Manwhore +1

“Interface is expanding into news,” I explain.

She stares down at the papers. “If you don’t want this, I do.”

I kick her under the table. “Be serious.”

“I need more sugar.” She goes to the condiment table, returns, and settles back down with a little packet of sugar she adds to her coffee and stirs.

“What’s a man like him, the CEO, doing in a meeting like that?” She frowns. “Saint is too smart, Rachel. He wanted to make sure you showed up. He fucking wants you there. He is offering health insurance for your next of kin. Your mom. Do you realize what this means for you on the work front?”

My mom is my weakness.

Yes, I do realize.

Saint is offering me . . . the world.

But a world without him is nothing now.

“Rachel, though Edge has been getting good press attention since . . .” She throws me an apologetic look because she knows I don’t like remembering the article, then adds, “But how long will that attention last? Edge is still hanging by threads.” She sips her coffee. “And Interface is Interface. It’s not going anywhere but up. M4, Rachel, it’s like . . . huge. None of us have ever dreamed of working there. It hires, like, geniuses from all over the country.”

“I know,” I whisper.

So why does Saint want me on board? He can get anyone he wants. In any capacity.

“I bet Wynn would say for you to take it. We need her advice; she’s the only one in a relationship.”

“Gina, I said I love you to a guy for the first time in my life. I would never, as long as I live, choose for him to be my boss.” I add, pained, “And Saint doesn’t get involved with his employees.”

Her eyes cloud over with worry. “And you want him more than the job.”

I’m so ashamed of saying yes, because I don’t deserve it. Not even to want it. But I duck my head and nod.

I have a hole in me. So huge and empty, every pleasure in my life feels like nothing without him.

Gina rereads the letter, shakes her head, folds it, and hands it back to me. And all the while I’m still at M4. At the top floor, inside that marble, chrome, and glass office. And I can still smell him in my nose. My brain synapses won’t quit firing off, replaying the scene in his office. Every word he said. Every word I had hoped he’d say that he did not say. Every shade of green that I’ve seen in his eyes lost to me—except for this new cold shade of green that I had never seen.

I remember his gaze on my profile as Merrick interviewed me. I remember his voice. I remember what it feels like to stand close to him.

I remember how he exhaled when I left, as if he’d just engaged in some sort of physical battle.

And how his eyes latched on to me after that. Roping me in.

As Gina and I walk back home, I am so grateful I didn’t tell my mother I was seeing him today. She’d have raised her hopes on my behalf and I’d hate to dash them now. I tuck the papers back into my bag, and when we finally walk into our small but cozy two-bedroom apartment, I go to my room, shut the door, drop onto the bed and pull out the papers again.

It’s just your regular offer. I scan every page now and it lists the benefits, a salary that I do not deserve and is usually what much more experienced, award-winning columnists make . . . but then I hit a spot that really affects me.

Saint’s signature, on the bottom of the contract.

I hold my breath and stroke his signature a little bit. There’s an energy on it, like a stamp, somehow making the document feel heavy.

Crawling under my bed, I pull out my shoebox where I keep little things I treasure. A gold R necklace my mother gave me. On impulse I put on the necklace to remind myself of who I am. Daughter, woman, girl, human. I shift some of the birthday cards from Wynn and Gina aside. And find a note. The note that was once attached to the most beautiful flower arrangement that arrived in my office.

I take the ivory-colored card and open it . . . and read.

It was the first time I saw his handwriting. He signed the message, A friend who thinks of you, M.

Still dressed, I curl up on my bed and stare at it.

My friend.

No. My assignment, the story that I thought I’d wanted, the city’s playboy who became my friend who became my lover who became my love.

Now he wants to be my boss, and I want him more than ever.

MY LIFE NOW

I’m lying in bed and he’s dropping delicious, shivery kisses all along the back of my ear. I’m breathless as I absorb the feel of his tanned skin against mine, the strength of his muscles, the ripples of his abs against my tummy. Oh god. I can’t take him. I want to eat him with kisses and I want him to eat me back, every inch of me, I don’t even know where I want him to start.

He takes my hands and pins them to his shoulders, leaning over to buzz my mouth with his. “Open, Rachel,” he murmurs, and his green eyes, his green eyes are looking at me in the dark.

“Are you real?” I breathe, my heart in my throat, my lungs working madly in my chest.

He’s looking down at me so familiarly, I’m not sure if this is a dream or a memory as he drags his fingers up my arms, sinuously, and I close my eyes. Oh god, Sin. He feels so good. I murmur his name and shakily trail my hands up the hard planes of his chest. God, he feels so real. So excellently real. He feels just like he used to feel, moves like he used to move, kisses like he used to, takes control of me like he used to.

He pins me with his weight and I struggle to get closer, wiggling and arching and shivering, his long, strong body stretched out on top of mine.

I close my fingers around his shoulders like he seems to want me to do as he circles his hands around my waist now and continues to set slow, tingly kisses on my neck, and need slams into my midsection, my skin screaming while I burn. I want. Want his hands all over me, his touch covering me, head to toe. His mouth. Oh, please.

“Malcolm, please now, please now . . . inside . . . now,” I hear myself beg.

He’s not in any hurry. He never is. He curls my legs around his hips, kissing his way up to my mouth. It’s been forever since I felt this, his lips at the corner of my mouth. I feel my eyes well with tears. Every inch of him is missed by every inch of me. One second I’m rocking my hips in silent plea, the next he’s driving inside me.

It’s the sound that wakes me. A soft mewling sound that I make. A sound of absolute pleasure, such absolute pleasure it borders on pain. I’m soaked in sweat when I bolt upright in my bed. I look around, shakily wiping the wetness on one side of my face, but no. He’s not back in my bed. I’m still crying at night, my body’s still aching for his at night.