Manwhore +1
Page 47Helen hasn’t mentioned Noel Saint again. But . . . can the deal please fall apart?
I know Helen doesn’t want me to leave. She’s trying her damnedest to act as if Edge isn’t in the midst of an acquisition, but I can tell by her shut office door and the flurry of meetings with her bosses that it’s happening.
There’s a long-standing war of wills going on between Noel and Malcolm. I mean, why else would his father, whose business mostly involves real estate, just happen to be interested in journalism, just as his son is being seen with me?
And I know how ruthless Saint can be. Saint is not a guy who’d let his father win, especially where I’m concerned.
The week goes by in a blizzard of texts, and anticipation of seeing him on Friday.
He warned me he was working late, but that he wanted to see me. I’m already in bed when he finally texts, I’m coming up.
I tiptoe out to open the door in nothing but a tiny pair of lace bottoms, and when I swing the door open, he lifts me up.
I crawl higher up the trunk of his body and bite his neck. We’re both ravenous when he takes us to my room. He shoves his hands into the sides of my panties and gives a hard pull and when I hear them give with a spectacular tear and snap, I gasp his name, raw on my lips. Another breathy gasp escapes me as he throws me on the bed and jerks off his clothes. Then he covers me, and my nails sink into his shoulder blades, ankles lock at the base of his spine.
“Inside,” I beg.
He tortures me for a little while. “No. I want you like this. Wild and hot.” He’s not very obedient. The arousal and lust in my body triples. I ache for it, need it.
“Inside . . . get in me. Oh Sin, give it to me.”
By the time he rolls on a condom and lets me have it, I’m a mass of delicious contractions and heat.
He holds the back of my head in one hand, kisses me. “The way you squeeze me, Rachel. The way you just don’t want to let go of me even when you know I’m coming back, hard and deep . . .”
The next morning, I awake to an empty bed and a shiny black credit card lying next to the cell phone on my nightstand. And a text: Get some new ones.
Then he texts again: Get some swimwear while you’re at it. Let’s hit The Toy later.
The Toy.
I’ve been combusting all week, and have been churning out dating pieces and how-to-tell-what-kisses-mean pieces and how-to-seduce-the-man-of-your-dream pieces like crazy for Helen.
I have the best memories of being on The Toy with Saint. Memories of nothing but the lake around us. I love going out on his yacht because all the social media doesn’t exist; all my fears fade away. The times Malcolm and I have been alone there together are some of the best of my life.
Saint and I are leaving later. So now Gina and I are in the swimwear section of her department store. There’s a very simple, well-cut black bikini that sits snug and lovely on my butt and tits. I feel beautiful, the material smooth, the cut making my legs look sleek and long.
It’s a little bit expensive and I just don’t know if I can let this big spender of a man buy it for me. On the other hand, letting him buy it for me makes me feel so sexy I can’t stand it. And Gina says a guy has to feel like a provider sometimes and I have to let him.
“He needs to feel like a man,” she says.
Groan. Like Sin needs to feel any manlier.
After a while of turning and checking my appearance from all angles, I take a selfie in the mirror and then examine it closely. Do I look good? I want to look awesome. Not just good. Send it or not, send it or not, send it or not—
Shit! Clicked “send.”
This one? I force myself to casually add after the stupid photo just flew over to his phone. Dammit.
YES is the only reply.
I feel bees in my stomach. OK. I’ll be done and ready to sail as soon as I figure out how to use this black card I got.
I tell him I’m at the department store where Gina works. Then I tell Gina I think I can buy this one.
She peers at my bikini through the curtain, and snaps, “That is terribly sexy. Why are you hesitating? GET THEM ALL! Paul never bought me shit. It shouldn’t be difficult to let Saint do it.”
“Well, because it’s from him. I want it to be . . . perfect.”
I come out with the swimsuit and head over to pay.
It’s ridiculous how excited I am.
I’ve never let a man do this for me.
I’d never even realized how easy it would be to agree when that man . . . well, when that man is the one you want to be with. And when that man seems to delight—seriously, get high!—in getting you things.
Ohgod.
Is this me being spoiled rotten by him?
“You sure you only want one?” Gina asks as she inspects my selection. “You know, those black Centurion credit cards are so costly to own, you might as well use them or you’re throwing money away.”
“Gina,” I groan as I watch the lady swipe the card and package my swimsuit as they do in the expensive stores like this one. “I’m not going to throw his money away! I only need one,” I scold her.
We head toward the stairs and she gets distracted by a shoe display. Shuddering after she checks a price, she sets the shoe aside while I check out a pair of sleek Louboutins, the designer shoes with the red soles.
“Has there been any news of his dick father?” she asks as I stare in shock at the price and quickly return the shoe to the display.
“And the job interviews . . .”
I shake my head.
“So maybe you’ll work with Saint?”
“I couldn’t be his employee, Gina, I feel consumed as it is.”
Dibs . . .
Oh, shit. Dear brain, can we please try to forget that?
But every time Saint touches me, I feel his fingers and his tongue are saying dibs and dibs and dibs . . .
The word is no longer visible on my hand, but I feel branded by it.
Gina leads me downstairs to the Chanel department, where I stock up on eye shadow and eyeliner. When we walk out of the store, we see some people across the street all staring in the same direction—a few more even stop walking to gape. I follow their gazes and stop in my tracks, my heart in my throat.
A silver Bentley’s parked at the curb. Something buzzes over my skin as Malcolm heads toward me. He is absolute sin in fucking jeans and a polo that makes love to him.