Manwhore +1

by Katy Evans

  He shuts the door slowly behind him as he looks at me, in his shirt. I feel weak in the knees. “Nice shirt,” he says.

  “It’s yours.”

  I swear my room feels smaller and so much more feminine whenever he’s in here.

  He starts forward, his gaze shining appraisingly on me. “I like you in it.”

  I nervously bite the inside of my cheek. “I didn’t think you’d want me to wear it while you were hating me.”

  “I wasn’t hating you.” He keeps walking forward and for some reason I find myself backing away. Maybe because I feel vulnerable that he sees me so at home in his shirt. Maybe because I just poured my heart out to him in an email he might never read.

  “I don’t respect a lot of people, Rachel, it’s hard for me.” His gaze searches mine. “I respect you.” He reaches out to stop me from walking and cups my face in one hand to force me in place. “I get you, Rachel. I may not say it, words are your turf, not mine, but I get you. You’re the only woman I’ve ever gone this far with. Ever even wanted to. Promise me now that if you don’t find anything by the time my father takes over, you’ll come with me—and I’ll believe you.”

  His eyes are so green right now, heavy like anchors holding me down. We stare at each other as if we’re both trying to understand what the other needs. Him, calmly, and me with so much longing inside me, I feel soft like a noodle.

  I know that he’s never done this before, being with someone like he is with me, and I haven’t either. I close my eyes when his thumb starts to caress the skin on my neck where he holds me. “I do. I promise.”

  He smiles then—a slow, male, grateful smile—then he pulls me close to his chest. “Was that hard now?” he chides.

  “No. But you are.” I smile against his neck.

  He laughs softly as he reaches between us and chucks my chin. “It happens when you’re around.”

  “Does it? I hadn’t noticed.” I smile.

  His smile flashes back at me. “It’s pretty much permanent.”

  Ohgod, he’s making me so wet. I shove him away and back away a little with a mock-frown. “Rumor has it it’s like that all the time when any lady’s around.”

  He starts after me. “I’m a hungry man. I won’t apologize for my appetite.”

  “And you used to like a buffet?” I hop on my bed and avoid him when he reaches out to grab me.

  His eyes twinkle, his teeth white against his tan. “Why not? If I’m hungry.”

  “Do you still crave it?” I hop back down and keep backing around my room, while Saint, Saint continues calmly coming after me.

  “That hunger of yours is so big maybe nothing will ever satisfy it,” I continue taunting.

  “Maybe.” He catches me in a swift move, pulls me close, and he leans to my ear, voice dropping, “I still think you wear my shirt better than I do,” he says huskily.

  I moan and press closer. “Saint.” Fuck me right now. On the bed, the floor, and against the wall.

  He playfully, and oh-so-wickedly, pops open one button and runs the knuckles of his fist inside to caress the skin between my collarbones.

  “I want you,” I whisper, giddy and gooey inside. “See, I’m ambitious too.”

  His voice is pure husky. “Good, aim high. Always. I like my girls greedy.”

  “Plural! You’re such a piece of work.” I shove at his hard chest playfully and back away again with a mock frown.

  “And you like me anyway.” He keeps coming forward, and I swear the smile he’s wearing right now is about as hormone-wrecking as his hard-on is.

  “I’m aiming . . . high . . . it’s just that I’m trying to put a name to us and it frustrates me not to have one.”

  What am I, exactly, to you? I want to ask, but Saint pops open another button, and whispers, “Only you would want a word. But there’s no word for this.”

  He grabs a little bit of loose hair from my nape as he tilts my head up so he can kiss me. And . . . kiss me.

  Our lips collide, his firming over mine, making me soften as his tongue dips into my mouth and a spiral of heat swirls in my stomach. I start pulling him by the shoulders as we kiss, backing us eagerly to the bed.

  The backs of my knees hit the mattress and I end up sitting there, then lying there, and he leans over me, his mouth still slowly, powerfully moving over mine. The heat of his slow and thorough kiss burns me to ash.

  I trap back a moan and look up at him dazedly as he sits down next to me and holds me to his chest with one arm. I start kissing his neck and jaw and sit here in a pile of lust, feeling his hand run down my side to stroke up the side of my bare leg.

  “So we’re clear then,” he murmurs against my mouth, delivering one of his most demanding looks.

  I lick my lips and nod.

  He shoves his tongue into my mouth again. Leaning over me, he’s all raw manpower. Dominant and possessive, unapologetic, he circles my tongue with his. Pressing, circling, stroking, stoking my fire, the space between our upper bodies nonexistent. He caresses my side with his hand, moving it up to the little triangle of skin he revealed under my throat.

  I grab his jaw to speed up the kiss. But he won’t have it.

  “Easy. Let me savor you,” he quietly coaxes as he slows down, prolonging it for us as he sips from me like a wineglass.

  The fabric of his shirt I’ve been wearing is so flimsy compared to the hard substance of Saint’s chest against mine.

  I hear the air-conditioning, the noises of the city. Feel my soft bed beneath me as his mouth roams over my neck. The weight of his upper body on mine makes me sigh. The smooth skin of our chests rubbing. The wet warmth of his mouth on my skin. My fingertips digging into the back of his head. The hard wall of his chest to my breasts. Smell the scent of his neck. Hear our breathing. I’m breathless and still, he caresses me with his fingers between my collarbones.

  We lie there quietly, looking at each other before he sweeps in for another kiss.

  He turns his head then and gives me another pile of long lazy kisses. “Are you going to keep your promise to me, Rachel?” Kiss.

  “Hmm . . .” Lazy kissing from me to him. “Yes, Sin.”

  “Good girl . . .” More lazy kissing, then he rolls around and gets up from the bed.

  “Where are you going?” I sit up in confusion, pushing my hair out of my face.

  “I have to go. I have something important pending at my place.” He heads to the door.

  “You mean you’re not spending the night?”

  He stops to turn, then lifts one dark eyebrow. Then the other.

  And then, I see the twinkle appear in his eyes.

  He comes back to me.

  Leaning down, he buttons up the button he unbuttoned, his handsome face sober now.

  He cups my breast over his shirt as he opens up his mouth and dips his head for one last taste of me. He sucks my bottom lip gently, then does the same with the top lip, then he dives into my mouth, which gets a delicious little tongue fuck before he sets one soft kiss at the corner of my mouth. He touches my body like it’s his and I’m starting to worry. God, I’m addicted.

  But then he whispers, “Not here, little one.”

  “Why?”

  “Your friend’s here. And I want you to make noise.” He looks at me meaningfully.

  “I’ll see you soon?” he husks out, easing back and once again heading for the door.

  He’s leaving.

  I watch him grab my doorknob.

  “I planned to hit the Cubs game next weekend. I have a mind to take you there.”

  “Cubs game?” I nearly leap off the bed. “Yes! ”

  His eyes glimmer. Those naughty lips of his tug upward.

  I blush when I wonder if it’s because he knows how I feel about him. “I’m excited because I’ve never been to a live game.”

  His eyes glint. “Of course.”

  I know he knows I’m excited to go with him.

  I want to say I love you but before I get the co
urage, he’s gone. And I lie in bed, wondering about us.

  The next morning, I tell Gina a little bit about the fight and how he said some bone-melting things to me and I ask her if she thinks Saint loves me.

  She gives me a you’re-shitting-me look.

  I reply with a no-I’m-not-shitting-you look.

  “You’re kidding?”

  “I never kid about Saint, Gina.”

  She shoves her spoon back into her plate. “I wouldn’t know, Rache. What I do know is that he makes you vulnerable and you’re putting up walls.”

  “No I’m not.”

  “You don’t want to expect anything. You’re still scared.”

  “Okay, maybe I am scared.”

  “Scared of what?”

  My shoulder hikes up. “Everything,” I laugh pitifully. “I’m always scared.”

  “About it not being reciprocated?”

  I nod.

  “Of his fame and his groupies? How ready they are for him to tire of you to welcome him with open legs and arms?”

  “Gina!” I scowl. “He’s not like that.”

  But in a way, I am scared of his groupies. I’m scared of being in love. With . . . him.

  “They’re all like that, Tahoe and Callan too.” She pauses. “Dude. I’d be scared too. But . . . Look at his actions, Rachel. Those should be worth more than sweet-talking words. Paul used to tell me . . . I don’t even want to remember. But he didn’t mean it, his actions said otherwise. God, I could’ve killed him for being such a cheating liar if I hadn’t been so . . . devastated.”

  She eyes me somberly.

  “What Saint has done for you, Rachel. Offering the job. Canning Victoria’s article but not yours. That safety thing he did with End the Violence. Coming here last night to talk it out . . . I know you’re a words girl, but he’s more of a doer than a teller. He’s doing things to be close to you. Maybe you should start ’fessing up and telling.”

  I open my hands in a helpless gesture. “I told him I loved him, on the phone. Once.”

  A stab pricks my chest when I again wonder how he took it?

  “Before the shit happened. Maybe he wants you to take the leap again. In that article, you wrote that you’d leap if you thought he’d catch you. Don’t you think he will?”

  A warm glow fills me as I imagine leaping knowing that he would catch me, and my lips curve a little. “Since when are you so perceptive?” I ball a paper napkin and toss it over the table at her.

  She tosses it back. “Since, hell, I don’t know.” She shrugs and shoots me a wistful glance. “Maybe I just want my faith in men restored.”

  She laughs and shrugs as if this admission is no big deal. But it’s a huge deal.

  It’s been so long since Paul, and Gina’s been so determined never to go through that again.

  “Our first time falling in love . . .” I trail off as I bring a box of Lucky Charms and a cereal bowl for myself. “It hasn’t been a walk in the park for either of us,” I tell her.

  She grabs the pink marshmallows in my bowl before I can add the milk. “More like a roller coaster.” She pops some into her mouth. “But like Tahoe says . . . ’cause he and I are like buddies now. Are you impressed?” Then she chuckles a little. “Anyway . . . walks in the park can get boring.”

  CUBS GAME

  It’s Cubs game day, and I’m running around in matching black panties and black bra. My stomach is a big jumble of nerves. I feel like I’m watching a horror movie, and it’s at that part where some stupid girl is about to open the closet, which contains some kind of serial killer/psychopath, and I can’t do anything about it. I’m that girl. And I’m about to open the closet door, except it’s Malcolm waiting on the other side of it, and I don’t know what scares me more.

  Sin, on the other side of the door. My addiction. My love.

  I smell like vanilla perfume and my hair is freshly ironed, feeling warm against my back, silky straight, hitting me just below my shoulder blades. I’m so excited, I feel like a teenager. I check my phone, and his last text is still glowing on the screen:

  I’m on my way.

  Four stupid little words and I feel like I can’t breathe. But I want to squeal like a little girl too. I haven’t seen him all week; work getting in the way, save for a few texts. As I contemplate what to wear, I’m thinking about what will happen. How I’ll be in his car with him soon, surrounded by leather in a confined space . . . and then I start thinking about whether he’ll come back to my place or not, and I find myself thinking—no, hoping—that he will.

  So I pause to make sure that my bed is made, my room sparkly clean.

  I finally put on an emerald-green silky blouse and a pair of white shorts that make my butt look good. I slip on some flats, spray more perfume on my neck, swipe mascara on my lashes, a little blush on my cheeks, and a smack of cherry lip stain on my lips. I’m looking in the mirror, deciding I look okay, when I hear a knock on the door.

  I focus on my breathing, hearing my ballet flats tap on the floor. No one else is home. The apartment only has a couple lamps on, and I’m just now realizing that somewhere between my getting-ready routine and obsessing, the sun has gone down.

  I open the door, and he’s standing there with his hands in his pockets, wearing dark jeans and a long-sleeve black T-shirt that defines his huge shoulders and is pulled tightly against his biceps. Weirdly, the nerves in my stomach subside. He’s looking at me with his green eyes. His square jaw clamped tight. His eyes are roaming from the tips of my toes to the blush on my cheeks.

  He clears his throat, and when he finally speaks, I swear to god I almost start crying from how much I like the sound of it. Incredible, how much I’ve missed this voice. How his chest seems to vibrate with the power of it. How I can basically feel his warmth, emanating from his body as he stands there, and all I want to do is get sucked into his force field.

  He steps closer to me, so I’m staring up at him and he’s staring down at me, and he says simply, “You look amazing.”

  I can’t say anything back. My nerves won’t allow me to. It’s our second official date—after that one night I spent over.

  “Mmm . . .” he says, lowering his head slightly so his lips brush the side of my neck. “Smell good too.”

  I swear I’m melting right here, and as if he doesn’t even know, the bastard straightens up again and shoots me one of his trademark smiles. “Ready to go? We’ll be late.”

  “Yeah.” I take a good breath. Then I look back at my apartment, turn off the lights and take my purse from the stand next to my front door.

  “Talking Body” by Tove Lo is blaring on the speakers. The skybox overlooks the field, with several rows of exterior seats to get in on the action connected to the private suite—which is where we are. The moment we walk in, warm golden light fills my vision. Black leather couches, plasma TVs, and a pool table are the first things I see. Then I see a huge window looking out on the baseball field, the lights shining down. I can practically smell the peanuts and the beer. We’re on top of the whole stadium, in a glass box.

  We grab drinks and then sit down on one of the couches looking directly out the huge window. We’re immediately loving the game.

  “Damn right, run, Rizzo!!” Malcolm’s voice sounds deep as he bellows and shouts. “Fuuuck.” He throws his head back and groans, then returns his gaze to the field. He takes a swig of pinot noir.

  I try to suppress a giggle with a sip of my little cocktail. It’s a tight game and we’re all going crazy wanting to secure the win. I should’ve been paying more attention but I do love the sportgasms Sin gets when he’s watching games. I love how serene he sits, calm and controlled, then yells from deep in his belly and pumps his fist when things go his way. And I love how he makes a piece of my brain take a walk when he puts his arm around me, and rubs his hand slowly down my arm.

  He looks perfectly content now, sipping his wine, his arm around me, sitting in his majestic glass box overlooking the stadium. Might as
well be his stadium, the way he sits here, as if he owns the place. Meanwhile, I’m sucking in the experience of a live game, which I’ve never, ever been to before. Gina says it’s because there were no men in my life—no father, brothers, boyfriends. Maybe she’s right. I love how the air crackles in the stadium, and how it crackles where Saint is right now.

  “It’s in the bag, I can fucking feel it,” I hear Malcolm mumble next to me. He has a look of concentration on his face.

  I’m terribly amused. “If you say so.”

  He stares at me for a moment before tightening his jaw and closing his eyes for a split second. If I hadn’t been looking at him, I would’ve missed it. He leans over. “I do say so. We’re going to run them into the ground.”

  At one point some friends below the box start yelling his name, and we head outside to the line of seats adjoining the box. “Saint! You fucking all-star!” one of the guys shouts, then asks if his crew can come up, eyeing me rakishly.

  Saint simply says, “No,” and flips them the finger. He takes my arm and leads me to an outside seat, then sits beside me and leans forward as we continue to watch the game.

  Between those gaps in the plays, we watch the Jumbotron. I’m laughing, watching the couples smack kisses on each other as soon as they appear on-screen. A young dark-haired man flashes on the screen. My body jolts with pure feminine awareness. He’s alone on-screen as I—and the rest of the spectators—register who he is, and then the camera shifts a little to include . . . me . . . just as I feel fingers sliding underneath my hair, tugging me around, and his lips take mine.

  I hear the cheers and, stunned, I can’t look back at the screen. Only at Sin’s yummy mouth, which I just felt kiss me.

  His eyes twinkle as he draws me closer for another kiss, this one just for him, for his eyes only. His very hot male eyes.

  He seems very calm and at peace with himself once the Jumbotron moves on to its next victims.

  Three innings later, I’m still feeling shy and girly. But Sin’s recovered and is fully in the game. It’s the bottom of the ninth and the game is almost over. One strike and the Cubs lose against the Cardinals. Our Cubbies. Up to bat is Sweeney, who’s had a few home runs this year. We still have a shot and our guys could win.