Manwhore

  My girl . . .

  God. I’ve made such a huge mistake.

  By fighting him, I’ve only intrigued him more.

  Yielding to him, I’ve only doomed myself to pain.

  My mistake wasn’t accepting the assignment to write the exposé, it was that I dropped my walls and got close to him to the point where he feels like part of my soul. My mistake was taking his shirt in my hand, and going to his club, and to his yacht, and moving my lips beneath his, and going to his place and begging him to make love to me even after I promised myself it would never happen.

  I need to put an end to this, but I can’t rationalize right now. The thought that I need to end it makes me crave to see him all the more.

  I impulsively pull out my cell phone and dial. His voice mail answers. He’s probably fucking some other chick, I tell myself negatively. I leave a message: “Hey, it’s me. I guess . . . nothing, really. Call me. Or not. ’Bye.”

  I hang up. Then I wipe my tears and get a grip. I had a goal, a chance to write an exposé, to get my name out there, advance my career, reveal the real Saint and not the legend. Maybe I can open a girl’s eyes and avoid one broken heart. Maybe they can realize that Saint won’t love them. Nobody is going to love them except themselves, if they work hard at it. And their friends, if they choose wisely. And their families, if they’re lucky. This is my side of the story—the side of the little girl who grew up wondering what it would be like to live with a man’s love, then grew determined to prove to herself she didn’t need it. I know there are a lot of girls out there like me. Those who didn’t get the guy at seven, at thirteen, at fifteen—they didn’t even get the guy when they were born. Why will we get the guy now, when we’ve grown up already? We don’t need him now.

  He calls me back. “Hey. You all right?” he asks.

  “I . . .” Something unknots in my stomach at the sound of his voice. I’ve never felt so connected with a guy. Where you can hear the concern in his voice, and you’re sure he can hear the sadness and frustration in yours. How can this be? I wipe the corners of my eyes. Hate, hate, hate crying. “Yes, I’m okay. I just wanted to talk to you.”

  I clear my voice, hating that it wavered a little at the end. There’s a tense silence. Way to go, Rachel. Say goodbye to Saint now. Do you think he wants to deal with a crybaby right now?

  “Where are you?” he asks.

  “I’m at my mom’s. Heading back to my apartment.”

  “Otis will be there. Spend the afternoon with me.”

  My voice gets shy and I admit, “I’d love that, Malcolm.”

  He’s quiet, as if taken aback by how vulnerable I sound. And then he surprises me too, his voice just as low and fiercely husky and tender. “Me too. I’ll see you soon.”

  I hang up and stare at my phone, my heart literally in pain inside my chest. Am I in love with him? Why am I so consumed and so confused? It seems like my brain points me in the direction of my logic and my lifetime career dream, but the rest of me doesn’t want to go there if it means having to leave him.

  I glance at my mother’s painting and am struck by its raw beauty. It’s like nothing she’s ever painted before, as if all these years what she couldn’t paint just simmered inside her, creating a powerful force that, once set free, fired up and took over the canvas. Even the room itself.

  Just like an affair with Saint is taking over me.

  25

  NEEDING A SAINT

  Two hours later I reach the docks, and when I see him waiting for me on the deck of The Toy, I inhale, long and slow. I’m wearing a yellow dress that’s quite informal, because I hadn’t planned to see him today, and I need to flatten my palms to my thighs to keep the dress from going up when the point is for it to fall down.

  The wind flaps my hair as I board, also pushes the fabric of his white polo against the planes of his chest. He wears baggy white cargo shorts with that shirt, his legs thick and muscled.

  He picks me up and swings me around and onto the deck, then takes my hand and leads me to the top deck. We don’t even say hello. There’s no need. I hadn’t realized we were at that telepathic point I’ve only ever been at with my mother and friends, where you know what the other needs and you say nothing, you just stand there and be there. And that’s exactly what he does for me as he keeps my fingers within his strong ones and brings me to the sitting area. I feel fragile, like if he touches me more, I’ll break. So I pull free, take a seat on the chair across from the couch, and just sit there quietly as the boat engines hum and we head into open water.

  “Want to talk about it?” Malcolm asks from where he sits across from me, reaching out to brush my hair back. Eyes like blades slice through my walls.

  Malcolm is such a sex god. He’s a playboy and a player, but nobody sees past that. That he’s funny. Also, in a way, very reserved. He’s kind . . . I’ve seen it firsthand. He’s kind with me, with his friends, never denying any request for charity. For anything. If he doesn’t want to sleep with me ever again, he’s a man I’d be honored to call my friend. I’ve come to respect him that much.

  I’m also feeling so jealous over him, to know I have to step back so others can have him kills me.

  “I’m having one of those days when my family . . . well, my mother and my friends and I aren’t seeing eye to eye,” I murmur.

  The concern in his eyes is almost too much for me right now; right now when I hate myself for my job. For what I’ve been doing.

  “Malcolm.” His name escapes my lips in a soft moan.

  He reaches out and draws me between his widely spread knees. “Never saw eye to eye with my family,” he offers, sitting me on his thigh, and I’m surprised that he’s willing to go there again. On his own. A tiny voice in my mind tells me, He’s doing it for you, Rachel. To connect with you. “It made me feel all sorts of fucked up. Like there was something wrong with me. It doesn’t matter what they believe. What do you believe?”

  That I suck! I want to cry. I look down to his hand on my hip, and I slip my hand over his just because I don’t want him to remove it—and I know that when I turn in the exposé, I will never feel this big, strong hand holding me by the hips again. Can I really do this?

  “We didn’t see eye to eye on anything,” he continues. He brushes my hair behind my ears as the wind flaps it around, then grabs it in his fist and holds it to the nape of my neck so we can look at each other. “Nothing I did was good enough. I could never live up to the Saint name.”

  “So since you couldn’t live up to the Saint name, you gave it a whole new reputation?”

  His eyes glint greener. “Nah. I just did my own thing, tried to be happy regardless.”

  He watches me as if wondering why I’m not happy.

  No. He watches me with intensity as if he’s wondering what he can do to make me happy.

  “Most times, I am happy,” I admit. “Others it’s like I keep waiting for something. I feel like I’ve lived with this little hole all my life.”

  “I know that hole.”

  When he nods, I tease him a little, reaching out to jab him. “I thought all your toys filled it up quite nicely. And your blondes.”

  “Not the toys.” He laughs, then he catches my arm before I stand and ends up pulling me down on his lap with a forceful tug. The moment I land on his lap, well, let’s just say it’s not a soft landing. “Only one blonde.”

  He wants me.

  His cock is so hard it’s throbbing prominently against my bum. A heat rises in me as he slips his fingers into my hair. He whispers in my ear, “You look wound up and ready to be loved.”

  “And you don’t waste a boner,” I tease.

  He laughs, and our smiles start to fade as we look at each other.

  “I saw . . . how you got rid of the rumor about us,” I finally tell him.

  He looks at me, as if waiting for the question.

  I want to ask, but I can’t. It would be so hypocritical of me to ask if he’d slept with her when at the same
time I want to keep our relationship casual.

  “No, I didn’t,” he answers, watching me, and I’m sure he can see the tumult of feelings I have for him in my eyes.

  I’m aware that I’m falling, I’m falling so hard my tummy aches. I’m playing with fire, putting my heart right on the train track for it to be squished soon. But neither the threat of being burned nor the oncoming train can stop me.

  “You totally could,” I say, as nonchalantly as I can.

  “Yeah, I know.” His lips twitch, his eyes sparkling tenderly, as if I amuse him.

  Heart pounding, I wind my arms around his neck and whisper, “I’m glad you didn’t,” and rain slow, deep, anxious kisses up his thick neck while I tug his shirt out of his waistband.

  “I won’t,” he rasps, and for a man who makes no promises, this feels like one, like a warm promise on my ear as my fingers slide up the bumps of his abs. It unravels me, all the knots inside me, so hard and so fast that a tremor racks my body and he notices, smiles at it.

  “Malcolm,” I breathe, all of a sudden as wet as I’ve ever been, feeling like he’s mine right now, all mine. He lets me do the kissing for a moment while he drops his nose into my hair as his hands tangle in the length of it.

  I slide my fingers under his shirt and push it up to kiss his abs, every single square inch revealed for me, up to his brown nipples. Then I lick my way up to his nipple while he pulls my dress up to my waist and grabs my panties in one hand, tugging them downward. I stand until I kick them off, and he takes advantage of that to unzip his shorts and pull himself out.

  Desire trembles through me as he puts on the condom. He reaches for me, and I lift my legs and fold them at his sides, lowering myself, the skirt of my dress falling over us so that no passing yacht or boat can see, exactly, what we’re doing.

  He’s so big, I moan every time he’s fully seated inside me, but he likes it, he likes making me moan.

  He likes making love to me.

  Slowly, our bodies connecting, our mouths searching, the pleasure escalating. Our clothes lie between us but his flesh is inside me and I’m gripping him hotly, tightly, every rock of my hips meant to drive him deeper.

  He murmurs something hot and dirty against the top of my head, and I nod without even being certain what it is I’m agreeing to, only saying yes.

  We head to the cabin after a delicious meal. He sleeps without a stitch on, and it makes sleeping with him my first ever addiction. I slide under the sheets and press my cheek to his chest and listen to his heart as I fold my leg and hook it around his long, hard thigh.

  I can’t even say how safe I feel right now.

  “Do you feel better?” he asks in my ear.

  “Much,” I admit.

  I start to relax and think about what Gina asked. Whether he and I could have any future at all. Whether we could have something even remotely resembling a romance. I don’t want to hope that, even if I worked out my job issue, we have anything. But it’s hard to convince myself as he trails his hand up and down my back and we’re quiet, comfortable, as if we’ve done this a thousand times and could do it a thousand more.

  I’m exhausted, but at the same time, I can’t sleep tonight. No matter how much I braced myself. How many emotional bulletproof vests I tried to wear. How much I fought myself. How many “stories” about Malcolm Saint I used as ammunition against the reality of him. I’m not immune. He affects me like nobody ever has. Knowing all of Malcolm’s faults did nothing to stop me from getting attached. Instead, knowing his faults endeared him to me.

  I connect to him. I connect with him.

  My exposé . . . what will I expose now? I came in intending to discover and unmask a legend, but what I found is now lying sweaty and sated in my arms, flesh and blood, imperfect and irresistible. And this—with him, here—is the first real spot I’ve ever been in in my life where I want to stand still.

  We had an extensive sex marathon at night, so we’ve been dozing off this morning as The Toy smoothly glides through the water. My skin prickles under the warmth of the sun, the wind playing with my hair, the soft rocking motions of the yacht. The engines hum softly, lulling me to a near sleep.

  Saint just hung up his phone from another business call. Now he’s lounging right beside me.

  The sunlight strikes the lake, causing the yacht’s shadow to shimmer across the water. I stretch out and flip onto my stomach, untying my top so I don’t get a tan line.

  Malcolm instantly caresses that spot, his hand spreading all over my bare back. “I’m going to tan with your big hand on me!” I laugh.

  He chuckles and moves it to curl around my neck, then up to my scalp. His phone rings again, and he stands and paces while he talks. I watch a smile flash across his face.

  He runs his fingers through the sexy disorder of his hair. “Yeah? Good.”

  I grin like a dope, addicted to watching him work, wondering what he’s doing. When I’m with this man, I can never think of anything but all that makes him who he is.

  He glances at me with his cell phone to his ear, crooking a finger to call me over. God, he’s so bossy. I frown, but I sit up and try to tie my bikini top, curious as to what’s going on.

  I pad over and he hangs up. He whispers, “Got to show you something. Come here.” He hooks a finger into the side string of my bikini bottom and uses it to have me follow. We go to the sitting area on deck where suntan lotion and fruit are set out, along with his laptop and tech gadgets. He pulls open his laptop and types in some passwords.

  I sit on his thigh sideways to allow him to type. He logs on to some administrative page, then clicks a button and a window pops open with an image of a street.

  “What is that?” I frown and stare closer at the screen.

  “Something,” he says in his low voice, “I believe the lady will like. Look at the screen.”

  The screen displays several images—a grocery store entrance, a street corner. “End the Violence has been pushing for citizen surveillance,” he explains.

  Shock flits through me.

  “I know.”

  “I funded their movement. The government’s got several satellites up already, with a few more to follow.”

  I’m so stunned, one of my hands is covering my open mouth, my obvious disbelief making Malcolm’s eyes fill with amusement.

  “Nothing to say?” he prods.

  Forcing my mouth shut, I stare at him wide-eyed: him, an ever-changing mystery. Always surprising me. Teasing me. Annoying me. Seducing me. Enchanting me.

  “This just brings me one step closer to that coveted moon you say I want,” he teases me softly when I can’t speak, when I’m still blown away.

  He’s peering at me, a smile twisting his lips as he runs his knuckles down my jawline. “You bring out a side in me I thought I didn’t have.” His voice is low and reverent somehow, as are his eyes, knowing and grateful. “I’ve been told that I’m reckless, that I could not be relied upon, that I couldn’t make a difference for others—just for myself. My father looked at me as if I was to blame for everything, and Mother as if I would get myself killed. People look at me like I can get them the moon, but you look at me like I already did. Like all I need to do is exist, and you would be happy,” he murmurs, tracing his thumb down my earlobe as he smiles at me, his eyes happily twinkling. “I like it, Rachel.”

  “I’m so alive with you,” I whisper, without being able to even think of my words before I whisper them. “I’m so alive with you, you make everything pop for me, everything stand out.”

  “Ahh.” He throws his head back and laughs deliciously then scrapes his hand over the stubble of his jaw, his smile both sexy and humorous. “See, that makes me feel good in a whole other way.”

  “Because you’re arrogant and nothing’s enough for you, no amount of admiration or respect. I love . . . this. I love this so much, Malcolm.”

  I duck my head, blushing because I thought the word you before the one I actually said, which was this. It popp
ed into my head, so real and unfiltered, I’m blushing as I try to push it down. “I do love this,” I add, focusing on the screen again.

  He turns my head around and looks at my lips, rubbing them a little. “Good. My girlfriend wants to change the world, and I want to own it.”

  “Why do you insist on me being your girlfriend?” I complain, but when his eyes slide up from my mouth to lock on mine, that typical shyness he brings out in me comes out with a vengeance.

  “Why do we want anything?” he asks me, one eyebrow up.

  “Because it gives us pleasure, satisfaction, it makes us happy.”

  “So when can I call you my girlfriend?” he insists.

  He’s so stubborn! I giggle because his question is “when.”

  In Saint’s mind, it’s not impossible. He knows it’s happening, he’s actively carving his way to making it happen, and he’s just curious to see how long he has to wait.

  I feel a yearning to say, Now! But I can’t. “Let’s talk about it again later,” I propose instead.

  He takes my face in one open hand. “Next week.”

  Knots, knots, knots in my tummy, my chest, my throat.

  “I might need more than a week to come out of the box,” I begin when the flexing in his jaw and the tumult in his eyes tug at my heartstrings. Coupled with my own aching heart, resisting him is killing me. “But . . . will you be waiting?”

  “I’m waiting, Rachel,” he assures me, his tone steady, as if there’s no doubt that he will wait as long as he needs to. He leans forward and gives me the sweetest, hottest kiss on the corner of my mouth.

  I sigh inwardly, a sigh he doesn’t hear, doesn’t even notice.

  His attention goes back to the computer as he starts to check out the software, and he works the keyboard with those long, blunt fingers that type, I realize, as fast as mine do—and I type like the wind. I’m sitting in his arms, watching him show me, so safe right now. His scent steals into my nose and I drag it inside, getting wet between my legs, happy in my heart. “I want you again,” I whisper, in his ear.