath in fast pants as he ducks his head.
He kisses the edge of my mouth. My lids sweep closed from the pleasure, and I don’t dare move a muscle.
He frames my face with the palms of his hands and slowly brushes his lips against mine. He eases back an inch, looking at me again, making sure I’m okay before bending again and opening his lips against mine.
He holds me loosely as I kiss his mouth, as if giving me space, letting me get accustomed to him. Everything about him is hard. His jaw. His chest. His arms. His hands. But oh my god, his lips. His tongue. His lips are warm and soft, kissing me hungrily. His tongue lightly slipping through my lips, making me melt into him.
We sink into the couch and I let him kiss me because it’s the most exquisite thing I have ever felt. I open my mouth wider, savoring every minute, every second, that his lips are on mine. He kisses me for a long time, over and over again, until I’m breathless. I never want to stop. I could do this for hours. It feels perfect. Amazing.
He draws back and rubs his thumb across my bottom lip.
My brain is thinking so many things at once it isn’t thinking anything at all. I’m breathing hard, looking at him with his hair tousled, eyes hooded, and lips slightly swollen, and he looks back at me like a tiger does its prey. We shift, and I sit on his lap straddling him. He kisses my jaw. I hold on to his biceps, big and strong. He kisses the side of my mouth again, reassuring me that I’m okay, while parting my blouse with his hands. Then he leans down and places a kiss right below my throat.
I look down to his jet-black hair, feeling his warm mouth kiss across my collarbone. He places another kiss right between my breasts, then all the way up to my jaw. He kisses my throat again. Sucking a little here, licking a little there, kissing a little more. I’m looking up at the ceiling, trying to memorize the feel of his lips on me. I feel like I’m separate from my body. If someone were to talk to me, I probably wouldn’t hear them. All I want in life right now is for him to never stop.
He makes his way back to my lips, giving me another soft kiss. I open my mouth immediately and wind my arms around his neck to hold him to me. His hands are big and warm on my thighs—without them I would probably float off somewhere near Cloud Nine. Or in this case, Cloud Ninety-nine.
I melt when I hear his hot voice against my skin. “I keep thinking of that day. And you couldn’t have possibly tasted this sweet. . . .”
I open my mouth, and suddenly I’m kissing him with my whole heart. He is exquisite. Kissing me tenderly, and then kissing me hungrily. The smell of his cologne surrounds me, the heat from his body warms me, and his lips slowly drive me crazy. This little make-out session of ours is going to end up with me in a psych ward.
“Don’t stop,” I breathe, rocking my hips with the sudden ache to get closer to him, to feel his skin on mine.
My body’s trembling. He raises his head and kisses the edge of my mouth, starts nibbling. He groans, and I can tell he’s really getting into it. “Don’t stop,” I beg.
“I’m not stopping until morning.” He draws back and cups my face in both hands. I’m looking into his glowing green eyes, which stare at me with a light in them I can’t describe. He’s looking at me like I’m a goddess. Like he could never have imagined me. He’s looking at me with so much need and tenderness I can feel my throat tighten again. I’m not ready for this. I’m scared. I’m nervous.
“What in the—”
The overhead lights snap on and I sit up in confusion, covering my hot face with my hands.
Gina blinks.
Saint closes his eyes tight, then opens them, and he looks so perfectly hot, so manly, so angry and so debauched by me, I reach out and quickly start to button his shirt, too jealous to let Gina see his chest, his abs, what I’d just been touching so madly.
“I hope what’s happening here isn’t really happening.” Gina scowls with her hands planted on her hips.
“It isn’t,” I blurt; then I look at him as he looks down at me in complete puzzlement, eyebrows slanted low. His hair is standing up adorably, but his expression is beyond annoyed.
“Your roommate,” he curses under his breath as if he should’ve remembered I had one.
Mortified, I pull him to his feet—with much effort—and then to the door. “That . . . was beyond a mistake. I don’t know what got into me.”
His stare is dark as night and his voice is gruff with desire. “I know what got into you—the same thing that got into me.”
“No.” I go into the hall, call up the elevator, and then push him in with all my effort. “’Bye, Saint.”
“I’ll call you, Rachel,” he murmurs as he grabs my face and kisses my mouth, rubbing his tongue a little over mine and making me moan before I tear free and the elevator leaves.
Oh. My. God. What have I unleashed?
“What was that?”
“He was saying goodbye.”
“I’m Gina, remember. Your best friend. I can tell when you’re lying. Were you guys . . . sleeping together on the couch like some item?”
“I had a few drinks. So did he. We had that . . . thing. I’m beyond . . . not thinking well.”
“Okay. ’Cause we know deep down he’s Lucifer, right? The Arch Douche himself? We don’t sleep with the bastard, we do not drop our walls!”
I nod and go to my room. I scrub my mouth with the back of my hand and brush my teeth and then look at my face in the mirror.
&n
bsp; What am I doing? I poured my heart out to him. Why didn’t I just tell him I was writing an exposé?
This wasn’t part of my plan. I’m supposed to write an exposé about him, not let him expose me.
But I can’t sleep. I remember the frustration on Saint’s face when Gina came in. A little later, I turn on my lamp and get my cell phone.
I’m sorry about the way I said goodbye, I text, but before sending the text, I dial the number and wonder if he’ll answer. I don’t wonder for long: I hear the sound of him picking up, his voice saying hey.
“I’m sorry about the way I said goodbye.”
There’s a smile in his voice when he answers, relieving me. “If that’s what it takes to get you to call.”
I laugh, then go sober and cuddle up in bed with the phone to my ear, shyly whispering, “You’re different with me than anyone.”
“Because of the ‘fragile, handle with care’ sign you wear.”
“I’m not fragile.”
“You’re so fragile you’ve boxed yourself up so you don’t break.”
“I like my safe zone.”
“Nothing happens in the safe zone.”
“That’s the point—you control everything and it’s predictable and . . . safe.”
There’s a long silence.
Then Saint says, “When you come outside of your box, I’ll be waiting.”
15
A MAKEOVER
What did that even mean?
I don’t want to be unsafe. It’s the last goal of my existence. I’ve always liked that I have never been reckless.
On Friday, I pour myself mindlessly into a piece Helen wanted for the week. I can’t think; I can’t stop to think or I’ll start to drown in my own fears and confusions. I tell myself to stay detached and keep my eyes on the prize, and that’s all a sensible reporter would do. And I am sensible. At least, I was for the twenty-three years before I met Malcolm Saint.
I’m typing furiously when my phone buzzes and I peer absently at the screen, only to have a heart attack when I see the word I saved him under in my contacts. SIN.
Meet me tonight at the Tunnel?
What is my heart doing right now? It’s doing cartwheels in my chest. I’ve become this girl, this ridiculous girl. The Tunnel is a hot spot known for its dark and winding rooms, its loud music. Hardly anyone comes out sober or unmussed from the Tunnel. Rachel, you can’t go with Saint to the Tunnel unless you’re totally prepared to get your libido in check, and you’ve been doing a lousy job of that.
“So are you ready?”
I lower my phone when Victoria tries to peer over the top of my cubicle. “Ready?” I repeat. “For what?”
“Don’t you remember? Your beauty day! Getting you prepped this weekend to work.”
“I . . . ah. Right. How could I forget? The clichéd makeover. Normal girl gets her hair cut, gets the guy, lalalalalala,” I say as I grab my things.
“Yes.” She laughs.
I get my phone and close the file I had open on my computer with a few too many links—but never enough—featuring what Malcolm did this week. In all the pictures there were girls too, but he looked detached. He didn’t look like he was having fun, but then, he’s hard to read.
Once I close up my computer, I follow Victoria to the elevators and we head to a spa. Pedicure, manicure, a trim.
“Highlights.”
“I’m platinum blonde, Vicky, it doesn’t get lighter.”
“Slightly lighter streaks and slightly darker ones give light to your hair.”
“I’ll take the haircut, but I won’t be enslaved by hair color until my hair turns gray. It’s a tip I learned from my mother.”
“What Saint likes is a good ol’ easy woman. He’s not used to working for it—it’s always available to him, and that’s how he probably likes it. Though he really did seem thoroughly hooked on you, Rachel.”
My phone buzzes. I stare at the caller ID, my body once again getting into the action. SIN. Flushing just at the thought of him, I tuck the phone aside and watch my toes get a nice pink coat of paint.
“After the toes, full-on bikini wax,” Victoria announces from her seat next to mine.
I wonder whether she could speak a little louder so that not only the entire spa but the outside world as well could hear.
I lean forward and drop my voice. “No thanks.”
“Um. Hello? Not a question.”
I laugh. “Girl, I’ve got it perfectly maintained. Leave it!”
“All right.” She slaps down the magazine she’d been reading and sets it aside. “But guys like Saint like Brazilians.” She smiles secretively. “And of course, all those gorgeous girls from Brazil too.” She chooses a new magazine and continues in her role of advisor, like she’s an expert on him. “Womanizers like all girls; it’s part of their charm. They’re perfect specimens, and we can’t help but be drawn to that.” She smiles. “You know that earthiness about you, that gentle fierceness—he can be drawn to that. I saw that he was drawn to that. Under that drive, you’re sweeter and more gentle, and he’s more like fire, more forceful, more ambitious. Saint plays around but he’s hard—as everybody who’s done business with him knows.”
My phone vibrates, and this time it’s a call. SIN.
Force and fire.
Hard.
I want to answer. I want to hear his voice.
I also want to not want these things.
I swear, if the knot in my stomach gets any tighter, I’m going to implode.
I’m staring at my phone when another text pops up.
What does a man need to do to get you to say yes?
Chewing on my inner cheek, I stare at my phone for what feels like forever. Yes! Yes! YES! But also NO. We cannot. NO. NO. NO.
Finally I focus on the job, tell myself it’s a yes with an emotional and physical no attached, and answer:
I’ll meet you there
My hand is shaking as I tuck my phone away again and try to come back to the present. Spa. Makeover. Victoria. Oh yes, Victoria. Very interesting development here. I scrutinize her in confusion, then say, “From what you just told me, I’m starting to think you actually want me to succeed.”
To be honest, I don’t bother to hide my surprise because, well, I’ve been surprised by Victoria in a great way today.
“I do want you to succeed—why wouldn’t I? I love working at Edge. Where am I supposed to go?” A look of puzzlement crosses her face. “We all know we’re on our last breath. Nobody’s taking over. Our print run gets tinier by the second. Every one of us will end up without a job.” She shakes her head. “I don’t want that.” She sighs. “I want to be looked upon favorably by our bosses, but to be honest, I’m not sure what I’d do with Saint if I ever had him.”
“Oh, that boy just can’t be had.” I laugh lightly, but inside, this makes me sad. That Saint is so apart from the crowd may make it harder for him to feel like he “belongs” anywhere. That he will never belong to anyone at all.
“What do you mean, ‘he can’t be had’?”
“He just can’t be had, not in any way that matters to him. Nobody’s gotten more than just a tiny piece of Saint. Not his dad, not even his mother. No woman. Not his friends or his businesses. He spreads himself around, even in his interests. Nothing really claims him. He keeps that to himself, all that fire. He just gives you a glimpse of the spark.”
“Well”—she fans her face with her hands—“you already have a better grasp of him than I do!”
A little before 8 p.m., I enter my apartment, remembering I’d promised Victoria I’d wear a dress. “Try not to reveal too much. People always take their tops off for Saint. He might like wondering what’s underneath instead.”
“He won’t get to see it, so he can wonder to death,” I flippantly said.
But I’m surprised my tongue didn’t catch fire, because I don’t feel flippant. I feel anticipation of the kind that makes you concentrate on nothing. Makes you try to do ten th
ings at once and fail at them all.
I haven’t seen him since he Frenched me outside my apartment right before the elevator doors closed.
By the time Gina gets home, I’ve got clothes strewn all over my room. I had texted her: Sin is at the Tunnel tonight and we’re going!
Whereas I’d been deliberating what to wear since before I even opened the door, she instantly storms inside and takes charge.
“What are you still doing in bra and panties? Get dressed! Wear that top that’s cool and modern in blue and white that says MY BOYFRIEND IS A SAILOR, just because you want to appear taken and like you didn’t try too hard.”
“Not try too hard? I spent four hours at a spa. I paid for my silly makeover.”
“Wear that top anyway that says your boyfriend is a sailor. If he wants in your pants, he’s going to loathe that.”
I pull the top out of my closet and eye it, my nerves skyrocketing as the seconds tick by. I decide maybe I will wear a skirt and the boyfriend top. Not as seductive as a dress but still, he can get an eyeful of long legs now that they’re slick and oiled up nicely. And why are you wanting to show him your long legs, Rachel?
“Is this a good idea, G?” I leap into my skirt.
“It’s a fucking great idea, it’s exactly what you wanted!”
“Um, no, it isn’t. I wanted research, but this is almost like a date.”
“No, it’s not. Saint doesn’t date. He just hooks up.”
God, I’m wishing he’ll drool for me.
I’m wishing that at least one night, one night in his existence, he will have a wet dream about me.
But I’m still so uncertain. I turn and ask Gina, “Is this all right? I’m treading such a fine line. . . .”
“Rachel, just remember he’s using you, you’re using him; you’re not in a relationship, nor will you ever be. Just do the job and don’t get involved.”
“Okay,” I quickly agree, just to get her to stop saying the word using.
I gulp back a ball of nerves the size of a lemon and as bitter as the peel, then grab my bag and tell myself that I can do this, that I want to do this, that I want to do this more than I want to do him.