Ms. Manwhore

“We need to wait.”

“So I can sign your prenup contract?”

“That one. And the one making you my wife.” He loves my greediness. I can tell he loves that I’m eager to have him. “Do you realize this is something I never thought I’d want? I can’t think of anything else but making you my wife. My priority is merging your life with mine.”

He looks greedy and anticipatory and strong and tender.

My walls have crumbled before him and I don’t ever want them back up. My lids are heavy, but so are his. We’re both tired after our sex marathon last night.

But I still want him, every second more and more.

Barely surviving the dull throb between my legs and in my heart, I lift my head and kiss his jaw and settle back down at his side, close for warmth.

“Look at me. I was just sitting on the ground . . . with bare feet. I’m a simple girl. I like simple. And I want us to get married without the world watching us so closely.”

“You chose the wrong guy.”

“I’ve got enough complexities in my guy . . . so if we have a simple wedding then we can get to the good stuff. Like a honeymoon.”

“You would deny me the pleasure of giving you a big wedding?”

“I wouldn’t deny you anything, much less myself.”

I close my eyes, relaxing against him. Saint works so hard and leads such a fast-paced life, I treasure my calm moments with him.

“But I do want you to be my wife as soon as possible,” he tells me. “And I do want to protect you from the media frenzy.”

My eyes fly open. “You do?”

“You’re my passion, Rachel. More than work. We’ll do what makes you happy.”

“What about you?”

“Either one we go for, I get what I want.”

He pulls me back against him. We fall silent and just stay there, leaning against the tree trunk.

PEACE, a sign posted by a fellow camper, stares back at me. I’m doing one of the things I most love, with the guy of my dreams. My body starts relaxing into its arousal and into him. My body’s on fire and my soul is serene. Peace is what I find in his arms.

Peace and wildfire.

MOMENTUM

We’ve settled on a small wedding with our fifty closest friends. Malcolm is making plans to fly everyone to a little island in the Caribbean exactly five weeks from now. Nobody knows but our small circle, and we plan to keep it that way. That Sunday when we finally have all our plans in motion, Saint shoots Tahoe a call about keeping a lid on it. Tahoe has been warned .

On Monday, we meet with the lawyers.

On Tuesday, the prenups have been drafted and signed. Saint has given me more than I even wanted—but he was insistent. He wants me to feel safe. His lawyers weren’t that pleased with the terms he offered me—I could tell by their slightly pinched eyebrows—but Malcolm only had eyes for me, and he wore a perfect, satisfied smile as I signed it.

Wednesday at noon, Saint takes a lunch break to go with me and meet with Chicago’s most famous wedding coordinator. He does business on his phone while I get to pick out Tiffany cake, flowers, and invitations. By the time we’re done and we’re heading back to M4, it seems all I need to get married is a wedding dress. And that afternoon, while hunting for dresses with Mother, Gina, and Wynn, I discover that couture wedding dresses are difficult to find on such short notice.

I still don’t have a dress by Thursday afternoon when Malcolm steals me away from work. He blindfolds me . . .

. . . and the suspense is killing me.

We step off an elevator that seemed to go up forever. Then I hear the click of my heels on what sounds like a marble floor. The air smells of fresh wind and concrete. Malcolm’s hand, strongly gripping mine, leads me along the darkness. Thanks to this blindfold, that’s all I can see: blackness. His thumb rubs against my knuckles as he holds my hand and mumbles commands. “Careful,” “hold on to my hand,” “watch the boxes.”

There are bubbles of excitement in my stomach as I follow him.

Where are we?

I know he’s being careful to go slow, since usually one of his steps equals three of mine in heels. But he’s winding through the area slowly, and then we stop, and a wall of heat is now pressing against my back. My awareness of him heightens, and a surge of anticipation floods me as I wait for him to remove the blindfold. He pushes my hair to the side and presses a hot kiss to the back of my neck before reaching up to untie the velvet covering.

“What do you think?” he whispers into my ear.

God. I still shudder when he talks to me.

I shudder when he looks at me.

Stands close to me.

Exhaling, I finally open my eyes to see sky. Pure sky, the bluest of blue, specked with clouds. A huge window spanning the width of a wall stands in front of us, and Chicago sits below us. The room is flooded in light, and the clouds outside almost seem as if they will drift right into the room at any minute.

I’m . . . speechless.

Saint’s apartment is the most luxurious thing I’ve ever been in.

Until now.

We’re inside what would make the next list of Architectural Digest ’s most jaw-dropping apartment penthouses in the world. Twenty-five-foot ceilings. A terrace outside with an infinity pool that seems to blend into the sky. Limestone walls, marble and limestone floors. Thick wood beams crossing strong and proud from one end of the ceiling to the next. Dark mahogany cabinets. And so many windows it’s like you’re part of the sky.

I’m speechless as I quickly start exploring. My heels click on the floor as I trail my hands against a modern wall in soft gray tones, as elegant as you please. The place is huge. At least six thousand square feet. I see what seems to be another elevator at the far end—separate from the set of elevators we arrived in—and when I spot the sweeping staircase, I realize that it leads to a second floor.