Manwhore
Page 50We talk about the lamest things. I talk to Gina and Wynn every day, even if there’s nothing to talk about. We usually don’t even have anything significant to say except: “I just pigged out on a sundae.”
And I will be: “Oh, those are good.”
And: “I watched Sleepless in Seattle again; I can’t believe how good that movie still is, so many years later.”
“Oh, I love Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks. Where are those two, anyway? Where’s Meg? I miss her. . . .”
Sleeping with a guy after a three-year dry spell—and only having slept with two other guys in my life, neither of them anything to scream about—definitely classifies as noteworthy material. Sleeping with Malcolm Saint is a ten on the Richter scale. It deserves waking the girls up, if need be. It deserves screaming and scolding and more screaming, it deserves a day of daydreaming—What if he really likes me? and What if it happens again?—but because it’s him, and because this is me, and because everything is more complicated, I can’t say it. I can’t share it, and I can’t bear to share him or hear anyone’s advice or opinion when I’m so tangled up about it all.
“What’s up with you?” Gina asks.
“Nothing. I’m going to write,” I murmur lamely.
I head to my laptop and stare at it, not writing a single anything at all, my fingers just stroking the keys as I glance at my phone.
Oh god, I’m such a fucking slut. I force myself to exhale the breath I’d been holding and read the text I just sent him:
Tonight?
Tonight, he’d answered.
We’re heading back from a night out with Callan and Tahoe. I can’t even believe how turned on I got watching Saint have a sportgasm when the White Sox won. His friends had one too. They yelled in Tahoe’s apartment. Tahoe started running around like a madman, banging his chest. Callan opened a bottle of champagne and gave us all a bath. Malcolm’s muscles gave my saliva glands quite a workout when he took off his shirt, balled it up, and threw it at the TV. “FUCK THAT, YES!”
He kept staring at me as I went to and fro.
“No, thanks. You can leave your paws off my girls,” I say.
“We’re actually bailing,” Malcolm says. I look up at him, and he’s looking at me meaningfully.
“Aw, Saint. Hey, can we hop by your place later?”
“Later,” he says.
I don’t know why, but I’m already shivering like crazy.
Fifteen minutes later we’re in his bedroom, and I roll over to straddle him, aching for his mouth, and we kiss again. We’re naked, my breasts bare so he can toy with my nipples and drag his hands over my arms and then my spine. Our bodies shift as he sits up and pulls my legs around his hips. I’m so excited to feel that he’s thick underneath me, I can’t stop kissing his jaw, his lips. He’s so thick he groans when I rock my hips a little bit.
God, he really wants me. . . .
“This doesn’t mean anything, right?” I ask, panting and ready, so sopping wet I’m a little embarrassed about it, because his fingers are already trailing there.
“Right.” He drags his tongue over my ear, his hand sliding over my pussy lips.
I watch the harsh look on his face as I move slowly over his lap, teasing his hardness with my wetness, until he rasps in my ear, “A guy would kill to live here.”
He seizes my hips and urges me down on him; in this position he fills me to the hilt. Our eyes meet and cling. I lick my lips, and he runs his keen male attention over every part of me he can. He slides his hands down my butt, the backs of my legs, to curl over my ankles, his thumbs rubbing my ankle bones as I do the rest of the work.
My breasts bounce. He lies back on the bed, watching, as he drags one hand down the flat of my abdomen and fondles my clit. “Look at you,” he croons huskily, ducking his head to suck on my breasts in a way that makes my eyes roll into the back of my head. I just lose control.
We hear the door.
I stop riding him for a second, but he’s so big and full inside me, I don’t want to stop.
“Shh.” He sits up, hands on my hips, locking me on top of him. “It’s just the guys, they won’t come in here.”
He sucks the tip of my breast into his mouth. My head falls back in pure red-hot pleasure as I move again.
More noise.
“Mmm,” I moan, savoring him. Every pulse in his body, I feel too.
“Saint!” they’re yelling.
He lifts his head. “BUSY!!!!”
Oh god, I can’t. I lift up on my thighs and pull him out of me, too nervous about being heard to continue.
“No, come here.” His arm locks around me, gently tugging me back to him.
“They’re going to see I’m in here with you!” I hiss as I squirm free and start gathering my clothes.
“So?” As I get my pretty little thong and my bra back on, his attitude becomes more serious.
I slip into my top and skirt, and he jumps into his jeans, still hard, his face completely remote now. He comes and wraps his arms around my midriff. “Stay here, and I’ll get rid of them.”
I close my eyes, his touch, firm, persuasive, inviting me to stay and have my way with his hair, his lips, him.
“It’s okay,” I whisper.
“You sure?” The mere touch of his hand on my chin sends a warming shiver through me, and I nod.
We go outside in silence. He gets me a cup of coffee and then brings a bottle of wine out from the wine room.
“Hey, bro!” The guys high-five him, and he gives them a silent look that clearly speaks volumes. As in: Why are you here?
“Well, hello there, Rachel.” Tahoe waggles his brows as he and Callan settle down on the huge leather living room couches. “You know, Rache, people have been asking me about you. Especially old Saint acquaintances,” Tahoe tells me.
“I can imagine. I’ve lately experienced a friend surge on Instagram, FB, and Twitter since the Interface inaugural,” I reply.
“Callan’s gotten more inquiries than me, even,” Tahoe adds.
“ ’Cause you’re a man beast, chicks are partly scared of you.” Callan nods at him and looks at me. “He didn’t hit puberty, he beat the shit out of it.”