Ms. Manwhore

He kisses my forehead. “I’ll have you for luck.”

I follow him as he rolls his suitcase back to the bedroom, drops his stuff, takes his passport out of his back pocket, takes off his watch and his shoes, and goes to turn on the shower. I set the lucky chip next to his passport, then lie back in bed and try not to imagine that the man of my every fantasy and dream is right now just a few feet away, naked and gloriously soaping himself up in the shower.

We’re not supposed to have sex.

No. Sex.

Did you hear me, body?

God. Fuck this ridiculous idea.

But the wedding night will be utterly perfect !

Feeling right and safe again, I shift in bed. Our bed. It’s too soft and comfortable. Suddenly I’m too afraid to fall asleep before I get to talk to him, so I transfer myself to a chair by the bedroom window and wait.

Head propped on my folded arm, I’m dreaming of us in Dubai when I hear familiar footsteps make their way out of the bathroom, out into the living room and kitchen, and then, a minute later, come back into the bedroom.

I’m achingly aware of the moment the footsteps finally come toward me. Before I know it, Malcolm slowly winds his arms under my legs and behind my back, picking me up to his chest. The smell of his warm skin lulls me more deeply toward sleep. He’s warm. I can feel his heart beat through his bare chest. Thump. Thump. Strong. Resonating in my ears. I feel soft pillows beneath me.

His hands are now traveling up my calves. Slowly. Warm, callused fingers painting circles on my skin. Now they’re at the backs of my knees. And his lips . . . are setting wandering little kisses on the inside of my knee.

I stir a little.

“Malcolm, we can’t. I can’t . . . I don’t want to say no.”

“Don’t say no.”

“Don’t ask me.”

His eyes glimmer in the shadows. “I’ll just get you there tonight, then. I need my girl—the sounds she makes. The way she moves. The pink she gets.”

As I look into his face, all the love I feel for him is like a fireball in my chest. “Did you get a lap dance?”

“No, I just watched dozens of naked women dance for me. Sent them over to lap-dance the poor fuckers who don’t get what I do.”

“Were they beautiful?”

He laughs a soft, dry rasp. “You’re asking the most jaded eyes in town. They’ve seen lovelier. Every day they see something lovelier.”

I feel like a teenager, so needy for his love. I can’t have his body but I can have his love and I’ll take that over anything.

I focus on his hands again, which are parting my thighs now. I feel the bed shift, and I open my eyes. He’s kneeling between my legs. We make eye contact and I almost fall apart right there. His bare muscles look edible. His eyes look darker, a little scruff lining his jaw. The city lights play on his face, making him look hotter. Darker. Mysterious. Especially the way he is now, kneeling between my thighs, spreading them out farther, his eyes like storms, jaw clamped, hands rubbing up and down my thighs.

“That was the last time you get to . . . play,” I warn.

“No, it’s not. I play with you now.” He’s teasing, confident, and sexy. Then sober. “Missed you, Livingston.” He reaches to the nightstand and I sit up, shocked to realize why he’d exited the bedroom moments ago as he picks up a can of whipped cream and urges, “Lean back.”

I feel my heart hiccup. Skip a beat. And I squeeze my eyes shut. Holy god! All my other senses start amplifying. My shirt has ridden up to my waist now, my panties on full display. I feel that damned imaginary hand give a squeeze right below my belly button.

I lean back, as he asks.

His fingers are playing with the edges of my panties. Teasing. Rubbing. Painting his little circles. Stroking his thumbs back and forth beneath the sides of my panties. I’m breathing slightly harder now. I say slightly, but I fear my breath has become audible. A little laugh escapes my lips. The laugh turns into a gasp when I feel his lips skim against the top of one of my thighs. His hands are wandering over my legs. The backs of my knees, my inner thighs.

It’s dangerous, how much I want him. Need him.

His lips are lovingly leaving little kisses across my thighs, slowly making their way up until he is kissing the little bow on the top of my panties. His hands push the shirt up higher, his mouth fixating on my belly button and giving it a little kiss. His warm hands mixed with his hot mouth slowly opening and closing on my skin gives me goose bumps. I feel my nipples harden, and Malcolm does not fail to notice.

“Keep your eyes closed,” he murmurs, taking a breast and squeezing a little.

Heat explodes in my midsection.

Quivering, I lie here motionless.

“Malcolm, I didn’t want to have one. A party, I mean. I didn’t want some strange man near me. I definitely don’t want anyone with whipped cream but you.”

“Good. You have me. I’m all the man you’re getting. And the one who’s getting creamed is you.”

He starts to unbutton the shirt of his I’m wearing, easing it off my shoulders to reveal my bare breasts. My legs still tingle from where he touched me. My insides feel like hot candle wax. He makes me want to melt. Combust. Explode.

I hear a sound and feel a little shock of cold in a perfect circle around my navel, and I’m dead. Whipped fucking cream. Around, and then into, my belly button.

His mouth kisses down my neck, toward the cream. Sucking on my skin, his tongue rubbing against my skin. Cue more goose bumps. And a rush of more when he tugs my panties down my legs.

His takes my knees and hooks my legs around his hips as he dips his head and starts lapping up the cream. I moan and grip his hair, loving the feel of it between my fingers.