Manwhore

He leans against it, watching me. And he’s smiling. At me. He steps forward and says, “Hey.” To me. And I forget about everything. Even my name. Even that I’m supposed to be working today. My stomach contracts, and so does my throat.

“Hey,” I say, taking in his black suit as he opens the passenger door for me.

Oh god, what is this?

He offers his hand, and I look at it with dread and anticipation before slipping my fingers into his. He grips my fingers lightly as I slip into the seat, the touch lingering long after he lets go and closes the door.

Then he’s in the car, shutting his door and enclosing us in the most confined space we’ve been in since we met. His scent envelops me along with the leather of his car, and my lungs start to ache with every breath I take.

As I dressed, I kept telling myself that I didn’t need to look perfect because nothing would come of it. But I actually spent more time than ever thinking about what I was going to wear and wondering how he’d feel about it.

Dean sent a message instructing me to wear something comfortable because parts of the building were still under construction. I ended up wearing a favorite pair of worn jeans, a loose shapeless sweater I love writing in, and my warm boots, because I love having comfy feet. I’m a fan of chunky socks, my Uggs, and tucking my feet into anything soft and snug. But it doesn’t matter whether he likes it, right? Because nothing can come of this. I’m working, and he’s . . . well, he’s being nicer to me than I ever imagined by giving me a tour in the first place.

“I hope I’m dressed okay,” I whisper.

His green eyes run up and down my body, and suddenly more than my feet are warm as a small smile appears. He reaches an arm behind my seat and faces me completely. “I like this almost as much as I love what you wore the day we met.”

I cover my face and laugh. “You absolutely don’t mean that.”

When I force myself to drop my hands, he’s staring at me. I really have never been looked at the way he looks at me, with that glint of mischief in his stare, sexy, dark, and deep, roiling with the most exquisite promises. When he teases me like this, my flesh goes warm and things happen to me that could only be explained by collisions and particles and energy and chemistry. I can’t take it.

Without reassuring me any more about my looks or how much he likes or doesn’t like them, he gets the engine roaring to life, checks his mirrors, and sends the tires squealing as he pulls into the street. The next second, I’m flat against the car seat and without breath.

“This car is meant to be driven like you stole it,” he says.

He takes a curve a bit recklessly and starts to chuckle, the sound low and amused. “All right, Rachel?” He grins and squeezes my thigh, and I look up at him, the tingles of adrenaline and lust I’m feeling becoming bells chiming loudly inside me.

I smile and nod, but add, “You’re a devil, though.”

He slows down and starts driving like a normal person for the next couple of blocks, speaking low, with a sidelong, curious glance at me. “More devil than saint?”

“You couldn’t be a saint if we got you a halo.”

His lips tip upward, but there’s something about the smile that doesn’t reach his eyes as he turns back to the road. From the moment I met him, the air between us has felt different from the way it does when I’m not with him. Thicker, more electric, every glance or smile or word causing ripples in the atmosphere. But right now, inside his leather- and man-smelling car, I feel his presence with every breath. Every thought. Every move—those moves of his, as he turns the steering wheel, shifts gears. And those moves of mine: tucking my hair back, smoothing my hands over my sweater.

When we get to the Interface underground parking lot, he slides into the first empty slot, and I’m telling myself to freaking forget about his delicious ghost kisses as he removes his jacket and tosses it to his seat. But it’s no use; the glimpse of muscles rippling under the fabric of his white cotton shirt doesn’t help get my knees back into normal working order. He unknots his tie and pulls it loose, his biceps flexing under his shirt. My eyes—I can’t pull them away from him. I feel his call viscerally, right in the core of my being. I watch him, noticing the hair that fell over his eye as he raked his fingers through it just now.

A ball of tangled lightning is in my stomach as I follow him into the elevator and we ride to the top floor.

His textured voice suddenly runs like a feather down my spine. “Do you want to talk about Interface now?”

I tear my attention free from that beautiful set of lips of his to find him watching me. His stare is too keen and knowing for me to hold it for long, but I can’t look away, either. “I don’t know.”

“So you don’t want to discuss Interface?”

His voice is gruff, deeper than usual, and the sudden smile on his lips is absolutely sensual.

I bite my lower lip, uncertain of what to say as he takes a step forward, looking at me questioningly and also . . . expectantly. My heart starts thumping. I feel like something is happening. A hurricane called Malcolm Saint is happening. I’ve been dreaming of him—of us. Limbs, flesh, touching, those grazing kisses of his right on the corner of my mouth . . .

A prickle of nervousness tightens every inch of my body as he moves his frame to stand before mine. He stretches his arm along the wall behind me, his eyes glowing. He’s so close I can see the icy flecks in those irises, reminding me of other times, when those flecks seemed to have melted from warmth.

“Hey,” he says, running his thumb along my jaw as he suddenly smiles down at me.

He smells of soap. His nearness is lighting up my nerves like a Christmas tree.

“Hey,” I whisper, shooting for casual, failing miserably.

His closeness is unsettling.

He takes my fingers within one warm hand and tugs my arm up from my side, watching his fingers lace through mine as he holds my hand between us, at the level of our throats. “Ask me anything you want, Rachel,” he says, his thumb rubbing along the back of mine, the touch electrifying my nerve endings.

He reaches out with his free hand and strokes the note cards I’m clutching in my other hand. He peers at the top card. “ ‘Relentless,’ ” he reads out loud.

Startled, I jump into action and take the cards with both hands. His lips curve; he watches me shakily tuck the cards into my small bag.

You’re really unfocused, Livingston! I don’t know what to do, or what to say, only that this development is not good for Edge, for my career. For the exposé. Oh, fuck.