Ms. Manwhore

He’s almost crushing me now. Malcolm is spread out beside me, one arm folded under the pillow, his body facedown, neck twisted so his face is dipped into my neck.

I ease off with a breathless huff, then I kiss the disheveled dark hair before I walk naked to the window, trying to guess the time. A sliver of light steals through the green foliage out the window.

We’re in the middle of nowhere. We’re somewhere that doesn’t exist anywhere else. Turns out Saint bought this house as a permanent getaway for us, with a brand-new bed, brand-new furniture, brand-new everything.

There’s nothing within miles. The staff isn’t supposed to check in for days. Just him and me for the most perfect, hormone-indulging days.

If peace needed a dwelling in the world, this is where it would hide. If I could freeze a moment in time, I would choose the exact moment when he walks up behind me, wraps his arms around me, and kisses the back of my neck. When he says in the husky voice of a very-well-satisfied man, “Good morning, wife.”

When I turn, bedroom green eyes look down at me as he snakes an arm around me and pulls me close . . . right into the spot. My favorite spot; the home base to baseball, the eye of any hurricane, the still center of the earth out from which everything spins. Right here. In two arms. Held by one man. My spot to come back after a spin. My spot to laugh, and love, and Sin.