Ms. Manwhore

Silent, he simply looks at me with that wondrous smile. Then, again, his knuckles run down my cheek. “The perks of marrying him,” he whispers hotly down at me, “will be even greater.”

I’m breathless, flushed and warm under his looks when I finally breathe out, “You have yourself a date.”

It was heaven, even though I was in abstinence hell .

I tried not to notice. Tried to be strong. But I wasn’t the least bit immune to watching Saint cook for me. Guys in kitchens are hot. And Saint was setting the kitchen on fire just by being there, tall and easy, confident and quiet. His hair in one eye, his hands chopping easily, a ton of spices for the pasta. Rolled shirt sleeves to reveal his thick forearms.

We had an amazing time. We laughed. Had dinner on the terrace next to the outside fireplace. Drank wine. Ate. Even toasted to great teamwork on our first kitchen efforts because the food turned out surprisingly well.

At night I slipped into one of his white men’s shirts, and we curled up in bed. He kissed me, gently caressed me over his shirt, and I returned the thorough, delicious attentions of his mouth with the abandon of a teenager. I bit the hard skin between his neck and shoulder, then rubbed his bare chest and tried not to think about the way his lounge pants were straining. When we were too worked up to continue, we lay in silence and I was held in those arms. I laid my head on his chest and he set his chin on top of my head, and we slept.

In the morning he woke me up to say goodbye. Freshly showered, he pressed a ghost kiss to the fringes of my mouth. My guy. My bachelor. Going off with his buddies to work and play.

“Have fun,” I whispered, giving him a ghost kiss back.

“I will.” He looked down at me for a long moment, his eyes going hot after my ghost kiss.

“I’ll miss you.”

“Take care of my girl for me.”

“Take care of my guy.”

And he left. He texted me before taking off:

Next time it’s you, and me, and whipped cream.

And I died.

Now it’s night in Dubai, and day in Chicago. A dreary Malcolmless Saturday in Chicago. Saint’s bachelor party is well under way while I am in my apartment with Wynn and Gina, drinking wine and stalking social media for a whiff of what his friends had planned for him.

@malcolmsaint CONGRATULATIONS!

I hope @malcolmsaint keeps my number for when they’re done

@RachelDibs YOU ARE SUCH A BITCH I HOPE HE DUMPS YOU

I think men with wedding bands are HOT call me anytime @malcolmsaint

Now that @malcolmsaint is off the market maybe I stand a chance in hell with the club chicks

I go back to read his last message for the thousandth time.

“You are obsessed,” Gina leans over and says smartly. “No more words are magically appearing, you know.”

Next time it’s you, and me, and whipped cream.

“I know,” I admit.

“Well, stop staring at it!” She laughs.

I smile. “It’s a joke.” Message reread, I close my eyes.

“Saint is Rachel’s reward for torturous years of being single,” Wynn says happily.

“There’s nothing from Dubai,” Gina states. “But people are hanging on to news of the wedding.”

Wynn and Gina watch me closely.

“You’re jealous that he’s in Dubai?” Wynn asks.

I laugh and dismiss the observation and I pour from one of the wine bottles that Saint gave me once—my favorite. I sip and look at the fourth finger of my left hand. My newly resized ring.

“I think it’s healthy for a relationship if everyone gets time to hang out with their friends.”

I pour a little more wine.

“And every man has a bachelor party. I’m happy he’s saying goodbye to his old ways.”

My bachelorette party consists of Valentine, Sandy, Wynn, and Gina, and the wine box Saint had sent after our first wine tasting. I’m drunk by the time it starts and I doze throughout most of it.

I have a nightmare . . .

“Saint!” the girls squeal as he watches two groupies and me swim in the water from the deck of The Toy . “Saint, Saint, please, Malcolm Saint!”

I hold my breath when his hands go to flick open his shirt buttons. “All right, girls.”

My eyes widen as he shrugs off his shirt. The blood courses through my veins, suddenly swollen by the fast pounding of my heartbeat. Large, long-fingered, tanned hands tug on the drawstrings of his swim trunks, and my eyes blur when he actually strips them off and for the three seconds he stands on the edge, I see him all. I see everything. I see that he is hard. That he is perfection—ripped, cut, narrow-hipped, broad-chested; long and muscular legs, thick and lean arms. I’m boiling in the water and I can’t take it. I dip my head under, squeezing my eyes shut until I hear the water crashing as he dives in.

When I come up, he surfaces with a laugh and smooths his hair back.

“Oh god!” The girls start swimming over, and I can hear the harsh, uneven sounds of their breathing as they try reaching out to him in soft, husky pleas. “Saint, you’re so hot,” one whispers. “Can we stay over? Sleep over tonight, Saint?”

“Not tonight,” he says, ducking into the water before they reach him. He leaves them both pouting behind him and pops up behind me and pokes my back. “Hey,” he says.

I notice the girls hop onto the yacht and each of them slips into one of his white shirts.

A pulsing knot forms in my stomach as I turn and stare into his green eyes and we just float there, staring, and there seems nothing else but dark water, the sky above, and him, the darkest thing that’s ever had such a pull to me. “Hey,” I say.