by Katy Evans
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Playlist
“Firestone,” by Kygo
“Want to Want Me,” by Jason Derulo
“Nothing Really Matters,” by Mr. Probz
“Gold Dust,” by Galantis
“Paradise,” by Tove Lo
“All We Need,” by Odesza
“Addicted,” by Saving Abel
“Kiss You Slow,” by Andy Grammer
“Peace,” by O.A.R.
Dear Readers,
When I finished writing Manwhore +1, I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to Malcolm and Rachel yet. I wanted to know what happened next, I wanted to see it. For all those who wanted the same, this one is for you.
Here’s to every I do.
BEST DAY
“Yes yes yes yes!”
I said yes times four, because one didn’t seem like enough for my boyfriend.
This is the best day of my life.
The excitement buzzing in my veins is so off the charts I cannot sit still.
I’m having dinner with the Hottest Man on this Earth at the top of one of Chicago’s premier skyscrapers. The city skyline twinkles with night lights, and a set of standing heaters blazes around us, protecting us from the cool wind. Tiny electric candles flicker down the path where my man led me out into this very terrace.
He sits across the table and neither of us is paying attention to the exquisite food the chefs brought out to us.
We can’t stop touching, reaching across the table to touch and kiss each other.
My brain keeps seizing and going back to only minutes ago, when I heard him say that he loves me . . . that he wants to marry me . . .
Oh god, he wants to marry me.
This man has the power to turn anything ordinary into extraordinary. A men’s shirt. A green grape. A pair of necklaces. A ticket to a baseball game. An office visit. An evening. A bed.
Well, today Malcolm Saint turned my average weekly workday into the day that I became his fiancée. His one and only ever fiancée.
We are officially . . . engaged !
And Malcolm looks so very pleased with himself right now, his lips curled, his dark hair a little tousled by the wind, watching me through dark-as-night lashes as he leans across the table to refill my wineglass.
He won’t take his eyes off me. Thoroughly and unashamedly, he watches me with happily dancing, liquid green eyes as he sets the bottle back in the silver bucket that stands near our table, and as he does, I inhale the cool breeze.
We’re both still dressed for the workday, but Malcolm rocks his office attire, while I look a little bit secretarial. He discarded his sable jacket and tie a little while ago and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt, and I’m in a pencil skirt and button-down top, my hair tied in a haphazard bun at my nape to keep it out of the wind.
“What are you thinking?” he asks softly as he takes my hand once again over the table and traces his thumb along the back of mine, dipping it into the hollow of my palm.
I smile at him as the silence stretches between us. The kind that is laden with words.
Words like: Are we doing this? Yes, we’re doing this!
“I’m playing your proposal again in my head,” I admit, laughing. “I’m ridiculous, I know.”
He laughs softly and lifts my fingers to his lips. “Do you want me to ask again?”
A devil’s twinkle appears in his eyes, and I bite my lip and nod.
His voice thickens. “Marry me, Rachel.” He leans across the table, his hand on the back of my head as he pulls me in to meet his lips.
“Yes,” I breathe a second before he kisses me, slow and languorous. “I love you, Malcolm,” I whisper as I touch my tongue to his.
“I love you too,” he husks out against my moving lips.
When we pry away from each other, my heart feels swollen in my chest with love for him. I glance at my hand and yes . . . there’s the proof, the bright ring on my left hand, near where his thumb is still tracing the side of my palm.
I’d never seen a more brilliant diamond in my life.
The ring belonged to Malcolm’s mother; it sits high in a pretty platinum band, and the rock glitters, bright and alive, even with only the moon and candles from which to refract light.
I cannot believe that this ring, this gorgeous ring, is now on my hand. Exquisitely big, sparkly, perfect. It’s all I can do—just look at the ring that Saint gave me. That Saint just slipped onto the fourth finger of my left hand.
I look at it adoringly even as Saint looks at me.
Six feet plus of pure ruthless businessman, one with the force of a thousand storms. This eternally mysterious, phenomenal man was never in my plans. I was certainly never in his.
But now marriage is our future together.
Now my ultrahot fiancé is leaning back like a czar in his seat, watching me with that penetrating gaze.
Saint has been the very symbol of a player, the most wanted billionaire bachelor in Chicago, for quite some time. And I know with certainty that his guy friends and annoying female groupies are going to bust a brain vessel when they hear that we got engaged. Not to mention my friends and mother probably having a fit of panic and excitement.
“The girls are going to freak out. But I want to see their faces when I tell them.” I grab my wineglass and take a sip. “Did the guys know you were going to propose?”
He takes his phone out, thumbs off a text, and sets it aside. “They do now.” He grins.
And his eyes look so very liquid tonight, my legs feel rubbery at the sight.
He pushes his chair back to make room for me, and I quietly go around the table and settle down on his lap.
Saint has the perfect arms; they hold me just right. Close, but not too tight, saying I’m here, but not you’re trapped. They kind of coax me to lean on him—coax me, not demand me. He is confident and this is how he attains what he wants, always with patience and persistence. He likes earning what he has.
He holds my head in one hand and thumbs my lips a little bit, as if preparing them for his kiss. “I’m going to kiss you. Everywhere. All night.” He brushes a ghost kiss across the corner of my mouth, and I’m not only ready for another kiss, I’m eager for another kiss. I’m dying for a kiss that won’t end until morning.
Anticipation buzzes in my veins as I melt into his hard, warm chest and feel his lips press softly into the other corner of my mouth. I sigh contentedly, and then Saint lifts my hand and kisses my knuckles and inspects the ring, getting a small frown as he studies it. “We need to get this resized.”
“I don’t want to take it off just yet.” I cover it possessively, then shoot him a sly smile. “I’ll roll Scotch tape around one side to make it plumper and keep it in place.”
“Classy,” he says drolly, and as we start to laugh, both his hands curl around my skull and he sweeps down to tease his smiling lips against mine.
I tip my face up to his, and my smile fades at the sight of Saint’s smoldering green gaze. I wrap my arms around his neck, hungry for him, so desperately in love with him, breathing, “Kiss me, Sin. Kiss me like we just got engaged.”
He carries me down to his place. He’s holding me so tight I can’t breathe, but I don’t want to breathe.
We undress and pet heavily for half an hour in bed, our mouths latched and savoring each other’s taste, each other’s warmth, each other’s mouths. My mouth is red and sw
ollen from his kisses, and my skin feels hot and tingly under his fingertips.
God. I feel like Venus. Beautiful, weak, strong, everything, as he tenderly tells me how good I taste, smell, feel.
“I really love you.” Four words spoken in quiet amazement—husky and deep and just a whisper in my ear.
“I do too.”
Warm fingers stroke along my curves as I rub my hands up the wall of his chest and look at his eyes in the dark.
The sheets beneath me feel so soft and like nothing compared to the hard substance of his body above mine. Strong, firm lips take me again, a perfect fit. We kiss for a long minute, stopping to nibble only so we can catch our breath.
His breath is hot on my face as he looks at me closely, in the dark. “I loved hearing that ‘yes’ come out of your mouth.”
I smile up at him. “Mmm. Yes,” I repeat, all sultry and wanton.
He smiles a little, and he looks so boyish and carefree. But then he grows serious again. Hungry again.
He sits up in one fluid move, pulls me on top, and fastens his mouth to my lips, never taking them off me as he drags them down my neck to suck on one of my breast tips.
The suction causes my nerves to start tingling and the blood to start boiling inside me. We sit in bed like this, my legs wrapped around his hips, his thighs beneath me, his mouth and hands devouring me. This man devouring me.
I rock my hips, slowly pleading for him to fill me. He comes back to my mouth and kisses me passionately, deliciously, deep enough to make my toes curl. My nipple beads under the brush of his thumb.
Before I realize what I’m doing, my nails are digging into his hair and I hear the low, soft pleas I make, begging, Saint, please, I’m aching for you . . .
The words end up a sigh that he covers with his mouth again. Our bodies shift closer, my smaller one molding to his hard, unyielding planes.
“Rachel, you’re drenched for me.”
A breathy gasp escapes me when he teases my entry with his erection. He rolls me onto my back and folds my legs, curling them around his shoulders, opening me. Every inch that he advances is bliss compounding on more bliss. The sharp, clean smell of his soap envelops me, weakens me. My senses overload on Malcolm Saint.
His mouth opens on mine with the same thorough deliberation he opens me with his hardness. His weight presses me down on the bed as he drives all the way inside. I groan. Saint rocks his hips to set a rhythm, his hottest parts taking over my softest ones. I pull his face closer to me and drop kisses on his thick neck, up to his jaw, as he gnashes his teeth while he enters me, over and over, harder and deeper.
My folded legs tighten against his shoulders. “Oh. More,” I beg, surprised by my own breathlessness.
He gives me more, giving and taking with each thrust.
He waits for me to get to the pinnacle. Quickly, I reach it. I hear myself purl out his name. I whisper I love you as he intensifies his thrusts and jets off powerfully inside me.
When I fall limp, he uncurls my legs from his shoulders, lies on his back, and runs a hand down my back as I spoon at his side. I sigh in relaxation. Is love like this? Where you keep falling and falling, every day that you look into his eyes?
I hear him inhale. He’s relaxed and satisfied as he tucks my face into his neck and rests his chin atop my head and strokes a hand down my hair.
What will it be like to marry him?
As if he’s thinking the same thing, he looks at the ring on my hand and kisses my knuckles, wiping my sweaty hair from my face.
“Should we spend the night at my place?” I ask. “That way I can tell my friends, call my mom, and you can leave to your early breakfast.”
“Sounds like a plan,” he says, his voice still gruff with lingering lust.
He goes to the bathroom to clean up and when he comes back out, we get dressed.
An hour later, we’re at my place, having the best sex—again.
“God, have we been making noise? Gina . . .” I breathe into his neck, tightening my arms around him, then I giggle in embarrassment.
He squeezes me, husking out, “I think we’re good.”
“You’re good,” I counter.
He gives me a heavy-lidded look before he kisses me for a long, long while, slow and lazy, his fingers spread out around the back of my head, and then he rolls me around to my stomach. He caresses my ass as he pulls me up to my knees and drives into me from behind. I make fists, moaning low. The bed squeaks as I clench the sheets, the engagement ring on my finger flashing as it catches light from the streets.
THE MORNING AFTER
“OOOOOPEN SESAME!” I hear my roommates yell through my door.
“I’m not Sesame and I’m sleeping,” I murmur into my pillow.
“Speaking of sleep, you owe me sleep time. I heard you all fucking night, you fucking horn dogs—open the door!” Gina demands.
I hear the door crack open.
“Are you alone?” she asks. “I’m with Wynn.”
“Malcolm just left,” I admit sleepily, and the door swings wide open.
“OHMIGOD!” they squeal, and there’s bouncing on my bed around my feet before they each drop down next to me. “FUCKING TELL US THAT HE PROPOSED!” Wynn cries.
I roll to my back¸ and my face hurts from smiling so much. I wonder why they’re asking me this. Do they know me this well? I look down at my hand and . . . there’s the diamond ring flashing. I couldn’t take it off, not even to sleep. But I quickly cover it right now with my free hand.
“Rachel, we don’t have all day.” Wynn nudges me excitedly, and she seriously looks so stoked, she could be on Ecstasy right now.
“I was going to invite you guys to lunch to tell you about it.”
“Dude, you still owe us lunch, but tell us now. The whole world knows and we’re your best friends!” Gina counters.
“What? What do you mean the whole world knows?” I leap off the bed and whip out my laptop, then rush back under my warm covers.
“Go ahead and surf the Net.” Gina gestures. “Dude, your mother probably already knows.”
I open my laptop and start scouring the Net.
Within minutes, I glean the most prominent information.
a. His groupies are not happy.
b. The one who divulged to the world was goddamned Tahoe.
Well, ladies, it’s official @malcolmsaint is off the market. From now on @RachelDibs gets both the Saint and the #sinner
And the replies to that came fast and furious, with commentary that basically read, in different forms:
FUCK THAT BITCH I GIVE IT A MONTH
WHATTTT!
Seriously there’s no way Saint can get sated with just one! EVER!
I shut my laptop. “Nope,” I say. “I’m too happy to let this spoil it.”
“You can tell Saint to ask the dickhead Roth to remove it,” Gina says.
“Saint’s busy. It’ll happen anyway, the speculation. Might as well happen now.” I fall back on my pillow and my eyes drift shut as the sudden memory of last night hits me.
I’m marrying the man I am in love with, the one who takes me to Pluto and Saturn, makes me lose my senses, and makes me want to be the best I can be. Oh god.
I slide my hands under the sheets and grip my stomach. We’re not using condoms anymore. I’m on the pill but I swear I can still feel him inside me.
“Well, are you going to tell us?” they yell, snapping at me to sit up in bed.
How can I deny them when they’ve got those puppy-dog, take-me-home, tell-us-everything eyes?
How can I deny myself the pleasure of telling them?
“Coffee first,” I say, and after I get up, brush my teeth, and slip on my fuzzy socks, I find them sitting, with a steaming cup of coffee placed right where I usually sit.
“Wow, thank you.” They’re sitting across from me, waiting, smiling the widest smiles I’ve ever seen.
I take a sip of coffee just to seem cool—like this isn’t the best thing that h
as ever happened to me aside from Sin—and then I nearly trip over the words of what to tell them first.
“So,” I begin, suddenly overflowing with such incredible happiness that I can’t seem to speak, so I just pull out my hand and show them Saint’s ring.
“Are you telling Mom?” Gina croaks.
“I’m calling her right now to tell her I’m coming over. I want to tell her in person.”
“Rachel!” Wynn screams, and they both hug me and urge me to call my mother.
I suppose that when you’ve been dating a guy for several months and you’ve never dated anyone before, your mother starts getting her hopes up. It seems a natural thing for a mother to want the best for her daughter. Steady job. Friends. Happiness. She watches you struggle, all while she is trying to help and simultaneously letting you spread your wings, but the very moment that your mother spots something that could make you actually happier than you already are—something that seems impossible—she sets her hopes on it.
“Have you ever discussed marriage?” she had asked only recently when I stopped by to see her one weekend.
“No. Mother! I’m twenty-three.”
“I was certain he was going to propose on your birthday,” she’d said.
“Stop dreaming. Plus, things are so perfect.”
I’m a journalist, young still. With so much to learn. I read stories, write stories, and love stories, but I’m not a person in one of my stories. This is me, real, just human and amazed that I found what I did, that the man I’ve fallen in love with actually loves me, but my mother kept asking.
And that’s not the only part of being in your first relationship.
Your friends start asking you about it too. They’ve noticed all the benefits, fund-raisers, movie nights, and they definitely noted the trip to Napa he took you on. They start noticing that the ratio of times he goes out to club with his friends versus the times he goes out with you starts leaning in your favor. And they seem to have a chart measuring all these things, as if that will tell them how serious it is. And it’s serious. It’s very serious. You know it most of all. That you’re in seriously deep, you can’t possibly go deeper. So your friends start to suspect he’s just as serious about you too.
