He nips at my breasts and uses one hand to unhook my bra, his breath hot on my skin and his tongue wet and warm.
“God, you did that with one hand?” I gasp.
I feel his smile against my skin as he reaches between us and rubs one nipple with the pad of his thumb. And then his smile is gone and so is mine, our breathing starting to change as the air between us heats up.
My head rolls a little on the bed as he licks one nipple and then the other, waves and waves of pleasure rolling through me.
“Dibs,” he says as he runs his tongue down my navel. Its soft, wet strokes tickle me as it goes into my belly button. I laugh a little, then moan when he goes higher to lick my nipple again. Then he’s tugging my panties down my legs. His eyes go even darker when he pushes my thighs apart and visually drinks in my wet folds. I stay there, memorizing the raw need on his face as he takes me in, my breasts heaving, my pussy swollen, my hair spread behind me.
“Relax,” he says when I try to close my legs as he slides his hand up my thigh. “Relax,” he says again as he pushes his middle finger inside me. It feels so good I almost leap off the bed, but instead I arch and let a moan of ecstasy escape me.
“Don’t be shy with me, I want to look at you. I want to hear you let go,” he murmurs huskily in my ear as he rubs his finger inside me and then sucks one nipple into his mouth. Pleasure shivers through me.
He smiles, coos down at me, and caresses my pussy with his middle finger once more. Slick sounds mingle with my breaths as he eases his finger into me. “So beautiful, I can’t wait to be in here.”
He rubs little circles over my clitoris with the pad of his thumb, and my hips start rocking up to his touch.
Catching my lower lip with my top teeth, I look at the bulge under his slacks. I want it so bad, in my hands, inside me, he’s so beautiful. I want to go up on my knees and pull him out, see and touch him, lean and kiss the tip, then open my mouth, taking everything I can, the whole shaft. I want him to groan, I want him to never forget me.
But the arousal Saint stokes in me is so powerful, I’m nearly paralyzed in sensations, shivering.
His eyes are a green no living plant can compete with. He kisses my breasts, suckles me, sucks me. He pets and rubs my clit, the pleasure out of this world. I come quickly on his fingers. He holds me in his hand. “God, look at you go off for me,” he rasps. “You’re beautiful—do you know how beautiful you are?”
“I feel beautiful right now.”
When he reaches for his slacks, I whisper something encouraging like “please”—god, I’m so unoriginal. But I can’t think. I’m throbbing with need, desperate for him to fill me.
The frustration of all these nights and days, the knowledge that this is only a stolen moment, temporary, only makes me ache for it more.
He tugs the zipper of his slacks downward, and I’m in complete museum-quality silence. He looks like he works out every day of the week, his chest ripped, tanned, gloriously defined and perfectly shaped, muscles rippling with every yank. A sound of need leaves me as he pulls down his slacks and I get to see him. A storm of desire racks me as he comes closer. His cock is bigger than anything I imagined. I lick my lips, anxious, my eyes running up his length, up to the swollen head and the glistening drop of semen at the tip.
I can’t . . . I can’t wait. I want every inch of that inside me. Every inch of him.
He smiles when he notices my blush and leans over me, caressing my pussy. His fingers quicken, and then he replaces his finger with his thumb, the pad rolling my clit in little circles while he tastes my mouth. I’m galloping to the brink again.
“You’re so responsive, Rachel, you get wet with a look, soaked before I get to touch.” He slowly wedges himself between my thighs.
I claw at his arms. “Saint,” I moan breathlessly, rocking my hips as he opens a condom packet and sheathes himself.
He curls his fingers around my waist and pins my hips down, pushing the first few inches of his cock inside me. I yell, and he holds me pinned, watching me as he plows inside a few more inches. Ecstasy sweeps through me. I rock my hips in my greed to get more of him inside me, pulsing. He flexes his hips, moving his cock in deeper. I lock my ankles together at the small of his back, clasping him to me. Tightness. Fullness. He pulses inside me. I clench my fingers in his hair, wanting more, afraid of more, and he makes a sound that rumbles in his chest and that I can actually feel against my breasts. In my ear: “Can you breathe now?” he husks.
A sound tears out of both of us as he immediately withdraws, prolonging the moment, watching me with those burning green eyes—then he thrusts all the way in, our stomachs slapping, our bodies arching. A sound rumbles up his chest, low and deep. There’s this hunger. This need to feel him, connect to him. There’s nothing else. Only us moving. The sounds of the sheets rustling beneath us. Our breaths. Our mouths as we suck, taste—lips, nipples, skin.
“A little. Oh god, Saint.”
With every thrust I feel so full, my spine arches, my nails claw at the taut skin and muscle at his shoulders.
I’m between screams and pleas, laughter and tears. I don’t know what to think or say or do. It feels like a dream, or a nightmare. Powerful . . . his pull to me is undeniable. I’m scared out of my mind and at the same time I’m helpless to resist. I want more. I bite his neck. I claw at his back. Saint, Saint, Saint, I cry, thinking incoherently that nothing is enough, nothing until I get his every secret, every name of his lovers, his fears, his dreams, his heart, until he comes for me, in me.
My breasts bob between us, his body powerful and more precise as he prolongs every thrust. “And now?” Making me nod as he takes me higher and higher. His muscles bulge. His head ducks and he tastes the tips of my breasts again, tugging with his teeth, smoothing with his tongue.
The brief teasing we’ve enjoyed, the little playful flirting and foreplay, those were tentative questions, born of curiosity on both our parts. This is an avalanche of ravaging desire. He thrusts again, his mouth on mine, his body relentless, neither of us letting the other breathe, or think, or stop. I won’t last another minute. How can I have gone years without this?
“And now, Rachel?” he growls through his harsh breaths.
Arching upward, I sink my nails into the back of his neck. “Please, Saint,” I moan out.
He rubs my clitoris a little bit with the pad of his thumb, and my eyes shut in bliss as my orgasm thunders through me. My skin melts; I fly away, ecstasy ripping through me. I clutch myself to him and feel him groan in my hair as he comes, his body tensing and flexing powerfully against me.
After a few minutes of lying together, I’m obsessed. I’m addicted. I’m bewildered. I want to know how many girls he’s made out with. I want to rank as one of the best. I want to do it again. I want to touch his body. I want to let him do whatever he wants with mine. I want to stop breathing forever. “What do you like? Blow jobs? Making out . . . ? ” I whisper into his neck. “Teach me, Saint.”
“You know what I like?” he whispers huskily in my ear. “I’ll show you what I’d like to do right now.”
He’s a beautiful man, with a beautiful, muscled ass that makes my mouth water as he disappears into his spa-like bathroom. I sit up on the bed, studying his bedroom. I hadn’t really been paying attention before. It’s pretty minimalist—bare. Almost emotionless. Almost icy, like his eyes.
There are no photographs, not even of his mom or of his buddies. But there are pictures of race cars all over the room, old vintage Ferraris. I suppose to a guy who grows up with more toys than people, the toys become important somehow.
“You should get some sort of fancy fur-like coverlet for this bed,” I say, loud enough that he can hear me in the bathroom, I hope, shivering as I tug the sheet to my breasts. Things that make love to you.
Suddenly I look at him at the threshold and he just looks like a man who needs to be made love to often. Not because he’s sexy, because now that he’s made love to me, his energy is ca
lmer, more subdued.
I like that lazy, half-lidded look he wears when he comes back out of the bathroom naked and grins when he sees me in bed with my hair falling down my shoulders and the rest of me pretty much naked under the covers.
“You felt good, Rachel,” he says, his eyes—god, my heart—his eyes look more thirsty than anything I’ve ever, ever seen.
I blush completely.
“I’d bet anything that you taste just as good too,” he says.
Oh, fuck, he doesn’t really mean . . .
He’s looking at my legs. I’m starting to melt under the sheets. His pupils are dark and liquid with a strange mix of tenderness and need, and his cock is . . . oh. “I . . . wouldn’t know, I’m not into being given . . . you know.”
He raises an eyebrow as he ventures forward, back to bed. Okay, I don’t want him to kick me out or anything, so I ease out from under the sheets, crawl down to the floor to get my panties, and slip them on as I nervously explain, “Not sure what it is about it, but I just couldn’t ever do it. I feel too exposed.”
He stops before me when I stand up, only to graze his thumb over my panties, up, down, around. “It’s not much different than me touching you like this. Except my tongue caresses you.”
“Why do you want it? Why do men like it?”
He chuckles and guides me back down on the bed. “You won’t need to ask me that when I’m through.” He tugs my panties down my legs, and I’m already so nervous about what I can tell he wants to do my lungs have already started to overwork.
“Promise to stop if I ask you to.”
“You won’t,” he assures, caressing a hand up the inside of my thigh.
“Promise.”
“Don’t make me promise.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve broken every promise I’ve ever made, and promising will only make me want to break yours.”
“Why do you break your promises?”
“Because I can. Part your legs.” He urges my knees apart. I’m squirming inside from nerves and anticipation. He leans between my legs and takes my thighs gently in his hands, parting them. He licks his lips when he looks at me, and I don’t think he realizes he’s savoring me like that.
“Oh no!” I laugh when he starts to lower his head. I clench my legs and stop him by grabbing a fistful of sooty black hair. “It’s too intimate! I can’t.”
He trails a hand down my curves, his eyes glimmering, but not with a smile, with challenge. “Let me taste you,” he says, husky and hot.
I go quiet and melt as his lips press to my stomach, my navel, lower.
“Malcolm.” I protest at first, holding my body tense on the bed.
His first lick I tense up, my hands in his hair ready to stop him. “What if I don’t taste good?” I breathe.
He runs the tip of his tongue over my clit and dips it inside, to the complete massacre of my senses. “Mmm. You do.” His hand smooths over my navel. He licks me slowly, savoring. I peer between my legs and see his eyes are closed, his lashes two half-moons. I start relaxing and let my fingers wander up the bulging muscles of his back, then I moan softly when he tongues there, harder, as if it were my mouth.
“You’re very good at this,” I choke. Suddenly I can barely formulate an audible word, much less several.
He caresses his fingers up the inside of my thigh and rubs my clit under the pad of his thumb as he shushes me and tells me to stop talking. The ceiling blurs and I lick my lips, panting as the pleasure escalates. I grab the comforter and hang on as I come and twist.
Wow.
I am deliciously numb.
I’m still panting while he’s still kissing me there. Instead of coming up fast, he then works his way up my sex, up to my belly button, between my breasts. By the time he puts on a condom and expertly thrusts inside me, his body made for this, to take me like this, make me quake like this, I’m a big ol’ quivering mess. A big ol’ quivering mess who’s delighted that, as he holds me to his body, he says the dirtiest, hottest things to me.
I’ve got to go.
Saint looks so delectable in bed as I gather my clothes that I almost can’t bear to look back when I’m finally dressed and at the door. Whatever just happened here, I don’t think either of us wants to face it. Especially not him. He once told me he didn’t do sleepovers . . . and though I slept with him before, this was so different, I couldn’t take it if he had regrets because . . . I don’t.
I sensed him put up a huge wall as soon as he was done coming. He roared out my name, hard and deep, like a war cry that made me explode on the spot. We were both mute afterward. When he came back to bed after getting rid of the condom, he didn’t touch me as he doodled on his phone.
I quietly start dressing, eager to go to my bed, where I can process this better. Or try to forget. He just crosses his arms behind his head and stares back at me, and I hear him call his driver to pick me up at the door.
“ ’Bye, Saint.”
I see him nod and hear him murmur, “Let me know when you get home, Rachel” as I head to the elevator.
“I will,” I murmur.
And once in my bedroom, I text.
I’m home
I can still taste you
I smile and slide into my bed, groaning into my pillow, thinking of that big, hard, beautiful part of him. “I want to taste you too.”
21
AFFAIR
Facebook wall:
Saint, saw those pics of you with a new chick on The Toy. Got bets going on if she’s a weekend-deal?
Twitter:
@MalcolmSaint hey I’m not sure you lost my number? It’s Deenah from the Ice Box—call me
Please follow me @MalcolmSaint!
Instagram:
Who’s the chick on The Toy, Saint? She the flavor of the hour?
After scanning Sin’s Twitter feed, I toss my phone aside, turning around in bed, wanting him again. Pale morning breaks overhead. It steals in through my blinds and falls on my second pillow. I imagine him lying on it, the sheets draped low on his hips. I’m here, close, so I can tuck my face into the crook of his neck like I did yesterday.
Yeah, like he’ll ever let a woman see him like that.
It doesn’t matter, it probably won’t happen again. Remember that he ran instantly cold after all the heat? Still, last night feels like a dream. An amazing dream. I should probably feel remorse, because we probably shouldn’t have done what we did. But I can’t. I melt when I remember. I can’t even believe this feeling. If only I could bottle it up and get high on it when I’m away from him. He oozed confidence. The way he worked me into a fever. The way he made me cry out. The way he controlled himself. The way he gave me oral.
Urgh. I’m so comfortable right now. I could stay here all day remembering. But I must. Fight. Bed gravity!
I manage to get out of bed, brush my teeth, and head to the kitchen. I look around as Gina pads in. I know deep down what I’m doing is so wrong and inherently risky. Proof of that is that I haven’t told my friends I slept with him.
We talk about the lamest things. I talk to Gina and Wynn every day, even if there’s nothing to talk about. We usually don’t even have anything significant to say except: “I just pigged out on a sundae.”
And I will be: “Oh, those are good.”
And: “I watched Sleepless in Seattle again; I can’t believe how good that movie still is, so many years later.”
“Oh, I love Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks. Where are those two, anyway? Where’s Meg? I miss her. . . .”
Sleeping with a guy after a three-year dry spell—and only having slept with two other guys in my life, neither of them anything to scream about—definitely classifies as noteworthy material. Sleeping with Malcolm Saint is a ten on the Richter scale. It deserves waking the girls up, if need be. It deserves screaming and scolding and more screaming, it deserves a day of daydreaming—What if he really likes me? and What if it happens again?—but because it’s him, and because this is me
, and because everything is more complicated, I can’t say it. I can’t share it, and I can’t bear to share him or hear anyone’s advice or opinion when I’m so tangled up about it all.
“What’s up with you?” Gina asks.
“Nothing. I’m going to write,” I murmur lamely.
I head to my laptop and stare at it, not writing a single anything at all, my fingers just stroking the keys as I glance at my phone.
Oh god, I’m such a fucking slut. I force myself to exhale the breath I’d been holding and read the text I just sent him:
Tonight?
Tonight, he’d answered.
We’re heading back from a night out with Callan and Tahoe. I can’t even believe how turned on I got watching Saint have a sportgasm when the White Sox won. His friends had one too. They yelled in Tahoe’s apartment. Tahoe started running around like a madman, banging his chest. Callan opened a bottle of champagne and gave us all a bath. Malcolm’s muscles gave my saliva glands quite a workout when he took off his shirt, balled it up, and threw it at the TV. “FUCK THAT, YES!”
He kept staring at me as I went to and fro.
“Hey, we’re having a good time. Why don’t you call the girls?” Tahoe says.
“No, thanks. You can leave your paws off my girls,” I say.
“We’re actually bailing,” Malcolm says. I look up at him, and he’s looking at me meaningfully.
“Aw, Saint. Hey, can we hop by your place later?”
“Later,” he says.
I don’t know why, but I’m already shivering like crazy.
Fifteen minutes later we’re in his bedroom, and I roll over to straddle him, aching for his mouth, and we kiss again. We’re naked, my breasts bare so he can toy with my nipples and drag his hands over my arms and then my spine. Our bodies shift as he sits up and pulls my legs around his hips. I’m so excited to feel that he’s thick underneath me, I can’t stop kissing his jaw, his lips. He’s so thick he groans when I rock my hips a little bit.