Manwhore +1 (The Manwhore Series Book 2)

When I get to my apartment, I’ve got a ton of research for my article but I can’t stop thinking about Noel Saint, Malcolm Saint feeding me wine from his thumb, and my embarrassing dream. After a quick shower I opt to add a mayonnaise treatment to my hair and let it sit under a shower cap for a while when I get a ring from the landlady who lives on the first floor. She says that there’s a package downstairs for me but it’s quite heavy so she’ll have someone bring it up.

The package, when it’s brought to my door by her burly bear of a husband, is a huge case of wine. My favorite wine.

And a note taped to the top in such familiar writing, my world tilts upside down. sᴇaʀᴄh thᴇ ꜰindNʘvel.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

Rachel,

I couldn’t keep all these to myself. I’ll never forget the look on your face when you met your new obsession.

M. S.

I reread it several times. I read even the white spaces between the letters. I read the M and the S and everything he wrote.

God. My obsession is YOU.

Exhaling shakily, I bend and heave a little as I carry the box inside, lock the door behind me, then I head to my room and lift my cell phone in trembling hands, press SIN, and call.

I’m wracking my brain for what to say.

It rings three times before I hear him pick up and say, “Saint.”

I literally feel the butterflies in my throat. “Hey, it’s me,” I say, trying to sound casual as I glance at the note in my hand, the want for my own obsession eating me inside as I talk to him on the phone. “So,” I begin, trying to not sound breathless, “some guy I know wants to get me drunk. I have a case of delicious wine right on my doorstep with the address to AA for when I’m done.”

“Bastard.”

I chew the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. “Help me with this someday?”

The soft and unexpected chuckle on the other end of the line does something to me, and I have to stop pacing and sit down on the edge of my bed. I pluck nervously at the comforter as he tells me, “There are seven days in a week and none of them is someday. Tell me when, Rachel.”

A flush crawls up my cheeks. “I’d hoped this week, but I have to write after I did nothing but imbibe wine this weekend.”

“I have a better idea. Come downstairs.”

“What?”

“Come downstairs,” he repeats.

“You’re passing through the neighborhood?” I ask in disbelief, turning to gape at the window.

“I’m not passing; I’m in the neighborhood for you.”

Crossing the room, I pluck the curtain aside and see a shiny crimson car pulling over in front of my building. His big-shit new car.

“Come down,” he says, and then he cuts off. I drop the curtain and text him: Give me 5.

Tossing my phone on my bed, I hurry to the bathroom and yank off my shower cap and stare at my mayonnaise hair. Oh fuck, Rachel, why did you do a hair treatment today?!

Gina leans against the doorjamb and asks drolly from the door, “Shall I tell him you’ve got icky white stuff in your hair and to come back?”

Trembling, I open the faucet and stick my head under the running water, hurrying to wash the mayonnaise out of my hair.

Once done, I drape a towel over me and run it quickly up and down, trying to dry it as much as I can. Sin is downstairs. Sin is in the neighborhood. Sin came to see me.

Finally I toss my hair back, run a brush over it, tie it into a bun, slip into a pair of navy blue leggings, a clean gray T shirt, my easy slip-on Uggs, then rush outside.

Gravity.

Gravity is the force of attraction that exists between any two objects, any two masses, any two bodies. Gravity isn’t just an attraction between an object above being pulled toward the gravitational center of the earth. Gravity is an attraction that exists between all objects, in all of the universe—the closer they are, the stronger the pull.

There has never been such gravity as that which I feel to an object parallel to me. This man.

My most powerful gravitational pull—the one that makes me feel like I’m falling even when I’m standing still.

Square jaw, that edible mouth, broad, big, tall and dressed in a suit, surrounded by the raw force of a determination that whirls around his body.

We’re inside his car, parked outside my building. Quiet, toe-curlingly beautiful, noble, bold, controlled, and relentless, Saint is once again looking for me, as relentless as the M4’s sole proprietor and CEO that I know, and as uncatchable as a storm. A womanizer. A benefactor. A champion of his causes. An enigma.

Everybody dotes on him. Women make fools of themselves over and over in an attempt to attract his eye. He inspires lust, love, and everything in between.

Even obsession.

Even . . . from me.

He was standing by his car when I came out.

“Hey,” I said, feeling myself blush. “This is what I do now in my free time.” I pointed at my wet hair in its bun.

He stared at me and opened the gullwing door to his stunning car. “I was hoping we could have that talk now,” he said.

Now we’re in his car and he’s settled behind the wheel and I’m nervous.

Everyone wants something from him. He’s got a warrior’s instinct and is used to being asked for things. He rarely says no.

He . . . takes care of you.

He took care of me once and as I look at him in the dark with the streetlight casting shadows on his chiseled face, I remember how independent I wanted to be but how easily he overpowered me.

I remember the first time I saw him vividly. His slow, easy-spreading smile that caused a fire to churn in the pit of my belly. He’s a man whose fingers once spent hours memorizing the curves of my shoulders and back as we kissed.

The sharp edges of loss haven’t been dulled. Being in his car only heightens the ache.

I remember every moment with him, like a treasure and like a punishment.

He’s quiet, physical, and thrilling. He’s also tender, consuming my world with incredible power and at hurricane speed.

I’ve never wanted anyone like this, and had never waited for someone’s call. Wanted to see someone. I told him about the hole, about sometimes feeling like you wanted something to fill it. It has never been as big as it is now that I see him and hopelessly fear that I cannot have him.

But I want him nonetheless.

I guess reason has nothing to do with it anymore.

“Are you leaving Edge?” he asks me.

It’s almost unbearable, the intimacy of his voice in the close confines of the car.

One arm draped over the wheel, he shifts sideways to look at me even more directly. “Why are you leaving Edge? It’s doing better. Isn’t it? After that piece you wrote?”

“You mean . . . the love letter?” I ask, then lower my gaze. “That’s what my boss calls it.”

His voice lowers. “Yeah, the love letter.” A beat passes, charged with tension. “Why are you leaving?”

“Because.”

He curls his thumb and forefinger around my chin and the contact electrifies me. I jolt a little and lean back against the seat when he crowds me in, studying me. “You’re not coming to M4?”

“No.” I look at his mouth.

“So . . . ?” he presses, still holding me by the chin. “Why are you leaving Edge and not coming with me to M4?”

“How do you know all this?” I turn away to inhale and break the touch because it’s so, so painful.

“I have friends everywhere, Rachel.”

I turn back to him. “I only looked at a few ads and called to inquire.”

He’s so close his scent surrounds me like a cloak, heady like a shot of morphine in my veins. Hazy and nervous, I glance at the street behind him, and I shrug. Then admit, blushing, “I know your father’s interested.”

“And?” he presses, his green eyes capturing me.

“And I won’t work for anyone who’s against you. I’m Team Malcolm,” I whisper, flushing horribly.

“If you’re Team Malcolm, why don’t you come work for me?” he presses.

“Because . . .” I lower my voice. “Even if I’m Team Malcolm, I don’t want to be something to you that a thousand others already are.”

His eyes shine as he cocks his head. “Really. What is it that you want then?”

“You know what I want,” I whisper, lowering my face.

“I want to hear it,” he murmurs intensely under his breath.

Say it, I think.

Don’t be scared.

You cannot fuck things worse than you already have.

“I want you,” I whisper, unable to look up at him.

I hear the sound of his low exhale, and when I peer into the shadows, his face is all I see.

“I’m so mad at you,” he murmurs to me, growling a little as he drags a hand over his face.

I’m breathing hard, as if I just threw myself off a cliff, and maybe I did. I can feel the yearning inside me trying to claw itself out of my eyes and toward him.

“Saint,” I breathe helplessly.

“So . . . fucking . . . mad . . .” His eyes are heavy-lidded, incredibly so, his jaw jutting out. “So mad I can’t see straight.” He stares at me as if there are a thousand fires of hell burning inside him. “I close my eyes and see you. Rachel. Your eyes. Your hair. Your blushing face.”

“Malcolm . . .” My eyes blur, and I add, pleading, “I’d do anything to prove that I’m loyal and truthful to you.”

His jaw clenches just a bit tighter.

“You hurt me,” he growls out as he looks at me. “I’m angry at you.” His jaw squarer than ever, his eyes brilliant as ever. “But I can’t give you up. I can’t give you up even when I want to. I don’t want to back off. I don’t want to give you up,” he says.

“Saint, I don’t want you to exorcise me, because nothing can exorcise me of you,” I say.

He looks at me. We’re at a stalemate. He flexes his fingers on my arm.

“You said you could make what I did go away. Make it go away, give me a clean slate,” I plead.

I reach out and touch his face. His gaze flashes. Eyes burning with desire and possessiveness.

“I want a chance.” I open my mouth to beg; instead I lift his hand from the steering wheel and press a kiss to the back of his hand, his knuckles. I nuzzle it and close my eyes, afraid to see him look at me in disgust when his hand smells so clean and good. “Saint, please.”

I lift my head and my lungs seize when I see his expression. He looks almighty, and all hungry, like a man returning home after being shackled away from it for decades. My pussy is damp and swollen.

He couldn’t look more dominant and possessive. But he hasn’t stopped me. So I kiss the center of his palm next.

His gaze is blazing like there’s a fire inside him, like he’s in the fires of hell and I’m the one who put him there. He takes my face and kisses the edge of my mouth. He draws me over the separation between our seats.

He takes the other edge of my mouth and lowers me to his lap.

Am I feeling a huge erection against my abdomen?

Yes, yes I am.

He wants me.

He wants me so much I shiver with the knowledge. He pulls me close as he drags his mouth up my jawline and toward my ear, taking his time, typical Saint. You smell good, he whispers in my ear, his fingers running up my belly, causing shivers all over me. He wants me, lust humming between us.

“I want to forget you, Rachel, but I know you’re right, you weren’t lying. At least not to me. You were lying to yourself. You told yourself you’d get to the truth of me and all that time, you wouldn’t admit that you were falling in love with me.”

I hold his gaze, my lungs leaden in my chest. “And if that’s true?”

“It’s true, Rachel.” His eyes gleam with tender possessiveness.

I blush and lower my face, and when he reaches to slip his hand under my shirt and his fingers skim up my abdomen, I whimper and halt him by the wrist. “No, Malcolm, no. You’re going to take me to the edge, and then I’ll be there alone.”

He groans. “If I go to the edge with you, I’ll never come back.”

“What happened to my risk taker?”

“It’s not just myself I’m worried about. It’s my cautious girl who, like my fine wine, comes tightly wrapped and packaged.”

I lift my fingers, touch the hard square of his jaw, abrading my fingertips with his five-o’clock shadow. “Break me. As long as you’re touching me. Shatter me. Use me. Just want me.”

Malcolm. Powerful and in control. I touch his lips with my fingertips, he’s tense and still. I shudder inwardly touching him, but he doesn’t move.

I lower my hand, burning red that he doesn’t move his hand on my bare skin.

He rasps out, watching me through narrow eyes, “You still respond to me like before.”

“I’m the same. I never lied to you.” My heart pumps in fear of his rejection, but I can’t stop myself from needing his forgiveness. “I wanted to be with you and to see you. I didn’t want to stop,” I admit, easing my hand up his silk tie. I feel his abs bunch under my fingers.

I let my fingers wander, never once taking my eyes off his stormy green ones.

He lifts his hand to tug on my ear. I squeeze my eyes shut when he speaks, surprising me with his thick voice. “I remember this ear . . .” He tugs it a little.

I open my eyes to find him staring at me.

I melt.

“When you tease me, it hurts.”

“No, this hurts.” He curls his hand around my arm and I respond a little, moaning in my throat. “If I put my hand on you, you arch to my touch. You push closer so every inch of my hand is on you. You look at me like I’m a bastard, like I gave you your every dream and then took them all away. But you still want my hands on you?”

“Yes. But I want you to trust me.”

“Trust you? Rachel, I don’t trust myself with you.”

I wipe a stray tear. “I want dibs on you,” I whisper, broken.

Our eyes meet for the slightest second and the moonlight hits his face so that he’s so beautiful it’s otherworldly. He grabs my face and inches his head closer, tilting his mouth to my ear.

“I miss you,” I blurt out, reddening when I hear myself say that.

“Do you? Miss me?”

“I miss you so much. I can’t forget you, and I don’t want you to forget me either.” I swallow.

He grabs my face and inches his head closer, and when I open my mouth to say more, he says, “Shh.” Careful like I’m fragile, he draws my face to his.

I shudder as his lips ghost over the corner of my mouth.

His voice is so textured, it’s hardly understandable. Warmth from his big hand seeps into my cheeks as he edges back and strokes his thumb over my lips. “We’re going to start back up slow and easy.” The forests in his eyes are deep with intensity. “And when I’m ready, I’m going to ask you to be my girlfriend, and it’s going to be the last time I ask, Rachel. If you say no, that’ll be the last no you say to me about anything.”

God, I want him to ask me now. I turn my face and press a kiss on his thumb and he uses my action to rub his thumb along my lips a little, like he did when he fed me wine.

Longing unfurls inside me like a ribbon, soft and warm. I can’t even describe the way I want him to kiss me again.

“Don’t tease me,” I whisper.

“I’m not teasing you.”

My eyes well up. “I want you to be greedy, to want all of me, like before, Saint.”

He grabs my face firmly in both hands. “Go out Friday with me.”

“Yes,” I gasp, “I’d love to.”

“It’s black tie. Do you have something to wear?”

I look at the violent tenderness on his expression, my lungs like rocks in my chest as I keep on nodding and nodding. “I . . . I’m sure I have something here to wear.”

“Go buy a dress, it’s on me.”

“No!” I laugh. “Sin.”

“Yes,” he insists. “There’s no more saying no, remember.”

My breathless voice is barely audible. “At what time should I be ready on Friday?” I ask.

“Quarter to nine? Starts earlier but I’ve got a long week ahead too.”

I know why, Saint. I know it’s because you need more and more and always more and I want you to want me like that, all of me.

And I know why you want me at M4, Saint.

Even when you were mad at me, you were trying to protect me. You still are.

“Still getting the moon?” I ask.

He’s quiet. Then, “Something like that.”

And silence again.

I step out his door, peering inside. “Thank you for my lifetime collection of wine,” I add with a little smile.

His smirk is back. “You’re welcome.”

We stare for a minute. From the shadows, his eyes gleam a pure male gleam as he looks at me. I hurt thinking this isn’t real, it can’t be real.

“I’m a challenge to you, Saint. You’ll finally get me and then you’ll be done with me.”

Before I can turn around to walk away, he grabs my hand in his. He pulls me closer to the door. Reaching out with his free arm, he snaps open the glove compartment, and brings out a pen.

My heart stutters when I recognize the pen.

It’s the pen from the hotel room.

I’m singed by his fingertips on mine as he brings my palm to his lap. His eyes blaze between his lashes when he notices me tremble, and his gaze never leaves my face as he scrawls something on my palm. Then he curls my fingers closed.

“Don’t underestimate me,” he whispers.

I savor the possessive way he looks at me as he speaks, so thickly it’s almost inaudible, as he slowly—torturously slowly—lets go of my hand. “Good night, Rachel.”

I feel his eyes on my retreating back as I head toward my building.

When I turn by the door, my sexy parts tingle as I see him one last time; he’s lounging back with an arm draped on the passenger seat, predatorily, with deceptive relaxation, but I’ve never seen eyes look at me so intensely as he stares at me through the open car window.

Helpless to free myself from his gaze, I feel for the door handle, manage to open it, and then exhale when I’m inside.

Shutting the door, I put my fingers on the glass. I can feel Saint through it and the rumble of his car as he starts it back up. I feel his chest under my fingertips and the energy of his being, like a bolt of white-hot liquid lightning flowing through my veins.

I force myself to go upstairs, then walk into my apartment and then lean on the shut door, breathless and I open my hand to read what he wrote.

Dibs.