The touch triggers a cascade of pleasure through my body. I arch, a tiny sound of need and ecstasy slipping through my lips. I can see the mask of control he always wears slipping as he watches me, his lips curling with a soft smile. “For me . . . Rachel. Let go for me.”
One rub of his thumb on my clit. One deft finger inside me. Those male eyes, glittering, watching. That voice, coaxing me. And I come, twisting with a soft cry, unable to stop it, unable to tell him that I wanted him to let go for me, too.
I gasp and pant for a while longer. He shifts his big body and watches me with that soft smile as he tugs my skirt back down and lets my top drop to cover me, using a hand to smooth it back in place as he whispers in my ear, “I’ve wanted to do that since the day you crashed my Ice Box party.”
He’s teasing me. I’ve gotten to know that tone now. So I tease him back. “I was dared by friends. Guess now I can say I met you and you were the heartless bastard everyone says you are.”
“Who’s everyone?”
“Your ex-girlfriends.”
“I don’t have girlfriends.”
“Ex-lovers, whatever.”
“I have something to say about that, too.”
“Oh really, what is it?”
“I’m innocent?” He smiles.
I laugh. I want to kiss him, kiss him real hard, and fuck him harder. Oh god, I want to give him what he just gave me, but then what? “Are you having fun with me?”
“That was me actually attempting to let the lady have fun with me.”
I put my hand on his thigh playfully. “You make my world spin a little faster.”
“I’d like to rock it even more,” he rumbles, and I laugh.
He looks at me, his grin, his eyes, all of him mischief to the tenth power. Mischief and sin.
“What’s your idea of rocking a girl’s world?”
“You tell me.” He trails his eyes down my body.
“Me?!” I cry. “What do I have to do with it?”
“I’ve never wanted to rock a woman’s world the way I want to rock yours.”
It seems my lungs just froze on an in breath.
He leans forward in his seat, and instead of doing the expected, which is teasing me because he shocked me, he looks absolutely sober. “You’ve got to know this about me,” he says as he cups my face in his warm palm. “I indulge in anything that I want. I’m not in the business of denying myself what I want. I’m not in the business of denying those around me of anything they want. I’m yours if you want me, Rachel.”
He gazes at me quietly.
“We don’t fit,” I say. “I just want to find a spot, warm not cold, with a nice view, everything I could want, and I want to stop moving and stay there—in that spot. And you will never stand still.”
His eyes darken more; he doesn’t answer.
He strokes the back of a finger slowly down the curve of my cheek, his eyes looking into me like he wants something from me. Like he wants more than something—everything. Or maybe anything, that’s how hungry they look. “I think we fit just right,” he murmurs at last.
The door swings open and my best friend appears. “Why am I not surprised right now?”
I groan and push to my feet, uselessly trying to hide all the evidence of a make-out: hair tangled by my own head as I rolled it on the couch, smeared lipstick, rumpled clothes. I’m blushing hard, and Malcolm is clearly amused by my embarrassment. God, I must look ridiculous with my blonde hair and red face. I turn to him and point in mock warning, “And don’t think you’re getting a free pass, I’m hearing that story,” I tell him, for Gina’s sake.
“Hey, you’re staying with me tonight,” he says, confused.
I stand there, looking at him as Gina tugs on my hand. “Sorry,” I finally say, wincing a little. “Gotta go.”
On his feet, Saint lifts his jacket, and he looks at Gina as he folds it over his arm. “How about I drive her home?”
“How about ‘no’?” She smirks.
“I’m Malcolm, by the way.”
“I saw you at our place, remember? I’ve also seen your face on only every magazine and despite the fact that you’re hotter in person, I’m completely immune. Say goodbye to Rachel now.”
She takes my arm, and Malcolm says, “Do you want to go with me tonight, Rachel?”
His face is inscrutable now, but he’s putting out some major waves of annoyance.
“No, sorry. I have a campout in a few days, so I really should get some rest. ’Bye,” I awkwardly say as I turn to leave with his eyes on me. Oh, shit, fuck, that went so bad just now!
I run my hands over my hot cheeks before Gina drags me down one of the long tunnel halls. “Nothing happened,” I mumble, in answer to the big bold question mark pasted on her forehead.
“Okay, I’m saying it,” begins Gina. “Saint is absolutely bad news. Workwise, heartwise, you could not pick a worse guy than Paul except for Saint . . . and his two friend creeps. Rachel, you don’t have to tell me what happened, I can already see he’s totally got you pinned against the wall. You’re blushing like a carrot.”
“What do you mean I’m blushing like a carrot? I’m orange?” My eyes wide, I’m freaking out.
“Rachel, you don’t know it yet but you don’t stand a chance! And that dude Tahoe totally eye-fucked me right now when I hunted you at Saint’s table.”
“I do not blush orange, Gina!”
“I swear Tahoe totally eye-fucked me and my heart still hasn’t recovered.”
“Orange? It has to have been the Tunnel lights! Please tell me you meant cherry. At least cherry is a prettier shade of blush than freaking orange?”
“You’re red! Okay? Relax, Saint won’t know your name in a few days when he wakes up with four naked floozies.”
My mouth flaps open to reply, but all I can say, as I come down from my orgasmic high, is, “If Saint’s bad news, so is Tahoe, okay? I don’t want him playing with you.”
“I don’t like any of these manwhores playing with you. I’m starting not to like this project.” She seizes my shoulders and whips me around. “Tell me you don’t like Saint?”
“I . . .” I don’t know what to say. I don’t want to hurt her, I don’t want to lie, I don’t even know what I’m doing, so I say, “My ovaries kind of like him.” I add, “A little,” when her mouth purses grimly.
“Oh no.” She shakes her head wildly. “No, Rachel.”
It’s no use. I came in his arms at the club. I move in bed tonight and I can smell him on my skin. I can still hear him inviting me to be with him while I find my safe spot. I want to know what it’s like to lie next to him without anything between us. I have a thousand questions floating in my head, and one single ache between my legs. More than anything, I want to text him and say, I had a good time tonight. But do I really have the courage to open up this way? Maybe if he had a different history. Maybe if he were that normal guy. Maybe if I weren’t so focused on a job rather than a partner. Maybe in another life.
Monday trails on at a tortoise’s pace. Wake up. Coffee. Work. Emails. Editing yesterday’s draft. Helen’s interrogation about what’s going on. Victoria coming over with wide eyes. “It worked, didn’t it? I heard Saint was seen with a platinum blonde on his lap!”
“Shh,” I laugh and pull her close, and then I don’t want to talk about him to her. Sometimes when I write I don’t want to talk about my subject: I protect it and nurture it in my heart before I pound the keys and then it’s out.
It’s different with this man. I can’t bear to share him at all. Not even with my friends. I don’t understand why I feel like putting a bubble around us where nobody can have an opinion and nobody can take him away. Not floozies or his lifestyle, and not my friends. “I did have luck but nothing happened. You know those guys—they just flirt.”
“Oh, well, flirt back harder.” She winks and walks past.
Fuck. I groan and slump in my desk when Valentine walks by with much the same tune.
“Platinum blonde? People are asking on his social media. I know of only one platinum blonde . . . so speak now, platinum blonde. In fact, give me a few tips for tonight’s date.”
“Valentine, you have a date? Wow, love is in the air. Boy or girl?”
“Female. I’m taking her to greasy Chinese to make sure she knows how to pig out properly. I hate having dinner with a little stick. Which is why it’s so hot to dine with a man. Nothing gets me going like a healthy appetite.”
I keep surfing the internet, researching.
“Did you know penguins are monogamous?” I ask.
“Yes, I was among that tribe once but have rebelled. See, I’m no longer going to be restrained by traditional dating rules, and neither should you. Oh, wait, you don’t date. Do you?”
I smirk. “Just because you didn’t change my mind doesn’t mean nobody else can.”
“See! You ARE dating him.”
“NO! NO! Just . . . silence, please. You need to go and . . . meditate. To your desk. Shoo!”
I field questions all day, pretending that last night didn’t give my little world a little too big of a shake.
17
NIGHT
This Sunday, at another neighborhood campout, I’m still thinking about the club as I scan my phone for new links about him. Strange. He’s been rather socially quiet lately. There’s hardly been any big party he’s been linked to since that after-party he refused to allow me to attend.
I notice in the back of my mind that there have been about five guys parading in and out of the park, setting up what I think is the biggest-ass tent I’ve ever seen in my life. Everyone is settling into their sleeping bags, snacking on nuts and berries or marshmallows. I turn to look at the big-ass tent again and wonder what the hell is going on.
“Hey, do you know whose tent that is?” I ask the girl settled next to me, a frequent campout attendee named Rio who’s organizing her stuff next to her sleeping bag.
She turns to look at the big-ass tent situated at the edge of the camping site and shrugs lightly. “I have no idea, but whoever’s in that tent really wants to make a statement.”
I laugh a little and turn back to my sleeping bag. The men haven’t come back in like ten minutes¸ so I think the tent is finished.
I place my sleeping bag next to Rio’s. The sun is setting, and everyone seems to be winding down. Deciding I need to tune them out and try to relax and gear up to hunt you-know-who next weekend, I take out my earplugs and listen to some music, lying down on my back and looking at the sun drift in through the leaves of the trees. Occasionally a gust of wind comes, and I feel it cool my skin and move my hair.
I breathe in deeply, enjoying the feel of grass beneath my flimsy sleeping bag. I’ve had it for years now. I took it to my first sleepover in seventh grade, and I’ve been using it at these campouts, so over the years it’s lost a lot of its cushion, but I refuse to get rid of it.
Rio taps my side and I sit up for a moment, reaching out to take a marshmallow from her hand, and in my peripherals, I see a dark figure. I turn around and see Malcolm Saint getting out of his car, swinging a duffel bag over his shoulder. I feel like my heart just tripped inside my chest. I turn to look at Rio and see that everyone is glancing at Malcolm and whispering in each other’s ear. Great.
Rio stares. “This is not the kind of candy I expected us to have at the campout.”
I gulp and focus on chewing the stupid marshmallow in my mouth.
Malcolm makes his way over to his tent, admiring his employees’ handiwork and placing his duffel bag on the ground. He scans the crowd, looking for someone, and I feel my heart stumble again. Everyone’s trying really hard to act normal, but I can sense their attention is fixed on the six-foot-plus man in black slacks and a white shirt standing next to a big-ass ten-person tent. Like Rio’s, their faces display open amazement as they speculate and probably start catching on to who that man is.
A young strawberry blonde stumbles over. “Saint? What are you doing here?” she asks as her chest starts to heave a little too fast.
Saint looks at her. He seems to be trying to place her when the blonde speaks again.
“Tammy!” she tells him, almost giggling and ready to explode. “Tammy from the Ice Box, remember? You were there with your friends, I was there with my friends. . . .”
“Oh, that’s right,” he murmurs with no inflection, and then lifts his hand in a casual goodbye. “Good to see you, Tammy.”
He leaves her gaping longingly at his retreating back and heads straight—straight—toward me. Oh god. Since when did he spot me?
I faintly hear myself saying, “I’ll be right back” to Rio, or maybe to myself, as I sling my bag across my chest, stand, and dust myself off. I feel several pairs of eyes follow me toward Malcolm and his big-ass tent.
I can hear the grass and leaves crunch beneath my feet as we walk toward each other. He’s smiling at me, and once again, I feel myself blush a little.
“Aren’t you a little out of your element, Saint?” I laugh. He’s wearing his black suit with ease, those black slacks covering his long legs, and a white shirt that molds perfectly to his toned chest.
He smirks and eyes me up and down. “I was looking for you.”
“How’d you know I’d be here?” I ask.
Then I remember what I said at the Tunnel. My heart kind of warms a little bit that he came looking for me tonight. Why?
I gesture to his tent. “Nice little house you got there.”
He laughs. “House?”
“Yeah, you can fit what, like, ten people in there?”
“I was only planning on two,” he says in his deep voice.
I raise my eyebrow at him. “Two?”
“Yeah.” He adds, “You and me.”
My breath kind of gets stuck in my throat.
“Um, I’m sleeping with Rio over by the oak.” I point back to our sleeping bags.
He scrunches his brows. “Where’s your tent?”
“I don’t have one, my sleeping bag is all I need.”
He looks at me like I’m crazy.
I laugh. “Do you always have to be the center of attention? You know everyone else is sleeping in sleeping bags just like me, right?”
“I don’t care about everyone else—I care about you.” He looks down at me with those killer green eyes. “So you’re sleeping in my tent.”
Before I can protest, he takes my hand and leads me to the tent.
“Wait, I need to get my sleeping bag.”
“You don’t need it, I brought one,” he says over his shoulder as he continues pulling me inside the tent.
Once I’m inside, I can see this tent isn’t for ten people; it’s probably for like twenty. The ceiling is about seven feet tall. Or maybe a little lower, since Malcolm has to bend down a little to fit inside the tent. There’s a huge sleeping bag already inside that looks more like a mattress to me.
I can’t help laughing.
“What?” He’s grinning at me and he looks so delicious I laugh harder.
“Nothing.”
I sit down on the mattress/sleeping bag and pat the seat next to me. He sits down, his huge body warming mine just with how close he is. We’re not touching, but I can feel his hand is close to mine. I can see his profile from the corner of my eyes: his strong jaw, sexy-ass lips, and spiky black lashes. He is too beautiful. I have no idea how it’s even biologically possible to look like he does.
I’m left thinking about his strawberry blonde. And her long legs.
Her lips.
Her breasts.
And whether or not he slept with her.
“I bet she made you a great girlfriend,” I whisper.
He looks at me, his eyes sparkling. “I don’t kiss and tell.”
“You just kiss.”
“Exactly.” God, he’s teasing me again.
And I’m one big throbbing nerve of want and obsession.
I wonder. About those kisses he gives. I’ve read qu
ite a bit on it, actually. His activities. Day, morning, and night, four women a day sometimes. And why not? Sexual energy courses through his veins. His body hums with it.
“Is it true you only sleep four times, tops, with a woman because your favorite number is four . . . ? ”
“I eat babies, too.”
“Malcolm! Serious.”
“Do you waste all this energy thinking about me?”
I blink.
“Do you?”
“No,” I say. “In fact, I’m super tired after just two minutes of trying to figure you out.”
“Don’t try to figure me out,” he helpfully suggests.
I tear open a package of marshmallows. I turn around and see him lying back on his elbow, watching me curiously.
I take out a marshmallow and place it in his hand. I pop one in my mouth. “It’s for eating?” I tease him. He laughs because my voice is muffled by the huge marshmallow. I laugh too and he pops the marshmallow I gave him into his mouth.
His lips. His mouth . . .
Lust slams into me like a train at full speed, and I’m suddenly trying to think of anything but how close we are.
The voices are dying down outside, and it’s already dark. The wind rustles the trees and I yawn.
“You’re tired?” I lie on my side and face Malcolm, who’s looking down at me with a look in his eyes I can’t describe as he waits for me to answer.
“Yeah . . . I think it’s lights out for me.” I look behind me at the sleeping bag and then back at him.
The air seems to shift and I clear my throat, stuffing another marshmallow in my mouth.
Am I supposed to put on my PJs now? Should I just get into the sleeping bag and sleep? What if he doesn’t want to sleep yet?
My questions halt when Malcolm unbuttons his shirt and throws it across the tent.
The next thing my eyes see are miles of tanned, muscular chest and a tight six-pack.
He takes off his shoes but leaves his pants on. His back muscles ripple as he turns his back to me and settles into his sleeping bag. The night is hot as it is, but Malcolm Saint shirtless makes me feel like I’m in some kind of sauna.