Manwhore +1

Minutes later, we’re both limp, I’m draped over his side, and his chest starts rumbling.

I frown a little. Is he . . . chuckling?

I lift my head, confused. His voice is husky as he holds me a little closer to his chest, his lids halfway over his eyes. “You’re a little devil too.” He rubs his thumb over my lip, and then he grins at me like he loves it.

We spend the next day on The Toy again. We eat, sunbathe, drink a little wine, and splash into the water. I can also officially tell the girls that without setting a single finger on it, I can now knot a cherry stem.

CHERRY BLUES

I wake up in my bed Sunday, very late at night—or, rather, too early on Monday.

Confused, I pad out to the living room to find it empty. I head to Gina’s room. “Remind me not to drink on a boat,” I tell Gina, grabbing my head as I lean heavily on the door frame.

She groans in the bed.

“Saint?”

Gina stirs a little. “You were knocked out, he carried you in.”

“Why didn’t he stay?”

“He stayed in your room a bit, and then he left. You looked like the dead would wake up sooner than you.”

“When did he leave?”

“An hour ago.”

“I’m sorry I woke you, I think I’m still a little intoxicated.” I lean on her door a bit and sigh. “Gina, we had such a great time. We talked . . . we swam . . . we ate cherries . . . we had dinner. I had only two glasses of wine. Two! And I can’t remember the rest.”

“It’s the damn wind and the rocking motion, it knocks me out every time.”

I groan and deeply, deeply regret those drinks I had.

“Close the door,” she mumbles as I go out.

Back in the room, I turn on the lamp and get my phone, writing, Thanks for bringing me home.

But instead of sending the text, I try calling to see if he answers. When I hear his voice, my veins start buzzing with something even more powerful than alcohol.

“Thank you for bringing me home. I enjoyed spending time with you very much,” I whisper.

“Me too.”

I glance at the time; it’s past 3 a.m. My voice is awkward with drink and sleep. “I wanted you to spend the night.”

“There’s no way to describe what I’m going to do to you when I do.”

“Please do,” I beg.

Silence.

“I want you so much, Sin . . .”

Silence.

“You can do anything you want with me as long as you promise to do it again.”

“Now that’s a promise I’d like to keep,” he whispers huskily.

“I know you don’t like to make promises but your word is gold, and if you’d stayed over, I would’ve let you devour me. But not all of me, you know. You need to leave enough . . . just so that tomorrow when I’m sober, you can tell me what you did to me.”

“So I get everything but your ears?” His voice sounds close to the speaker again and absolutely amused.

“Yes!” I say happily.

“While I devour every part of you with my mouth?”

Every part! Ohgod, yes.

“I’m not sure I can resist your ears,” he says in a tragic tone.

Desire building and building.

“Okay,” I breathe. “Take my ears too.”

“You’re certain? I’d own all of your senses now.”

I breathe out, “I’m certain.”

“Rachel, I want you undone for me—absolutely wrecked.”

“Okay, Saint.”

I am!

“Okay?” he coaxes. Still amused.

“Hmm. I’m game, Saint. Bases loaded.”

“Spend the weekend with me after your mother’s?”

“I’d love to. I’ll be on all five senses. Very attuned to your naughty plans.”

“I’ll hide the wine,” he teases.

“Malcolm!” I laugh, then, worriedly, “Did I say something?”

“Nothing you haven’t said before.”

“Malcolm! What did I say, you dick?”

He chuckles. “Nothing I wouldn’t mind hearing again, Rachel.”

When we hang up, I stare at my ceiling. Oh god, did I tell him I loved him? Drunk? Why can’t I say it like a normal, courageous person when I’m sober, looking into his eyes?

I try to remember and I can’t, I just can’t remember if I said it.

But if I did . . . he wants to hear it again?

I could’ve just talked dirty, which would be sooo unlike me and something Saint would probably love to hear too.

I sigh, plump my pillow, and turn off my lamp, getting haunted and aroused by the simple thought of a knotted cherry stem.

A SAINT IN MY HOME

Tonight is the night Saint meets my mother, and I don’t know who’s more excited, my mother or I.

Before I go to my mom’s, I stop by the pharmacy to stock her up on her medicines, then I buy her three bags of fresh, organic groceries and have neatly stored everything in her medicine cabinet and fridge. Then it’s off to help her with preparations for tonight’s dinner. I’ve made sure that the house is sparkly clean, the table set with our prettiest plates and topped with a pretty white rose centerpiece. Mom, apron and all, buzzes busily through the kitchen, stacking things in the hot drawer.

The excitement in our home is palpable.

Since my early teens, my mother has seen me focused exclusively on my career. I’d never really daydreamed about boys before. She’s as unprepared for me to bring a man home as I am—even though I’m sure she’s been hoping that I’d one day find “someone.”

Well.

I have.

Holy crap, I have! And my mother wants to meet him, and most shocking of all, he wants to meet my mother too.

Exhaling in satisfaction, I give one last look at our home. It looks spotless and homey. Though, a little bit self-consciously, I realize my mother’s house is kind of a shrine to me and the accomplishments I’ve earned so far: framed newspaper articles I wrote for my high school paper. My first piece for Edge. Letters from some readers I’d touched that I had stored away.

“I was reading up on him just this morning . . .” Mom says as she comes out to give one satisfied look at the house. “He looks very powerful. Very beautiful.”

“He is. He’s both. Also smart. Motivated.”

I pat her hand and kiss her cheek, and she asks, “He’s really coming?”

“No, Momma. I just wanted to put us to work for fun.”

She smiles one of her tender mother smiles and this time, she’s the one who pats my hand. “It’s good that he’s coming, Rachel,” she assures.