Manwhore +1

“Saint . . .”

God, this man is going to kill me before he gets to actually fuck me.

He shifts above me, caresses one breast, bending to kiss it, wet and fast. His lips stay there, his hand curving around my hips to the curve of my ass, holding me as he sucks hard.

Pleasure slams me so hard I buck.

He murmurs tenderly, “Easy.” Then he sucks my other nipple gently into his mouth, rolls his tongue over it, then draws it into his mouth again.

I fist the sheets in my hands as the orgasm builds fast and hard, a tension knotting from the core of my body. “Saint, I can’t do foreplay right now.” I tremble beneath him.

“God, I missed you,” he rasps with a happy light in his eye, sliding his fingers up to cup my face, the look on his face so reverent I feel perfect. “You’re like a spark, Rachel, all I need is to breathe on you and you catch fire.”

I’m so undone, I’m a heartbeat away from coming. “Malcolm, please don’t let me do this alone.”

“You’re not going anywhere without me,” he says, not in the least bit worried as he pulls away to look at me with eyes that have never looked this heavy-lidded. I can’t breathe. I’m gasping, my hands trembling at my sides as he starts to undress.

He strips off his shirt and then his slacks, I feel like I’m dreaming. He’s shedding his clothes until it’s all bare, all for me.

Tan, cut muscles, over six feet of pure testosterone-primed man. His skin feels so smooth and hot and hard when he lowers himself over me.

“Say you want me . . .” he murmurs, and then he dives and sweeps my mouth with his tongue. He twirls and pushes my own tongue with his, showing it where to move, what to taste, where to go . . . with his.

“I want you,” I groan.

Reaching over his muscular shoulders as he settles between my thighs, I curl my legs around his hips and lock my ankles together. He takes my hands and draws them over my head, then he laces his fingers through mine, and drives inside.

Body-slammed. Perfection in every way. We groan once he’s inside, and our bodies stop moving and stay like this.

“Like that?” He cups my face and looks down at me.

We’re both motionless from the pleasure. We stare at each other. We’re each taking in the other’s face as if we can’t believe we’re here.

He pulses thickly inside me and it feels like every inch of my body is holding on to him. And I swear at this moment that I never ever want to let go of him, and as long as I can help it, I never will.

“Yes,” I finally breathe, squeezing his hands holding mine above my head.

His green eyes flare bright with an emotion so raw, all my muscles tighten with the urge to orgasm to that look alone.

I don’t think Saint has ever looked at me so possessively.

He moves out of me and then back in, and I moan as our flesh touches with his motions. Going up on his arms, he withdraws and pumps in again, establishing a rhythm that is deep and savoring and intense, almost as if he can’t control it anymore.

He surges inside me and starts kissing my neck, as if he needs to taste me. I’m holding tight to him, clutching his bigger body to mine with my arms and legs, my mouth latching to any hard part it can. The rightness of being consumed like this and taken like this by the only man who’s ever owned me is beyond believable. It’s Sin inside me, Saint inside me, Malcolm inside me. Tension builds in me fast. He’s in me; so in me, it’s like we were never apart. We’re moving as if we never stopped.

He takes my face in his hand, and his voice textures until it’s barely discernible as he deepens his tempo. “Look into my eyes. Don’t look away until you come apart for me.”

I do.

I bite his neck, and then I do as he says and look into his eyes.

Watching the way his face clenches every time he’s fully embedded inside me. With all that gentle strength of his perfectly under control, he pulls my arms up over my head, pins them beneath his as his body weight pins me down too, and feeling physically so helpless—as helpless as I’ve been, emotionally, all this time—I feel a ball of fire burst from inside me. I gasp and convulse beneath him, his name raw on my lips, his green eyes mercilessly watching me unravel. “Malcolm.”

He keeps me in place as I come, driving slower and more deliberately inside me to prolong my orgasm, watching me with burning green eyes and then kissing my mouth the rest of the way through as he pumps faster, deeper, as exquisitely as ever. And then, what most gets me is the way his powerful arms clench all around me and I know he’s letting go, coming with me.

We’re motionless for a long time after. Saint is breathing deeply, and I’m breathing fast.

I smile against his face, where he set it down against mine as we recover. He smiles too, and slides a hand down my side to squeeze my ass affectionately. He laughs softly. All hot and male against me. I swear I just want to lie here and be super fucked and be super happy.

“Vixen,” he murmurs as he rolls to his back and settles me against his bare chest, brushing my hair back. “You feel even better than I remember,” he says quietly, looking into my eyes as he curls his hand around the back of my neck and gives it a squeeze, stroking the back of my ear with his thumb. “And I remember every time with you very well, Rachel.”

God. These feelings.

“I remember you too,” I finally manage.

We smile a little. And I’m so affected by his smile, being with him in bed like this, I feel a flush creep up to my cheeks.

I tug the sheet up to cover myself, and he raises a brow, but says nothing.

He disappears into the bathroom and when he comes back, I sit up uncertainly, gauging him. He drops on the bed and rests his back on a pillow, not even bothering with the sheets, his tan skin contrasting with the whiteness around him.

I remain sitting, hesitant, wondering if I should leave.

Using his palm, he turns my head, locks the angle of my face so he can start to kiss me, holding me firmly but gently against his body. “You’ll remember tonight too,” he says.

Body melt.

“Is that a promise?” I ask him.

“I break my promises, remember?” He studies my face, then he speaks, his eyes pure devil, “It’s a warning.”

We’re sweaty and relaxed in his bed, the covers tangled around our feet when his hand starts wandering dangerously up my rib cage.

“Saint . . . you’re killing me. You’re just . . . wicked. I can’t keep up with you.”