Ms. Manwhore: A Manwhore Series Novella (The Manwhore Series Book 3)

We’ve settled on a small wedding with our fifty closest friends. Malcolm is making plans to fly everyone to a little island in the Caribbean exactly five weeks from now. Nobody knows but our small circle, and we plan to keep it that way. That Sunday when we finally have all our plans in motion, Saint shoots Tahoe a call about keeping a lid on it. Tahoe has been warned.

On Monday, we meet with the lawyers.

On Tuesday, the prenups have been drafted and signed. Saint has given me more than I even wanted—but he was insistent. He wants me to feel safe. His lawyers weren’t that pleased with the terms he offered me—I could tell by their slightly pinched eyebrows—but Malcolm only had eyes for me, and he wore a perfect, satisfied smile as I signed it.

Wednesday at noon, Saint takes a lunch break to go with me and meet with Chicago’s most famous wedding coordinator. He does business on his phone while I get to pick out Tiffany cake, flowers, and invitations. By the time we’re done and we’re heading back to M4, it seems all I need to get married is a wedding dress. And that afternoon, while hunting for dresses with Mother, Gina, and Wynn, I discover that couture wedding dresses are difficult to find on such short notice.

I still don’t have a dress by Thursday afternoon when Malcolm steals me away from work. He blindfolds me . . .

. . . and the suspense is killing me.

We step off an elevator that seemed to go up forever. Then I hear the click of my heels on what sounds like a marble floor. The air smells of fresh wind and concrete. Malcolm’s hand, strongly gripping mine, leads me along the darkness. Thanks to this blindfold, that’s all I can see: blackness. His thumb rubs against my knuckles as he holds my hand and mumbles commands. “Careful,” “hold on to my hand,” “watch the boxes.”

There are bubbles of excitement in my stomach as I follow him.

Where are we?

I know he’s being careful to go slow, since usually one of his steps equals three of mine in heels. But he’s winding through the area slowly, and then we stop, and a wall of heat is now pressing against my back. My awareness of him heightens, and a surge of anticipation floods me as I wait for him to remove the blindfold. He pushes my hair to the side and presses a hot kiss to the back of my neck before reaching up to untie the velvet covering.

“What do you think?” he whispers into my ear.

God. I still shudder when he talks to me.

I shudder when he looks at me.

Stands close to me.

Exhaling, I finally open my eyes to see sky. Pure sky, the bluest of blue, specked with clouds. A huge window spanning the width of a wall stands in front of us, and Chicago sits below us. The room is flooded in light, and the clouds outside almost seem as if they will drift right into the room at any minute.

I’m . . . speechless.

Saint’s apartment is the most luxurious thing I’ve ever been in.

Until now.

We’re inside what would make the next list of Architectural Digest’s most jaw-dropping apartment penthouses in the world. Twenty-five-foot ceilings. A terrace outside with an infinity pool that seems to blend into the sky. Limestone walls, marble and limestone floors. Thick wood beams crossing strong and proud from one end of the ceiling to the next. Dark mahogany cabinets. And so many windows it’s like you’re part of the sky.

I’m speechless as I quickly start exploring. My heels click on the floor as I trail my hands against a modern wall in soft gray tones, as elegant as you please. The place is huge. At least six thousand square feet. I see what seems to be another elevator at the far end—separate from the set of elevators we arrived in—and when I spot the sweeping staircase, I realize that it leads to a second floor.

I whirl around and look at Malcolm, who wears a black button shirt and black slacks today. He seems to pull in his surroundings like a black hole, power and money clinging to him. He fits right into the spectacular setting as if it was made for him. I give him an awed glance. “This is amazing.” A sudden thought strikes me, and my eyes flare wide. “Is this . . . ?”

“Ours.”

My stomach flips in excitement. “You’re not teasing me?” I laugh in disbelief.

He walks toward me and takes my hand, kissing my forehead. “Here, I’ll show you around.”

I just follow, dumbstruck as I look around the massive apartment/house/villa/castle nestled in the heart of Chicago.

He stops in a huge room that has a view of our park. The park where we slept together for the first time. Not slept as in sex, but just slept. For the first time. I can see it from here. I can see . . . everything.

“This is the living area,” he says, in that delicious rumbling voice of his. He spreads his hands wide, and I realize there’s room for at least three or four lounging sections.

“And then,” he continues, signaling to the center of the room, “a fireplace can divide our lounge areas in two. Two plasma TVs, one on each side,” he says, matter-of-factly.

I step in. “What? No, no fireplace. It’ll block the view of the window.”

I point outside.

He frowns. “I want a fireplace though. We’ll read right here. Chill out by the bar.”

“Well, we can put it here.” I point to the back of the room.

He assesses the area. “Fine, whatever, we’ll plan that later.”

I smile privately, intending to bait him a little bit.

He takes my hand and I’m led through a series of corridors into another room.

This one has a wall of mirrors on one side, cabinets, and state-of-the-art gym equipment. And it connects by a glass door to a freaking indoor pool.

I arch a brow.

His smile is absolutely cocky. “Indoor exercise room. For when it rains and outdoor sports are out.”

“Of course.”

Then I’m being pulled away again. We go up a flight of stairs that stand close to the elevator.

We reach the top and I see another room with a dividing wall in the middle, and another huge window with perhaps the best view in the world. Skyscrapers sit below us and the clouds seem to be within a hand’s reach. It’s like we’re on top of the world.

Malcolm comes up behind me. “This is our room.”

I picture the bed somewhere here. All I picture is a freaking bed. With a thick suede headboard—a cushion for my head when he fucks me deep. I’m immediately bombarded with images of Malcolm and me lounging in bed on a Sunday morning. Laughing about something I said, a plate of grapes on the nightstand as he feeds me some for breakfast. The sun rising through our huge window. The white bedsheets tangled at our feet. His hands traveling up my back and down my legs, while he nestles his head in my neck, his lips lazily traveling along my jaw. I get goose bumps at the thought.

“This is incredible.”

Turning, I wrap my arms around his waist, tipping my head up to look at his face. “Just when I’m finding my balance, you sweep me off my feet again.” I kiss his neck. And then his jaw.

He cups my face in his hands and gives me a slow, delicious kiss. I break the kiss because I start to get breathless, and I look around again. We’ll have a fireplace here also, and there’s a door that leads to a terrace.

“Well, what about children? All of these floors too hard for them?” I ask.

He looks down at me with the most curious look on his face, his eyes searching mine with a little heat and anticipation.

“Hand-woven rugs. Plush, thick carpets for them. We’ll keep them safe. I’ll take care of you all.”

He takes me to see the bathroom and I spot another room adjoining it. It has that perfect wood smell because, inside, there are all sorts of aisles with white-lacquered mahogany cabinets. The ceiling has a beautiful cut-glass dome that lets in the sunlight. It looks ethereal, like a church, but Saint informs me it’s just my closet.

My closet? What twisted, delicious, fabulous world is this? This man will be the death of me, I swear. And I will die happy.

Saint’s closet is to the other side of the bathroom, all of his cabinets in coffee-colored wood, a dome exactly like mine but with a modern design to match the masculine mood.

Between the closets, the bathroom has two sinks, one to each side. One huge shower with the most beautiful tile design in gray and white, a waterfall showerhead hanging from the ceiling, and at the end of the room, a marble bathtub that spreads out endlessly. It’s smooth and sleek, and the sexiest bathtub I’ve ever seen.

“That’s quite a Jacuzzi.”

I lift my lashes to his, and see a smile touch his eyes.

He has been watching me all this time.

“Enough room for you and I to play around in.”

My lungs practically collapse when he says that and I can feel my heartbeat between my legs.

He just smirks and leads me down the stairs again and toward black granite counters.

“Kitchen,” he says, showing me a huge island in the middle. The work is still under way but I’m amazed by how clean and tidy everything is.

Awe-inspiring colorful Murano glasses that look alarmingly by Dale Chihuly hang from the ceiling, lit from behind. Sleek cabinets frame a set of stainless steel refrigerators. The wrappings are still on. There’s a pair of Wolf stoves. And vacant spots within the cabinets seem to be waiting for even more state-of-the-art equipment.

“This looks fit for a chef . . . and I can’t cook.”

He laughs softly.

He picks me up by my hips and sets me down on the counter. He pushes my legs apart so he’s nestled in between, and the smell of his cologne engulfs me in our bubble. His slight scruff scrapes the skin of my neck as he kisses along my collarbone.

“We won’t be doing much cooking,” he murmurs. “I see you here, in my shirt.” He places a kiss on my neck. “Your hair is messy, and tangled, and you’re making me deviled eggs.”

“Deviled eggs for Sin?” I try to laugh but it comes out choked because he’s doing some very sexy stuff right now that I can’t pull my mind away from enough to think.

“Yeah, or . . . waffles, crepes, or omelets,” he adds, his hands rubbing against my thighs and traveling under the silky material of my shirt to my lower back.

“And you smell like roses”—another kiss—“like that shampoo you always use.” He kisses my jaw again, pushing my hair back to let his tongue rub against the slight pulse on the side of my neck.

“I’m sitting right here, looking at you in my shirt, thinking about all the things I’m going to do to you later”—another delicious kiss—“in our bed.”

I moan right then. He looks up to me with smoky green eyes and kisses my lips, his hot tongue rubbing against mine. I can’t breathe. I hug him to me because I want him so close I want him to become part of me. His skin feels hot under his shirt. I wrap my legs around his hips.

He laughs against my lips. “I take it you’re warming up to the kitchen.”

I feel like my heart is going to explode in my chest because this man is everything to me, and he is here, between my legs, telling me about our future. About me making him breakfast. About our bed. Our bathtub. About our kids.

My heart gives another squeeze. I’m panting, holding on to his shoulders.

His soft hair is tickling my jaw as he starts unbuttoning my shirt. He’s going slowly. Painfully slowly. His fingers rubbing against my skin, and with every button he undoes, I become undone.

He pushes the straps of my bra down and pulls my legs tighter around him. “You drive me crazy,” he whispers.

I pull his head up to kiss him, and he gives me the longest kiss of my life. I am pouring myself into this kiss, letting my lips and my tongue tell him everything he needs to know. That I crave him. That I love him. That I’m completely his to have, and cherish. I see us lounging by that fireplace he wants to put in the living room, I see us having drinks in the kitchen without friends, I see us looking out at Chicago, late at night, the lights of the buildings imitating the stars in the sky.

We’re home. We. Not him, not me. We. This will be our home.

We kiss for a little while, hands wandering, mouths savoring. I could go on and on like this with him, but the elevator pings and I realize we’re getting company. A handful of contractors start to shuffle inside, back from the hour-long break Saint requested they take so he could show me around. Sin buttons up my shirt and I quickly arrange my hair and hop off the counter, then I wander the apartment while the contractors consult with him.

From their conversation, I hear that he bought the whole top floor and the floor beneath it. Two-level penthouse, twenty-one-foot ceilings on the bottom one, twenty-five-foot ceilings on the top one. They’re being connected through a private elevator, as well as a staircase that curves upward from the lower floor, connecting to the foyer of the penthouse.

My mother used to say that a big house was every woman’s dream. That is, until you moved into it, and it became a nightmare to keep clean. I can’t imagine this place ever being my nightmare.

As Saint talks to some of the contractors, I walk across the empty space. He’s hired an architect to design a huge play area down below. Upstairs is for our friends, near the huge bar and terrace. The floor below has another terrace where he’s making preparations for a pool that’s only a couple of feet deep, for the kids; there will be a mini golf as well.

He’s thought of everything. Nannies’ rooms. Where our children can have parties. Where we can get together with friends. He’s thought of double offices. Huge bathrooms. And an extra room where I can keep a crib and a nursery upstairs. We won’t move our little Saint downstairs until there are a few more and he’s a little older. Our spot of paradise in Chicago.

And I get my own closet.

I walk back to our room and admire it. Even the bathtub has a view, I see now that I admire it again. On one side I can watch the city. On the other I can watch my husband in the see-through, pristine glass shower.

Life is full of tough choices.