by Katy Evans
His eyes are heavy-lidded as he runs his fingers over the chocolate he just spread on my nipples, lightly caressing. “And here? Rachel?”
“Oh, God, Malcolm,” is all I can say, clutching his shoulders. He leans in to lick and taste me where there’s chocolate. My mouth. I moan softly. My nipple. I moan more. My other nipple. I throw my head back and just hang on to his hard shoulders.
“Delicious. Don’t move . . .” he husks out. One strong arm circles my waist to hold me on my feet.
“Never,” I whisper, taking the back of his head when he comes back to kiss my lips. I kiss him hard, our mouths tasting of us, and mint, and chocolate and whipped cream and so much desire that the air between us is more than warm, it’s calescent.
I nip his lower lip as the need for him starts consuming me from the inside out. I’ve never been so brazen, so reckless, but he . . . he does this to me. Sexy as hell. He teases me. He eludes me. He makes me wonder what he’s thinking. He’s nice to me. He’s hot for me. God. Look at me.
I kiss him back rather ravenously, so he knows that today meant a lot to me. So much more than I imagined it would. His kiss is just as intimate, slow, savoring, no more chocolate now, just us. And when he speaks, he sounds so turned on I ache inside. “Don’t move,” he says again. His gaze lowers, just like his voice did, and he unwraps the drawstring of my skirt with slow, deft hands. When I see my panties flutter as they follow it to the floor, my heart flutters too in anticipation.
Securing me in place with one hand on my waist, he sucks on a breast again. He laps up the remainder of the chocolate and the whipped cream but it seems that the thing he wants to reach—to taste, to eat—is me. My puckered nipple throbbing under his kiss. Wondering where he’ll touch me next is so very thrilling that he’s making me crazed with arousal.
“Don’t move,” he murmurs against my skin, as he reaches out and scoops a little more pie.
Though my senses are in chaos, I manage to stand stock-still.
“Good girl,” he whispers huskily. Although Saint’s moves are deliberate and his voice is contemplative and controlled, there’s a black fire in his eyes right now as he rubs the chocolate over my clit. He looks really turned on, but more than that, he looks determined to devour me. He smears more pie around my belly button. Bends down to tease his tongue around my navel. Then lower, breath scalding hot, lips soft and moving, and then . . . tongue. Leisurely licking my clit. He takes the flesh between his lips and gently sucks it into his mouth while his tongue teases little circles over me.
My knees buckle, but his arm is there, keeping me on my feet.
As he kisses his way up to my belly button, arousing me beyond measure, he lifts his free hand and brushes his thumb over my jawline. “Does it feel good, Rachel?”
I nod.
As he straightens to meet my gaze with so much passion in his, the fire in my stomach hikes up another notch, he pauses as if deciding where to taste me, touch me, next.
It’s agonizing.
He trails a finger up between my legs. “This is where you want it. Isn’t it?”
I chew on the inside of my cheek and try not to squirm as he rubs a little. I’m so wet, the juices I hear slicking under his fingers are not pie or cream, it’s me.
He’s teasing, testing. He leans over and licks my mouth again. Sampling.
I groan. “Malcolm . . .”
He pinches a wet, swollen nipple.
As he tends to the other, I dip my fingers into the pie and before he knows it, I’m slowly drawing a two-finger line along his hard jaw, to the corner of his lips.
He looks breathtaking and before he can move away, I grab him by the back of the head and I bend and taste the flavor, bitter chocolate with minty peppermint, and he opens his mouth.
We both taste like dessert and heat and there’s so much hotness we should be put away wherever the nuclear weapons are locked up because we detonate each other so fast, so well, so completely, I don’t know if we’ll survive.
He lifts me by the ass and I straddle him as he carries us to one of the sofas. As we kiss, he’s groaning, past the point of being fully in control. I like him this way, so much. When he’s almost, almost unleashed on me.
I lick his chocolate-and-peppermint lips as he sets me down and gives me a sex-throbbing, mind-bending kiss, physical and animal, the sure thrusts of his tongue curling my toes and pricking my clit in the most delicious way.
I throw my head back, giving him full access. He presses a series of kisses down my neck, wet and warm. “Need you . . . inside . . . need it now . . .”
“Want me inside you?” He stands up and yanks off his cashmere sweater, tossing it aside.
“Yes.”
“Hard? Deep?” He unbuttons and unzips, his jeans following.
“Saint!”
Oh god, this beautiful man, eyes narrowed, muscle jumping in his jaw as he tears open a foil packet and sheaths himself, then comes back to spread his big, delicious weight over me . . . this man undoes me. I undulate as our naked bodies connect, undone when his mouth and hands find parts of me he wants to taste.
He whispers a seductive murmur below my ear, kissing there. Dips his tongue in the hollow at the base of my throat. Bites gently into my neck.
I claw at his shoulders. He’s in no rush, but I tremble as he takes my legs by the knees and guides me around him—where he wants me. His stomach ripples; his biceps and triceps flex as he mounts me.
Then he grabs my hips and slides me down an inch or two, so that he pulls me down as he thrusts upward to enter me. His name leaves me on a gasping breath of pure gratitude.
Another thrust. We groan. Another. Closer. Closer. I rake my nails down his back. I feel complete, but needing. Full, but aching.
One nipple disappears into his mouth. One hard suck and I’m thrashing, biceps bunching around me as he thrusts.
All the time I feel the slide of hard heat and power.
My hips roll upward. The room is flooded with the sounds we make.
He wrings out my every breath from my body as he watches me writhe, eyes glowing hotly. His gorgeous face hardens in orgasm, jaws tight, eyes a brilliant, possessive green, teeth grinding from the pleasure as he growls, “Rachel.”
It’s like my sex pulls him in deeper, milking, sucking him in, not letting go.
His buttocks flex, thigh muscles tightening beside mine, powerful back muscles bunching beneath my fingers as he drives forward, deep and fast, filling me so much there’s no room to breathe. No room for anything but Saint inside me. I can feel when he’s coming, because he whispers the words I’m coming in my ear, groaning.
It’s so hot when he comes—the only times that I’ve ever seen Saint out of control—that my orgasm wrenches through my body, causing his cock to swell and jerk in me one, two, three times. I twist beneath him, my mouth seeking his. He grabs me by the cheeks, holding my face as he slows his rhythm, pressing his lips to mine. We kiss, the kiss slow and languorous as our bodies as we come back to each other.
“Oh my god,” I breathe.
He laughs softly, shaking his head. Using his arm, he sits back and shifts me so that I’m the one halfway on top of him.
I lock my hands around his neck. If we weren’t on the couch, I’d just stay here, ready to fall asleep from the bliss of my new alpha-male-fuck exhaustion. “You’re so good at this,” I nuzzle his jaw, feeling warm and gooey inside. “I hate a little bit every woman you went through to get this good.”
“It was all fun and games.”
“Wow. You don’t have fun with me?”
His eyes light up with playfulness. “Fishing for compliments, Rachel?”
My belly feels a little tight and I realize I want his love, I want his tenderness.
“I’m snorkeling for them,” I admit, laughing.
He laughs too, rising to his elbows and looking at me, eyes tender, and a hot flood of emotion overflows as we smile at each other. “I respect . . . and admire . . . and enjoy
every inch of you, Rachel.”
I duck my head slightly, suddenly a little shy and aware of my nakedness. I reach to cover my breasts.
My stomach tingles when he smiles endearingly and runs a hand over the side of my body. He moves down to kiss my belly button, between my breasts, and strokes my thighs, teasing all the parts that are sore and sensitive from lovemaking and looking at every inch with reverence.
He kisses me, tasting sexy and sweaty and minty, before sitting up and lifting me with him so that I end up on his lap.
“I like the look of you, I like the smell of you, and I definitely like the feel of you. Now, be a good girl,” he pats my ass, “and cover up so I can get some work done.”
“If you let me borrow your shower, I’ll take a bath.” I kiss his lips.
He follows me up and I watch him walk in purely glorious sinful nakedness to the guest bedroom’s bathroom to clean up.
I’m so well fucked that my body doesn’t feel solid just yet. But I somehow make it to his room.
Once inside his shower, I squeeze my eyes shut and hum and mull over our evening. Maybe I should have said I loved him right now. Or in the car, when I blurted out that he didn’t. He went to my mother’s. I should’ve trusted that he would say something reassuring to me, if not a flat out I love you.
Tell him, tell him, tell him.
But what if he doesn’t want to hear it yet? He still hasn’t even asked me to be his girlfriend.
Will he ever?
On a soft, wistful impulse, I put my fingers on the wet marble of his shower, and even though rooms separate us, I can feel Saint through it. I feel his chest under my fingertips and his soft hair and the energy of his being, like a constant stream of lightning running through my veins.
People celebrate his reckless side, the one that makes the news, they celebrate his powerful side, the one that sets the standards, but right now nothing is more noteworthy to me than the fact that Malcolm came to my mother’s and won her over, just like he did me.
WATCHING ME SLEEP
I wake up in the middle of the night, disoriented by the darkness. I’m not in my room. A leg lies beneath mine and my cheek is resting on hard flesh. Squinting, I look up and Saint is watching me, and I feel myself blush.
“Hey,” I say.
He smiles lightly as I tug the sheet up to my chest and sit up, the arm around me moving to lightly caress my back. “Hey.”
When he sits up a little too, I edge closer to lean my shoulder back against his chest.
He used to be my 1 a.m. I-can’t-sleep text. Now he’s my I-can’t-sleep comfort item. Like a blankie. But he’s alive. And I think I’m his 1 a.m. can’t-sleep comfort thing too.
But then, he’s wide awake so I’m not doing a good job, am I?
“Can’t sleep?” I whisper, gazing at him.
He shakes his deliciously bed-mussed head, running his hand down the back of my hair. “Watching you’s even better.”
I glance around. “What time is it?”
I’m about to search his room for any indication of the time, or about to feel for my phone nearby, when his voice stops me.
“I’m going to ask you now.”
“What?”
“There I was, meeting your mother. And I wanted to hear that I was your guy.”
I blink as it dawns on me. I’m so absolutely awake now that a frisson of nerves and excitement starts crawling through my veins.
“I’m going to ask you now.” The caress of his thumb across my lips makes me realize my mouth is parted and how fast I’m suddenly breathing. “I’ve been ready for far longer than you have, Rachel. You weren’t ready . . . maybe nobody can be ready for me.” He smirks, but there’s a gleam of sheer purpose and determination in his gaze.
I stare, helplessly aching. “Ask me,” I breathe.
“No half measures. I might be difficult—”
“Nothing can be more difficult than not being with you,” I say, cutting him off.
“I’m ambitious,” he calmly continues. “I ride my people hard, and I’ll ride my girlfriend harder, what with everything I want from her—but I’ll give her back everything she gives me tenfold.”
“Sin, ask me,” I breathe.
“Do you want to?”
“I do want to—”
“Be my girlfriend, Rachel. Officially. Exclusive and monogamous.”
I can’t talk at all. Right this second Malcolm has officially taken my power of speech. Will there be anything left that I don’t willingly give him?
“I want to be that guy you can’t ever take out of your head, Rachel. The one you’ve been waiting for. I want you to have eyes just for me and smile just for me and a tone of voice only I will ever hear.”
I’m nodding in the dark and then I whisper, “Yes. I’ve been your girlfriend for a long time, title or no.”
He nuzzles the side of my jaw. “Does a piece of your soul belong to me?”
Oh god. My article.
I really and truly can’t speak, now, when I’m supposed to be screaming my answer. I’m a thief. If he never touches me again, I’ll have stolen the way he smells and feels right now.
He pulls me closer. “Say it,” he coaxes. “I liked your article very much. I was mad, but I know you, Rachel. I know you wrote that to me. You challenged me to come after you. I’m meeting your challenge now. You wanted to know if I’d catch you? I will. I’ve got you.
“Say it,” he demands. “Does a piece of your soul belong to me?”
His eyes are not green ice, they’re green lava.
I duck my head, and I think he can see my blush in the dark. “Yes,” I say. And somehow, that’s enough. Just one word.
He ducks his head too, in search of my lips, and now he’s the thief, stealing a kiss from me.
“Dibs,” he whispers.
TOTALLY DIBS
Cloud nine isn’t enough; there’s no number for the cloud I’m on.
At drinks on Wednesday, Gina declares, “You still have girlfriends, you know. You can’t spend all your evenings with your new boyfriend without some sort of punishment for neglecting us.”
“Fine! The drinks are on me,” I assure them.
So my friends drink and talk and try to force some information out of me. But I’m not talking. There are no words to explain what’s happening between us. No number for this cloud, no words, just him and me, and his dibs on me.
At night—if he works late, or I’m stuck on deadline and can’t come over—we talk on the phone for about two hours.
Sometimes it’s just a text, like our latest ones.
Thinking of you
Is there even a cure?
Come over
It’s 1 a.m.
Unlock your door
I’m in my first official relationship, and the girls want more details. I meet up with them on Monday. Then on Tuesday, Saint flies to New York for a day on business, and I have one more interview at the Tribune. It’s nerve-racking. When I come out, I’m close to defeated.
That Tuesday after work, I realize I’ve lost my little R necklace. I scour my room like mad, I scour Gina’s room; I even empty the vacuum cleaner. I got it from my mother for my fifteenth birthday, the only real gold item that I have.
“Oh god, I can’t even bear to tell my mother I lost my R,” I tell Gina. It’s not in my cubicle either. In any of my bags.
The next day I get a delivery.
Inside is a box, and a note.
The crew found this in The Toy. She looked pretty lonely.
M
I open the box and pull out my R necklace, and beneath it, identical to the R, is an M.
I call his cell phone.
My heart is a melted ol’ mess by the time he answers. “My necklace has a tagalong,” I tell him somberly.
“That’s right,” he chuckles.
“What’s the M for?” Though my smile hurts on my face, I make myself sound genuinely confused as I stroke my fingertips over the M’s smo
oth lines. “Millionaire? Motherfucker? Manwhore?”
His laugh.
I get high listening to the deep rare sound. “Little one,” he chides with mocking disappointment. “The M stands for Malcolm.”
“Oh! You. Malcolm,” I tease. “I’m glad that’s been cleared up then.”
“That’s right,” he fairly purrs, and after a moment, he sounds deathly serious too. “It also stands for mine.”
I’m not sure if he can hear the way my breath catches in my throat as it gets caught in my windpipe, but I hope to god he doesn’t. This man is cocky enough as it is. So, like it’s no big deal, like I get a thousand gifts every day, I say, “Okay. I guess I’ll try not to lose it in my boyfriend’s yacht.”
“Lose it all you want; it’ll be just as quickly replaced.”
Though he issues it as a warning, I can hear the smile in his voice too. Noticing that Sandy, in the cubicle next to mine, is staring at me with a big dopey smile, I cup the speaker a little bit and swivel my chair around, giving her my back.
“Thank you . . . Malcolm.” There’s a peaceful silence between us. The kind that’s comfortable, not the kind that you need to fill with anything at all. I stroke the M again quietly, closing my eyes when he speaks.
“I’m thinking of you, Rachel.”
My voice softens when I admit, “I’m thinking of you too.”
I’m not sure what it is about him. If his effect on me is due to his rare ability to turn me inside out with just a glance, a word, an act, or if it’s because I never lived this, not in my teens, not until now.
I just never thought you could feel such delicious intimacy while miles apart, with nothing but each other’s voices as we each hold the receiver to our ears. I imagine him at his desk, leaning back all cocky, with one of his smiles on his face—the one where his lips are curled so lightly it can barely be a smile but yet it is. I’m warm inside as I tuck the phone closer to me as we talk a little. I ask about New York and tell him how frantic I was to find my necklace. I also notice the R is perfectly polished and realized he must’ve sent it to the jewelers who made the M so that the R looks just as new.
