Manwhore

“Do you like that too?” He dips his tongue, hot and wet, into my mouth; then he secures the back of my head in one curved hand and parts his lips and takes me deeper, harder. A rush of sensations knifes through me, and when he angles his head to get another, thorough taste of me, I part my lips wider so that he continues to do what he’s doing, continues rubbing his tongue along mine and feeding me with his indescribably delicious taste.

“Yes,” I moan softly, hungrily breathing his breath. “I can taste you in every inch of me.”

The sound of his hands sliding down the length of my arms, over my clothing, is decadent and delicious. We slant our heads and kiss a little, then a little more. Then his lips soften . . . retreat . . .

A tremor racks through me as his lips brush across my soft wet ones, the ghost of a tantalizing touch.

When we finally part, my mouth tingles, and I can see him perfectly up close. I notice the shifting shades of green in his eyes, the copper flecks scattered inside—not cold, not an ounce of cold right now.

I feel his fingertips graze my temples as he brushes my hair off my forehead to look at me. His hands remain there for what feels like an instant and, at the same time, forever. I blink as I grudgingly remove my hands from his nape and bring them, trembling, to my sides, my eyes focusing on his stunning, virile face.

“I . . . this can’t happen.”

“It’s happened. It’s happening, Rachel.”

His gaze is heavy, thick-lashed as he surveys his handiwork: my lips, wet. Swollen—at least that’s how they feel. I find myself touching his shoulders, nervous. “Saint . . .”

God. I don’t even know what it is I’m asking for.

He’s the sort of guy who’d never be in any woman’s friend zone or brother zone. He’s the sort of guy you fantasize about having for a lover, and he wants me. When he ducks his head, I go up on my toes so our lips meet again. Then we’re tasting, slowly exploring, and when I want to make it go fast because my toes are curling and my body’s trembling, he slows me down with his mouth, his tongue. Perfectly in control, he’s feasting on me and doesn’t want to be rushed. My mouth has become his expedition, and I want to be explored, just like this.

He pulls away—I have to swallow back a protest then.

He stares at me. Eyes, lips, eyes, lips, prolonging the looks a little more every time. I’m in agony. Suddenly I tilt my head and kiss his neck. He groans softly, fisting my hair in his hand, tipping my head back. And there, his lips wait for mine. Our mouths fuse as if each was somehow waiting for the other for a long time. The touch, the heat, is so electric, I pull back with a shocked gasp.

Our eyes meet again. We’re playing this game, kissing, stopping. . . . I can see by the curl of his lip that he’s enjoying it. But I’m not. I’m pained with desire, panting as I fight the urge to rub up against him like a cat, tug his shirt off his chest. I want to eat him up alive, so hard and so fast, I have to fold my fingers into my palms to keep from doing just that.

His hand cups my jaw and holds me still now. He watches me until the very last moment as his lips descend to mine. He tastes me, savors me; then the heady taste of him hits me again, melting me. I catch the rasp of his jaw against my cheek, the moist heat of his tongue on mine. When I let out a moan that scares me, he eases back for another moment to look at me again.

Oh god. Trembling with how much we’ve kissed and how much I still want, I stare at his mouth. Every time he’s stepped back, he’s come back to kiss me harder. Harder. His mouth—was it really just on me? I feel in a strange way like it still is. My lips tingle from side to side, top bow to bottom curve. He’s looking at them too. Then his hands tighten on my arms and his mouth crashes down on mine, hard this time. I stiffen against the onslaught, afraid of the cataclysm overtaking me. I try to move away and pull free, but his mouth shifts every time I do, and it is always there, ready to taste me again, the tip of his tongue brushing me open.

Excitement thrills through my veins as I dare open my mouth as wide as I can, and then he tastes me. A heart-stopping, whole-mouthed kiss that makes me dizzy and unsteady and amazed. My hands on his arms, my body leans on his so hard my breasts ache against his chest, and I taste him back. Not slow or in a savoring way; more in a way that means I will never be kissed like this again and I very much want him to eat me like I want to eat him.

This is Malcolm Saint—my dream story and the salvation of Edge—and I should’ve pushed him away. But I’m suddenly desperate. I’ve been paying attention to every visual sign, every word we exchange, trying to silence whatever it is he makes me feel. Some kind of need. Some blatant thirst. But his mouth is on mine, and I’m thirstier than ever.

We peel our lips apart, and his mouth immediately seeks a path down my throat. I turn my head and tug his earlobe between my teeth, running my hands over his hair. I’ve never touched a man like this, his hair thick and silky, dark as soot. He groans under my slow but impulsive caresses, and the sound runs through me in an erotic wave. His slow neck kisses drive me crazy, but I still crave his mouth; my mouth is sore, and it feels like the only way I won’t be aware of its soreness is with his mouth on mine again, pleasing me like crazy.

I turn my head. He’s there, as if needing my mouth too. Our lips open and fuse again. He groans; I moan. We taste each other feverishly. His tongue is hot and wet against mine, and this kiss alone has me more turned on than anything in my life ever has.

But . . . who do you think you are, Rachel? Come on! Elizabeth Bennett? Jane Eyre, perhaps?

Peeling away with effort, I shake in place, leaning my forehead on his while my breath stumbles back to me.

“We can’t do that again.” I ease back, running my hands down my hair. “Can someone . . . Can you call me a cab?”

He doesn’t say no, only stares at me, then stares down at his hands, then up at me. He glances at my mouth with heavy eyelids.

“I’ll drive you home. Just give me ten minutes to cool down.”

“No, I’ll take a cab. I need to cool down too. I can’t see you except . . . for interviews.” He looks so sexy, hot, and suddenly so attainable, I can’t bear to stand here anymore. I pull my bag close to me and head to the door.

“See me outside in ten minutes,” he says, his voice still thick with desire. “Just let me cool down,” he repeats.

But if I see you outside, I’ll be the whore who sold her soul for your story.