Manwhore

I’m so disbelieving that I’m not even breathing as Malcolm slowly stands. I follow him up, staring into his face in confusion.

“What do you mean it’s not my scene?” I demand. I feel like there’s no gravity when he stands so close to me. I’m dizzy. Confused. And unexpectedly hurt.

For the first time since we met, he looks at me like he’s actually losing his temper . . . with me. He leans closer and puts his lips against my ear. “Trust me when I tell you, it’s not your scene. Go home,” he whispers. He sends me a look laden with warning and walks away, blending into the crowd.

Tahoe and Callan stare at me, speechless. “That’s a first,” Tahoe mumbles and heads away.

I feel myself burn in humiliation and confusion. Worse is that, when I go outside, the same man who drove us around the day before walks over to me.

“Miss Livingston, a pleasure to drive you,” he says, hanging up his phone as if Saint just called him. He is a huge man with a bald head and no expression. A second later, he’s opening the door of the Rolls for me.

Seriously?

Did Saint call him just now and ask him to escort me home?

Aware of people staring and seeing me being led to Saint’s car, I climb into the back of the Rolls and murmur my thanks simply because it’s not this man’s fault.

The car smells new and expensive and like him. A bottle of wine and water bottles ride with me. There’s music in the background and the temperature is just right. The perfect luxury of it all tempts me to run my hands over my dress and look down at myself in confusion. What is wrong with me?

I feel as if he pulled the rug from under me and reminded me what I’m up against. The top of the species. Somebody ruthless.

I can’t take the heat in the back of my ears and on my cheeks. I sag on the backseat and set my forehead on the window. Focus, Livingston! Exhaling, I grab my phone and try to write down all the details about what I saw, but I can’t right now. I just can’t do anything but ride here, in his car, wondering why I feel so vulnerable.

At about 11:55 p.m. I tiptoe into the apartment, wincing when the door shuts a little louder than I’d planned. I go to the kitchen to get myself some water and Gina pads out, her hair a tangle. “Hey,” I say apologetically. She frowns and squints in the lamplight. “Sorry, G, I didn’t mean to wake you. Get back to bed.”

“How was the party?”

“Okay,” I can only say. “I’ll fill you in tomorrow morning.”

She rubs her eyelids. “Urgh, it’s too late or early. Yeah. We watched Game of Thrones.”

She pads back to her room and I go into mine, take off my makeup, then strip out of my dress. As I look for my Northwestern T-shirt, I spy the vacant spot where his shirt used to be in my closet and I stare at it. I should be glad it’s not here, but instead its absence makes me ache worse, because I can’t even remember if I made up the times he was nice to me. Slamming my closet door shut, I slide into bed in my boy briefs, bringing my notepad with me, forcing myself to write. One word, at least. Just one, because blocking out this evening will not further my goals in any way. I write:

Territorial

And then I Google, simply because I still can’t believe he said . . .

Dibs: A claim / rights

Yes. It means exactly what I thought it did.

Frowning, I settle back in bed and stare at the ceiling. Livingston, so what? He didn’t like seeing you at his club party—you’re a reporter. Did you expect he would? Do you know what this means? All this means is that you need to dig deeper !

7

DREAM

Deeper. His body’s on top of mine—hard in all places. He thrusts, and I like it so much I cry out and arch my body. “Please,” I whisper. “Deeper, oh please, deeper.”

His lips cover mine in an uncontrolled kiss. Hands squeeze my breasts, palms stroke my nipples. The back of my head is swallowed by the pillow as the weight of his body buries me deeper into the mattress.

I agonize. I agonize because I haven’t had sex in so long and it has never felt like this, and he kisses me again, with raw hunger. He curls his fingers around one breast and suckles the tip. I curve and stretch my body up wantonly, my thighs parting beneath his hips so he can get inside me, as deep as he can. . . . Please pleasepleaseplease . . . I never beg, but I can’t stop saying please.

I nibble hungrily on his full lips and let my fingers trail up the grooves of his back. He feels the way he looks: hard, unyielding. But his body is oh so warm—there’s not an ounce of cold in this body. If I open my eyes, will his eyes be green ice or green fire? Please be fire, please want me. Please, deeper, I think, tossing my head as his next powerful thrust brings him so deep, every inch of his hard flesh buried inside me, every inch of me taken. He starts to move: out, in, out, in—

I wake up sweating and rolling my hips and just a hair away from orgasm, breathing in fast pants. I groan and roll to the side. 1:08 a.m. He must be at his after-party. Having a threesome. A foursome. God.

Seriously, Livingston! I chide. I’m trembling and it won’t stop. I’m already at the edge, just waiting to fall.

Groaning in misery, I slide my hand between my legs, where I’m aching. Don’t do it, Livingston, I warn, but I feel feverish. I squeeze my eyes shut and slide my finger between my thighs and then, because I just can’t stop it, I try to picture a hot actor instead of him. But as the pleasure comes back, icy green eyes look back at me. I bite my lip and want to bite his lips. Feverish, I feel his hand between my legs and it’s still not enough; I want more of his fingers, I want his weight crushing me. I savor what he’s doing to my body and tell myself that I just won’t say his name when I come. I won’t say it. Because he’s not the one doing slow, sweet, sexy things to me right now. Kissing me. Squeezing me. Moving inside me as I—

“Saint.”

After an earth-shattering orgasm, I lie in bed, dazed. Then shocked.

“God, I’m such a slut.” I turn on my lamp and go wash my hands, then wash my face and scowl at myself in the mirror.

Sighing as I pad back into my room, I open my laptop and find myself pulling up more links about him, putting myself to work. It occurs to me that right now he’s probably with one or two or three or four girls, having the kind of toe-curling, sheet-clawing sex he’s known for. I spy his personal social media and tell myself the exposé is the only reason I want to know.

His Instagram page is full of adrenalized pictures: