Manwhore +1

by Katy Evans

  He jerks it over his head, and I tremble when his warm flesh presses against my skin.

  He reaches between us and slips his fingers under the triangles of my bikini top, moving his fingertips over the peaks of my breasts—which feel so tight and achy, a jolt goes through me as he strokes up and down, around and around.

  I press a little closer to his hands, a barrage of sensations fluttering in me as I kiss near his ear. “I like the things you do to me,” I quietly confess.

  “I get high on you,” he gruffly whispers before he goes back to kissing my mouth, caressing my lips with also a little bit of teeth.

  He slides a line of kisses down my neck, my chest. “Right here. Where it’s pink and pretty for me. I’m going to kiss you right here tonight.” He bumps his nose against the tip of my nipple under the fabric.

  An exquisite shiver of wanting runs along my spine as his thumbs stroke my nipples again. I feel the electricity of his touch in my core, my toes, my very being.

  “If you want to,” I agree.

  “I do want to.”

  He cups my breast and suckles through my top. His head lifts a fraction when I gasp, and he brushes my lips with another kiss. Gently, leaving me gasping.

  “Saint,” I breathe.

  “Malcolm,” I hear him murmur into my mouth.

  “Mmm . . . I get to call you Malcolm now?”

  “You get a lot more.”

  He unclips my hair and watches it fall to my shoulders, and the lustful glow in the depths of his green gaze sends a shiver through my being.

  “What did I do to deserve this absolute . . . privilege?”

  A smile shines bright in his green eyes. “Malcolm, Rachel. Say it,” he coaxes.

  I frown a little. “It’s such a respectable name. Why do you make it sound so dirty and naughty? Malcolm?”

  He both laughs, low in his throat, and groans at the same time; then he ghosts a kiss over the corner of my mouth as though to let me know he appreciates it. We hear the noise of an incoming boat and I separate a little, self-conscious of it approaching even though he doesn’t seem to mind.

  It’s a speedboat with eight individuals and blaring rock music. I notice they’re taking out their phones to take pictures of Saint’s yacht. No. I hear the shrill women’s voices in the yacht and realize they’re taking pictures of Saint. And . . . me.

  I roll my eyes. “Oh great. They’re going to have a field day with this.”

  “SAINT! OHMIGOD, MALCOLM SAINT! Can we come on board?!” someone shouts. “It’s Tasha! TASHA! My friends and I met you once at Decan’s club, the Orion!”

  They could be talking to the air.

  While I stare at them, I notice Saint surveys my reddened mouth a little bit, and then takes in the rest of my face.

  “Come here,” he says, stretching out his hand.

  “What—”

  “SAINT!!!” one yells, then loudly whispers to the friend who’s hovering at the edge of the boat, “Take pictures, bitch . . . are you taking?” Then to us, hands cupped at her mouth, “CAN WE HANG WITH YOU GUYS FOR A WHILE?”

  I hear a splash and turn to stare, wide-eyed at the other boat. “Did she just throw herself in the water?”

  “My guys will take care of it.” He takes my hand and leads me down to the cabin area, stopping one of the crew and making a hand signal.

  “Right on it, Mr. Saint.”

  I’m laughing my ass off as we reach the cabin, peering through the window. “Is she for real? Oh no, all three are swimming this way!”

  “Come here,” he whispers, tugging me back to him. I close my eyes when I feel his lips.

  “Malcolm . . .”

  I squirm a little but he quiets me down, pressing his lips to mine.

  “Let’s just see if your crew . . .” I turn in his arms and take a few steps to try to peer out.

  “They’re handling it.”

  His low voice ripples like a feather between my legs. I feel his gaze on my backside, and I turn, and he’s watching me, his eyes roaming all of me.

  “Sin . . .”

  He stands there, tall and glorious, as I still hear splashing outside.

  He takes a step and runs a finger up my arm, and then over my shoulder, his thumb stroking under my bikini string. I’m panting already.

  “Malcolm.”

  He takes a step closer and sets a soft kiss on my mouth. God. The overwhelming experience of just his strong, soft lips.

  His tongue flashes out and sweeps inside. The world goes dim. Hazy. He pulls me to his chest while he teases my lips with his.

  I clutch his shoulders, hard.

  “Why?” I hear a whine out in the lake. “But I know him . . . we partied once . . . ”

  And their male friends from the boat. “Come on, man, it’s just hanging for a little while . . .”

  “Oh wow, they’re super insistent,” I say, trying to turn. He stops me with his hands on my hips.

  “They can insist all they want, they’re not coming on board,” he murmurs in my ear.

  Before I can escape to watch the spectacle, he boosts me up and carries me to the bed.

  “They were also your friends . . . ?” I tease.

  He tosses me onto the bed and kneels on it as he tugs on the drawstring of his swim trunks. “Take it off,” he says, nodding to my bikini.

  I do, quickly, and I part my legs so he can settle between them. He curls his hand around the side of my face, and I tuck my cheek into his palm, the way he holds me so exquisitely gentle.

  “Hook-ups. Easy. Simple,” he says. And adds, “Nothing like you.”

  His attention heads south, to my breasts as he strokes his hands appreciatively over my lean frame. The last of the day’s sunlight streams through the window; he can see every bit of me. I’m flushing but I wouldn’t stop him for the world; instead I let my fingers slip into his thick hair. His breath coasts along the top swell of one breast as he ducks his head. Then he locks around the peak, rocking my world as arrows of pleasure shoot through me.

  Oh god.

  I hear the speedboat leave. Then a knock.

  “Taken care of, Mr. Saint!”

  “Thank you,” he says in a lust-roughened voice, taking his lips off me for a second.

  He smiles at me. He takes my wrists in his hands, and I shudder as a hot flick of his tongue wetly laps up my neck, to my lips. He draws my arms up, over my head, and then secures them in one hand while he lets the other wander over my body.

  I arch helplessly. “Malcolm.”

  “That’s right, Rachel.”

  “Malcolm Saint, you’re an absolute devil . . .”

  “And you’re embarrassed to be seen with me.”

  “Am not.”

  “Because I’ve had many women?” Probing green eyes challenge me as he coasts his hand down my side. “Because I like to take what I want?”

  “Like . . .” I lick my lips. “What do you want . . .”

  He edges back and stands and tugs the rest of the drawstring open until his trunks slide down his powerful legs.

  He reaches over to the drawer, pulls out a condom, tears it open, and hands it to me with a challenging spark in his eyes and an adorable curl to his lips. “Put this on me.”

  I edge up on my knees and stroke him lovingly even though I chide with a scowl, “You’re kind of a dictator in bed. Which is why you’ll never be my boss—”

  He ducks his head and kisses me. I go breathless and let him ease me down on the bed. His hands slide up my arms and he laces his fingers through mine, smiling down at me.

  “You like that?” he grins a little as he keeps my hands secured under his.

  “No,” I lie.

  “Yeah, you do.” Between searing kisses and slow, drugging kisses, he looks down at me. He stares at me as my body moves like a bow as he takes me. I pant. I beg. And I hold his gaze, memorizing him, powerful and smooth as he eases inside me.

  Malcolm.

  He wants me to call him Malco
lm again.

  He holds my gaze, watching me with violently tender eyes, as if he’s been living for this moment.

  Holding my wrists in one hand, he cups my face and starts to move. It’s so hot, this powerlessness, the way he holds me down, and I want him to; the way one hand engulfs my face and his thumb rubs my lips as I open them and gasp. I start coming apart when he drives fully inside me. He slows down his motions as I climax. Twisting in his grip, I tremble and feel broken open even as my hips rock up so he can break and take some more, his hold on my wrists firm and wickedly exciting.

  “That’s right,” he heatedly kisses my mouth, wetly tasting me with the same violent tenderness I see in his eyes. “Give me all of it . . . that’s right . . . don’t stop coming for me . . .”

  “You . . .” I bite his lip as I circle my hips as seductively as I can. “Come . . . with me . . . Malcolm, come with me . . .” A helpless groan leaves me as his hips keep pounding into mine.

  He drags his hands down my arms and then flips me around unexpectedly, pulls me up on all fours, and drives inside me again. “I’m here,” he husks out, taking me by the hair as he sinks in deeper, groaning my name in my ear.

  My orgasm, which had been receding, seems to start up again. He’s reveling in me, his thrusts deep, fast, powerful, and oh so good. His mouth is everywhere at once. Wet. Hot. Out of control. His grip tighter. His body desperate for me. No. He is desperate for me.

  He hisses near the back of my ear and stiffens inside me, and I come. I come and twist beneath him, aware of how he’s clutching me closer, his arms vises and his lips hungrily tugging my ear—the ear I know he loves that matches my “other” one.

  Minutes later, we’re both limp, I’m draped over his side, and his chest starts rumbling.

  I frown a little. Is he . . . chuckling?

  I lift my head, confused. His voice is husky as he holds me a little closer to his chest, his lids halfway over his eyes. “You’re a little devil too.” He rubs his thumb over my lip, and then he grins at me like he loves it.

  We spend the next day on The Toy again. We eat, sunbathe, drink a little wine, and splash into the water. I can also officially tell the girls that without setting a single finger on it, I can now knot a cherry stem.

  CHERRY BLUES

  I wake up in my bed Sunday, very late at night—or, rather, too early on Monday.

  Confused, I pad out to the living room to find it empty. I head to Gina’s room. “Remind me not to drink on a boat,” I tell Gina, grabbing my head as I lean heavily on the door frame.

  She groans in the bed.

  “Saint?”

  Gina stirs a little. “You were knocked out, he carried you in.”

  “Why didn’t he stay?”

  “He stayed in your room a bit, and then he left. You looked like the dead would wake up sooner than you.”

  “When did he leave?”

  “An hour ago.”

  “I’m sorry I woke you, I think I’m still a little intoxicated.” I lean on her door a bit and sigh. “Gina, we had such a great time. We talked . . . we swam . . . we ate cherries . . . we had dinner. I had only two glasses of wine. Two! And I can’t remember the rest.”

  “It’s the damn wind and the rocking motion, it knocks me out every time.”

  I groan and deeply, deeply regret those drinks I had.

  “Close the door,” she mumbles as I go out.

  Back in the room, I turn on the lamp and get my phone, writing, Thanks for bringing me home.

  But instead of sending the text, I try calling to see if he answers. When I hear his voice, my veins start buzzing with something even more powerful than alcohol.

  “Thank you for bringing me home. I enjoyed spending time with you very much,” I whisper.

  “Me too.”

  I glance at the time; it’s past 3 a.m. My voice is awkward with drink and sleep. “I wanted you to spend the night.”

  “There’s no way to describe what I’m going to do to you when I do.”

  “Please do,” I beg.

  Silence.

  “I want you so much, Sin . . .”

  Silence.

  “You can do anything you want with me as long as you promise to do it again.”

  “Now that’s a promise I’d like to keep,” he whispers huskily.

  “I know you don’t like to make promises but your word is gold, and if you’d stayed over, I would’ve let you devour me. But not all of me, you know. You need to leave enough . . . just so that tomorrow when I’m sober, you can tell me what you did to me.”

  “So I get everything but your ears?” His voice sounds close to the speaker again and absolutely amused.

  “Yes!” I say happily.

  “While I devour every part of you with my mouth?”

  Every part! Ohgod, yes.

  “I’m not sure I can resist your ears,” he says in a tragic tone.

  Desire building and building.

  “Okay,” I breathe. “Take my ears too.”

  “You’re certain? I’d own all of your senses now.”

  I breathe out, “I’m certain.”

  “Rachel, I want you undone for me—absolutely wrecked.”

  “Okay, Saint.”

  I am!

  “Okay?” he coaxes. Still amused.

  “Hmm. I’m game, Saint. Bases loaded.”

  “Spend the weekend with me after your mother’s?”

  “I’d love to. I’ll be on all five senses. Very attuned to your naughty plans.”

  “I’ll hide the wine,” he teases.

  “Malcolm!” I laugh, then, worriedly, “Did I say something?”

  “Nothing you haven’t said before.”

  “Malcolm! What did I say, you dick?”

  He chuckles. “Nothing I wouldn’t mind hearing again, Rachel.”

  When we hang up, I stare at my ceiling. Oh god, did I tell him I loved him? Drunk? Why can’t I say it like a normal, courageous person when I’m sober, looking into his eyes?

  I try to remember and I can’t, I just can’t remember if I said it.

  But if I did . . . he wants to hear it again?

  I could’ve just talked dirty, which would be sooo unlike me and something Saint would probably love to hear too.

  I sigh, plump my pillow, and turn off my lamp, getting haunted and aroused by the simple thought of a knotted cherry stem.

  A SAINT IN MY HOME

  Tonight is the night Saint meets my mother, and I don’t know who’s more excited, my mother or I.

  Before I go to my mom’s, I stop by the pharmacy to stock her up on her medicines, then I buy her three bags of fresh, organic groceries and have neatly stored everything in her medicine cabinet and fridge. Then it’s off to help her with preparations for tonight’s dinner. I’ve made sure that the house is sparkly clean, the table set with our prettiest plates and topped with a pretty white rose centerpiece. Mom, apron and all, buzzes busily through the kitchen, stacking things in the hot drawer.

  The excitement in our home is palpable.

  Since my early teens, my mother has seen me focused exclusively on my career. I’d never really daydreamed about boys before. She’s as unprepared for me to bring a man home as I am—even though I’m sure she’s been hoping that I’d one day find “someone.”

  Well.

  I have.

  Holy crap, I have! And my mother wants to meet him, and most shocking of all, he wants to meet my mother too.

  Exhaling in satisfaction, I give one last look at our home. It looks spotless and homey. Though, a little bit self-consciously, I realize my mother’s house is kind of a shrine to me and the accomplishments I’ve earned so far: framed newspaper articles I wrote for my high school paper. My first piece for Edge. Letters from some readers I’d touched that I had stored away.

  “I was reading up on him just this morning . . .” Mom says as she comes out to give one satisfied look at the house. “He looks very powerful. Very beautiful.”

 
; “He is. He’s both. Also smart. Motivated.”

  I pat her hand and kiss her cheek, and she asks, “He’s really coming?”

  “No, Momma. I just wanted to put us to work for fun.”

  She smiles one of her tender mother smiles and this time, she’s the one who pats my hand. “It’s good that he’s coming, Rachel,” she assures.

  My stomach squeezes at that, and I grin and nod.

  I’m both nervous and excited for him to be here. “Remember you promised not to drill him with questions, okay, Mother?”

  “Of course!” my mother says as she heads back to the kitchen.

  Oh god. Please let them like each other.

  Pulling back the gauze curtain, I peer out the window to see his Pagani Huayra slide to a screeching halt before our home.

  Oh, Sin. Speeding. Really?

  I’m smiling, but I pretend that I’m not as I swing open the door and shake my head in disapproval while I watch him get out of the car. He’s wearing a black cashmere sweater and a pair of dark-wash jeans, a bottle of wine firm in his hand, and he’s making my heart race as he eats up the distance between us.

  Sin is absolutely at home in the night, though it feels like every streetlight nearby is fawning on him, casting attractive shadows on his face and body.

  He looks irresistible.

  Dangerous.

  Delicious.

  “Hey,” I greet him as I step outside and impulsively press my lips to his rock-like jaw. “You get a kiss for coming.”

  He draws me close to his body and speaks in my ear. “I have one for you too but it’s not fit for public.” His eyes shine devilishly as he watches me go red.

  He follows me with one step, and then he’s inside. And he looks so very dark in my doorway. Darker than his hair, than the air he emanates. Bigger, somehow, as he takes another step inside, where my mother waits with a beaming smile.

  “Malcolm, this is my mother—”

  “Kelly,” she eagerly interrupts. She seems to want to give him a hug but she stops herself; Saint seems too larger-than-life for that.

  He reaches out and gently squeezes her shoulder as he hands her the wine. I watch Mother make a desperate attempt to resist that captivating smile. And I notice his deep voice doesn’t help matters. “A pleasure to be in your home, Kelly. With your daughter.”