Hips rolling to his touch, I gasp, “Yes.”
He nibbles my lips slowly, taking his time. “You smell good,” he whispers in my ear. He wants me, lust humming between us. I smell like a woman who’s ready to be taken, my perfume and shampoo and soap mingled with the scent of Saint driving me crazy.
I’m gasping for air: every breath smells of him, every part of me remembering how he feels when he’s in me. In the moment now, I slip my hands into his hair and open my legs so I can feel him right where I need him most. He lifts me against him by the ass and takes my mouth in no hurry, and I realize he’s going to take his time—he’s going to take all night, till he’s done with me. When I realize I will be sexually tortured some more, I moan in aching misery.
He tilts my head back so that we make eye contact. He cradles the back of my skull while his free hand curls around my neck and he caresses my pulse point with his thumb. “What do you want, Rachel?” he whispers quietly. “Tell me how you want it. Do you want it now?”
Watching me, he slides his hand along my throat, my collarbone, flicks open my bra, and easily discards it. “You’re so responsive when I touch you, it pushes me over the edge to watch you fall apart.” He reaches to my waistband and flicks open my skirt; then he eases it down my legs. He is in no apparent hurry, but I am. I’m in such a hurry to see him naked that I kick off my skirt and reach out like a frantic nymphomaniac, my fingers trembling as I unzip his slacks.
“Get naked, get naked, Saint,” I beg on a cotton-like breath.
When his super-warm, smooth skin connects with mine, I’m in heaven and in purgatory, running my hands down his back, gripping his hard ass to pull him above me. He trails his tongue, hot and wet, across my nipple. I moan. His smell enthralls me, and the hint of his taste lingers on my lips. If that isn’t the most delicious form of torture, I don’t know what is.
He ducks his head and slides his tongue over my other nipple, and I shudder and part my legs when he teases two fingers across my folds, and I’m saying, “Please.” He teases the strong tip of his middle finger inside but pulls it out immediately. Fierce desire pools between my thighs as I lift my hips and, aching, try to follow his thumb’s retreat. He keeps me there, where he wants me. Beneath him, helpless and quivering. He nips my lower lip, pulling it away from the top. Achingly gently.
I mew softly and he shifts above me so that his hard body is aligned with mine. God help me, he owns me. “Sin . . . Sin . . .” My thoughts scatter as he dips his tongue sinuously into my ear. This man will turn the entire world into a sinner.
He looks at my reddened nipples. I groan when he sweeps down to lave and taste them as he caresses my sex with smooth, knowing fingers. First brushing on the outside. His middle finger across the length. The pad of his thumb, in little circles; then his thumb rubs me and his middle finger eases inside me and I’m undone.
I pull his face down to me, trembling with desire as I kiss him, angling my head and sucking his tongue hard. He groans when I let him slide up and down between my legs. I’m so hungry that if he enters me, I’m going to get there before he does. But he’s savoring what he’s doing to me, and he seems to want to make it last. The head of his cock massages the outside of my sex.
He’s beautiful and untamed and powerful and I want him to come inside me. But I know it would be reckless, and so I pant and watch him roll on a condom and look at me, his chest jerking with his deep breaths.
We hold gazes as I part my legs and he rubs against me again. He spreads out over me again. In one swift move, he curls one of my legs around his hip, opening me, and he presses in. I groan and sink my nails into his muscles. He watches my face as he starts to penetrate me. His body shudders, and my breath leaves me when he draws out his cock and then puts it inside me, all wet from me, and so hard. I can’t think or speak, I just take him, take his mouth, take the thrill of the way his eyes watch me. My every undulation, my every gasp, every whimper of helpless abandon.
He reaches between us and rubs the pad of his thumb just a bit over my clit, and he watches, breathing hard, with the merest tiny circular rub of his thumb while he presses his cock in as deep as he wants, ready to enjoy the tightening and loosening ripples in my body.
An orgasm. Fierce and wild. It sweeps through me like a wildfire, no corner of my body untouched. Saint pins my hips down and rides me through it, keeping my orgasm going with the most delicious thrusts of my life as I twist around, my mouth seeking his. He gives me a crushing kiss, and I can feel when he reaches that point, that magical point, because the energy seems to coil in his body, which grows tauter and tauter with each thrust.
I’m still enjoying the aftershocks when his body tightens and I feel the jerks of his cock as he jets off inside me. He grabs me by the cheeks, holding my face as he slows his rhythm. We share a slow but deeply passionate kiss as our bodies loosen.
“Wow,” I say, panting.
“Yeah,” he says. A soft laugh follows, and it comes with a gleam of satisfaction in his eye. He looks pleased with my sincerity. Or maybe just . . . with sex with me.
He shifts so he’s facing the ceiling and I’m draped to his side, his arm holding me to him, the other folded under his head, his chest heaving. He looks down and brushes a tendril of wet hair from my forehead. “I’m nearly about ready to go at it again. You?”
I can’t breathe, but who needs air? “Me too.”
What am I doing? What am I doing? WHAT ARE YOU DOING, RACHEL?
“One more time before I leave,” I say, rolling over on top of him. And, oh god, he’s so good, I’d keep him if I could.
One sex marathon with multiple orgasms later . . .
“Why didn’t you tell your friends about me?” Malcolm asks.
I hesitate as I dress.
His expression is not annoyed, but I can’t say that he looks happy either. He looks a bit closed off, his lids heavy from his last orgasm, his gaze shuttered.
“Same reason I didn’t want your friends to know.”
“What reason?” he asks.
“We were just fooling around. It means nothing.” I zip my skirt and then stand there, looking at him. “You’re mad?”
“I’m curious.”
I stare. “So you’re used to parading your lovers, and they love flaunting the fact that they slept with you; I don’t do that.”
“Aren’t we a little old to play the hiding game, Rachel?”
“Aren’t we too old to be betting on whether you can have me?”
His lips twitch, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes.
“You can’t stand them thinking you wanted me and didn’t get me.”
“That’s right, I can’t.”
“Why?”
“ ’Cause I called dibs.”
“I don’t understand you, Malcolm. See, this is why I don’t want a relationship. It would kill me to try to figure out my man.”
“It’s killing him trying to figure you out.”
I blink.
He goes on, as if what he said wasn’t something monumental. As if my heart isn’t just something frozen with a strange hope and fear in my chest.
“See,” he continues, “usually girls like people knowing they landed in my bed. Some girls claim to have landed there and I’ve never even met them. You’re the first who’s been there but doesn’t want to be.”
I duck my head as an awful feeling of betrayal and dishonesty sweeps over me. “If I didn’t want to be here, I wouldn’t be here,” I murmur. “I’m here despite . . . despite the fact that I shouldn’t be here at all,” I explain, raising my eyes to his. I should not be here, Saint, I think miserably.
But he just stares at me with that same puzzled look he gets when he’s trying to figure me out. I grab my top and feel him watching me as I dress. This is the kind of conversation you don’t expect to have with a one-night stand. But he’s not a one-night stand. What is he? “I don’t want to be a number on that list. Just thinking of all the women you’ve slept wit
h makes me want to go sign up for a pole-dancing course.”
He laughs. “Why?”
“Because I’m vanilla. I’m just some normal . . . girl. And you’re you.”
And I’m addicted.
It’s past 3 a.m. We’re both rumpled and supposed to be relaxed after the way we fucked like crazy. But there’s tension in his jaw, and my muscles are tight with it. I want to jump him again and work out this tension the way we’ve been doing, but I’m beginning to grow scared of this addiction. Scared of him. I stand at the door and turn to say goodbye, but he’s already slipping into his sexy black boxers and then his slacks.
“It’s not safe out there this time of night,” he murmurs.
“It’s never safe out there,” I mumble.
Bare-chested and barefoot and still giving me butterflies even after he had his hands all over my naked body, he accompanies me to the elevator and waits next to me as it arrives. When it tings, he turns me to face him. I let him kiss me on the lips and I kiss him back, wrapping my arms around him just for a second. Two. And then I peel myself away and hop onto the elevator. “’Bye.”
There’s something intimate in his gaze as he watches me, holding eye contact right until the doors shut between us.
God, I never thought a man could look at me like that.
I’m walking out of the building when I see his driver emerge from the Rolls.
“Miss Rachel,” he greets, and opens the door.
“Oh, Sin, really?” I look up to the top of the tower but I can’t even see it. I’m about to argue with Otis, but it’s 3 a.m.
As I slide into the back of the car, I hear someone say, “Mr. Saint, good eve—good morning,” behind me. I’m barely seated when I see his face and that happens; that way my heart keeps leaping when I see him.
“Rachel,” he says as he takes my arm and pulls me out of the car.
“What . . . what are you doing?”
“Something I should’ve done before.”
I refuse to take a step as he takes my hand and tugs me toward him. My eyes are huge. “You’ve lost your mind.”
“I have,” he agrees, then he lifts an eyebrow. “Are you coming up, or do you want me to carry you?”
“Please don’t carry me,” I beg, aware of Otis’s absolutely stunned stare.
“Then come with me.”
I take one step forward, his fingers lacing, strong, through mine, and then we’re back on the elevator. When the doors open, when nobody else can see us, he swings me up on his arms and folds me over his shoulder.
“Saint! Malcolm SAINT! Put me down, what are you doing?”
“I’ll put you down soon.” I fall still and melt a little inside, my heart done for. “You’re not doing this,” I say in swoony disbelief as he drops me down on the bed.
“Yes, I am. You’re sleeping over. You’re staying the night here.”
Looking pretty serious about it, he tugs my top over my head to get me comfortable, and I know I should probably not stay over, I know I shouldn’t like being together so much, and I know I’m not thinking straight right now—no, I’m not thinking at all—but that doesn’t stop me from unbuttoning his shirt with reckless speed, until I quickly pull it off his chest, sighing when he spreads his body above me.
@MalcolmSaint is it true you have a girlfriend? #imsad #pleasesayno
I lower my phone and turn in bed two hours later to stare at the sleeping man beside me.
I reach out and touch his jaw. I stare at his sexy mouth, completely still as he sleeps. I just slept over after wild, hot sex sessions. Me. My entire life, my fear of rejection and of being hurt by a man has made me focus solely on things I can control. My studies, my career. My body and its needs have been overpowered by my brain for years, it’s true. But not now, not tonight, not with this male.
The way he wants me . . . it takes my breath away.
Before I realize what I’m doing, I stroke my fingers over his face, tracing the contours of his jaw first, marveling over the abrading feel of his night stubble.
His lips are plush, firm, and so pink, my pulse accelerates as my own lips tingle in complete envy of my fingertips.
Without even thinking, I hold my breath and try to be as quiet as possible as I bend my head. You’re making my world spin so hard and so fast. The words shudder in my heart as I cup his jaw in both hands and press my lips as softly as I can to his without waking him up.
Something gooey and warm washes over me. Oh god, Malcolm . . .
I press my body closer to his, feeling him, looking at him. I never thought I’d see him like this, asleep with me, after sex. I’ve been admiring his smiles, the twinkle he gets when he teases me or amuses himself at my expense, and how protective he gets when his friends want to horse around with me. I never thought I’d connect with a man like this.
I love that he is centered and logical, but that with his friends, he is sometimes just a teenager—a very big, very handsome teenage boy with very expensive, very powerful toys. I love to work on him and interview him because I feel hungry for every bone he throws me. I love to be just a little bit part of his life, and right now, seeing him in a way I never thought I would, naked, in bed, sleeping, I’m so much more into him than I ever thought possible.
So when his arms come around me, and his mouth opens under my lips, and he slides his warm, damp tongue inside me, and a thousand flutters of pleasure race to my nerve endings, the only thing I can do—the only thing I want to do—is let both it, and him, take me.
22
EXCITEMENT, ECSTASY, AND EXPOS
We spend Sunday with the guys watching another White Sox game.
I fully intended to write notes on my phone to keep adding to my file, but I’m so relaxed, I’m letting myself chill out for a while.
I’m starting to feel comfortable with them—they’re like the noisy big brothers I never had. They both seem to have gone to some sort of function because they’re in suits, their ties discarded on the side, one’s jacket slung over the chair, the other’s over a sofa.
The announcer’s voice is saying something about a goal, or maybe it was a touchdown or whatever, and the boys are glued to the television screen. I’m sitting next to Malcolm, who is wearing a light blue cotton T-shirt that clings to his shoulders and light-wash jeans. He looks comfortable and commanding, sprawled on his couch. Callan and Tahoe are saying something about some player and Malcolm still has his eyes on the TV, occasionally taking a sip of his wine. That’s right, no beer for these boys. They watch their games with Pinot Noir.
A day in the life of Malcolm Saint. I laugh inwardly and try to focus on the game, but all I can think about is Malcolm’s arm behind my back. He looks so inviting in that T-shirt, all I want to do is cuddle up closer to him and bury my face in his chest and have him hold me to him with his strong arms. Instead, there’s about three inches of couch between us, which I deliberately put there for the same reason that I want to crawl into his lap. I need to calm down.
Just then, Malcolm drops his arm around my hips, and he draws me to him in one swift motion. I end up with my thigh touching his, and his arm around me.
“That’s better,” he says, satisfied with himself as he leans back again and keeps watching the game. Another sip of Pinot Noir.
Tahoe seems to have seen Malcolm’s little move, because he starts laughing. Malcolm shoots him a glare and draws me closer to him.
Men. I roll my eyes and bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. I turn to see Malcolm staring at my lips, which are pursed and lightly twisted in a barely controlled smile.
“This mouth,” he says, reaching down and using the pad of his thumb to pull my lips apart. He’s still looking at my lips as he withdraws his hand. He leans down to kiss me, and I freak and turn my head away. He just chuckles and places a big kiss on my cheek.
“Damn, I’ve never seen that before,” says Callan.
“What?” I ask.
He motions to Malcolm. “The
king being rejected by a woman.”
“I didn’t reject him!” I say quickly. I’m pretty sure I’m blushing. I turn to look at Malcolm, and he has a slight scowl on his face. I’m sure he’s making a mental note to kick Callan’s ass later.
“You did,” insists Callan. “You’re gonna have to nurse that wound later.” He winks at me, and I feel Malcolm grow tense next to me.
“What? What did I miss?” says Tahoe, with his eyes still glued to the TV.
“Oh, nothing, it’s just that our boy here just got—”
“OOH!! FUCK YEAH! THAT’S RIGHT!!!” Tahoe shoots up from his chair and claps his hands together. “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!!!”
I think something good just happened. Callan and Malcolm look back to the screen and join Tahoe’s little celebration. I feel Malcolm’s chest vibrate with his deep voice, and I feel my head instinctively sink a little closer to him.
He leans his head down to my ear and explains what happened. I nod, but all I can think about is how his voice sounds. Deep and manly. And I just want to crawl into his lap again.
He plants a kiss on my temple and looks back up at the screen.
This is too much. I try to move away from him, but he just tightens his arm around me. Fuck.
I hadn’t really been into baseball so much until now, and even though I’m so relaxed that I could tune out, Malcolm keeps reminding me that he knows I’m here with his stupid little touches. Sometimes it’s a kiss on the top of my head, or his hand on my thigh, or his thumb rubbing across the inside of my wrist. Each and every touch makes me dissolve and dissolve and dissolve. They’re little, insignificant touches, but they make my head swirl and my stomach flip.
I promised myself I wouldn’t, but by the end of the game my head is on his chest and his arm is holding me against him. Callan and Tahoe keep staring at us A) like we’re some kind of dinosaur/extinct animal they can’t believe is actually there before their eyes, and B) like we’re some kind of magical sight that might disappear in a blink of an eye. I can tell they’re not used to seeing Malcolm like this. And I feel like I’m playing with fire. I feel like the closer I cuddle into him, the more I relax into him, the more I let my head settle into the crook of his shoulder, the harder I’ll burn later.