Manwhore

“Stay.”

The abrupt command stops me from leaving. My blush seems to spread to the marrow of my bones because of the way he’s staring at me now. His breath moves the hair at the top of my head as he whispers:

“I want to make you blush, from here”—he touches my forehead and briefly glances at the ground—“to the tips of your feet.”

He’s smiling down at me, his chest so close I can feel it warm me against the breeze. I feel like he’s a hurricane and I’m the lake, calm on the outside, holding a thousand and one secrets within.

“Why couldn’t you look at me down there?” he murmurs, his voice breaking with huskiness as he lifts his large hand and runs the backs of his fingers down my cheek.

A hot ache grows inside me. “Saint. Don’t.”

He lifts his phone and shows me a picture on the screen. “I like this picture of you. You look soft and thoughtful. I can see your chin, one of your elfin ears sticking out of your hair.”

“You took a picture of me!”

“I did.” His thumb caresses the picture on the screen and my spine tightens, because I can almost feel the touch.

“Erase it,” I say, shocked.

“Ah. Bargaining again.”

“Saint. Don’t. Delete that picture. I’m not interested in you like that. In being on your phone.”

He eases back, searching my face. “Come here, sit with me.”

He heads to the couch and settles his large body right at the center. Wow. So he expects me to follow?

With a deep breath, I force myself to go there, to that couch he now so thoroughly occupies. I’m sitting at the edge while he continues taking up the center. We stare at each other, me scowling, him in amusement, and then our heads turn and we’re staring at the last fireworks in the distance.

“You’re mad at me because I had my driver take you home?” he says, his eyes gleaming ruthlessly.

“You said that, not me,” I return.

He chuckles softly, the sound low and male, distracting. As is his big body, somehow sucking up the space around him like a vortex.

“I might have let you come to the after-party if you’d accepted my gift.” He drags his thumb thoughtfully along the raspy square of his jaw. “A man has his pride, Rachel. How do you think I feel when I see my shirt back in my office?”

“Aw, does he feel neglected by one girl out of his million girlfriends?”

His voice lowers, his handsome face etched in puzzlement. “Why?”

“What?”

“Why did you bring it back to me? I said keep it. Nobody gives my gifts back. Am I repulsive to you?”

My gaze fixes on the thick tendons of his throat because I don’t want him to see that he’s not repulsive—he’s too attractive to let me think most of the time. “I’d rather not accept gifts from men or strangers.” I lift my chin a fraction, narrowing my eyes and warning under my breath, “And if you keep teasing me, I’m going home.”

He leans forward. “You know, Rosie didn’t toss my gift back in my face. She called me a hero . . . and I liked it very much.”

He’s provoking me. I used to like banter so much better when he wasn’t scrambling my head.

“A: Thank-yous from elephants are pretty rare, so I hope you appreciate her gesture. And B: I suppose you’ve been given things your whole life,” I say.

His smile turns rueful, and he leans forward. “Everything.”

“Everything?”

He nods.

“I don’t believe it.”

“What could I have wanted that I don’t have?” He laughs softly. “I have it all, Rachel. At least I used to.” He reaches out and runs the back of one finger along my cheek, awakening every nerve ending in my body.

My throat feels tight all of a sudden. His stare turns dark and hungry, and no man who has everything could hunger like that.

As we grow quiet, the breeze shuffles past us, the air between us different. What game is he playing with me? The picture he took was taken while I was so vulnerable, my profile showing my confusion. I can’t bear that he saw me like that.

He’s looking at my picture now, serious.

“I realize the company I keep is special. I appreciate being given a chance to make it up to you,” Saint tells me soberly, staring at the dark sky where the fireworks used to be. When he turns his head to face me, I have to fight not to look away from that probing green gaze.

“Thanks for inviting me . . . I’ve had a good time,” I say, my voice as husky as I’ve ever heard it.

Suddenly I feel hungry too.

For him to tease me again, and make me smile, and get that twinkle in his eye that both infuriates me and makes me feel little bubbles in my veins. I feel hungry to know why he called dibs on me, why he wants me to have his shirt.

He smiles amicably and signals at me.

“I’ll bargain with you now, Rachel. If you’d like to ask me something, I’ll give you an answer—and I’ll ask you a question,” he says, watching me.

“Really?” I perk up, and when he nods indulgently, I gesture to him. “You go first.”

“All right.” He leans forward, his muscles straining under the open shirt he wears. “Why couldn’t you look at me down there, Rachel?”

“What do you mean?”

“Down there. Why couldn’t you look at me? Even now, why aren’t you looking up here?” I follow his fingers to where he taps them over one of his eyelids.

I think of my answer.

Before I can even reply, he murmurs, almost warningly, “The truth.”

I blush. God, he’s always wanting the truth. Does he trust nobody, then?

“You were right about me, this isn’t my scene,” I say with a shrug. “You’re good at reading people, I can tell.”

“I can tell you are too.”

He waits. I guess it’s my turn. I want to ask him things that are personal, like why I couldn’t come to his after-party, but I need to focus on the interview. So I focus on him. “The question that’s on everyone’s mind: Do you think she’s out there? One women to embody all your desires?”

I make a quick appraisal of his features, but he reveals no glimpse into his thoughts at all. “Is that really what everyone would like to know?”

“You’re answering with a question.”

“And you’re not asking the right questions.”

I scowl and grab from the fruit tray his yacht personnel put upstairs too.