Ms. Manwhore
Page 20He’s hard and I’m wet and we’re panting.
“What makes it perfect is you and me. I could have you ten times tonight and want you as much tomorrow.”
“All the women in my life have advised otherwise.”
“As the only man in your life, I strongly disagree,” he says, but seems to put the matter aside in good humor.
“I bet you do.”
When he laughs, he sounds so boyish. His laugh breaks off, and his eyes start to smolder with something beyond lust, and more like need . We stare at each other: Every time our eyes lock, I want his taste in my mouth.
He’s looking at me hotly.
As if he wants more than to taste.
He reaches out and tugs the knot at the nape of my neck. “I miss the sight of you.”
My bikini top unravels.
I reach for it.
“Don’t,” he gruffly commands.
His eyes lazily rove over me, like a feather’s touch on my skin.
He brushes a finger over the back of my neck, touching my body as naturally as he breathes. “You’re blushing.” He runs a finger down my cheek. Gone in a second. His eyes flick up to mine, and then he’s looking at me with an intense and secret expression. “By the time you let me have you again, you’ll be blushing even deeper.”
“Enjoy it while it lasts. The blushes. I can’t be a blushing old lady.”
“Nope. I need to be a composed old lady.”
“I’ll do my best to decompose my old lady as frequently as I can.”
God, I have a desperate urge to kiss his devil-sucks-my-dick-every-night smile.
Unable to resist, I kiss his lips, quickly, and feel him pat my ass as he gets up and we head for our rooms. “Decompose me after the wedding.”
“I’m planning to do much more than that.”
As we gather our towels, he looks at me and says, “Hey, I sent something to your room.”
My eyes widen. “What?”
“Why do you look so uncomfortable when I get you something?”
“I’m not used to it.”
He frowns. “I need to work on that.”
“Not you, I need to.”
“I plan to spoil you, Miss Saint . . . often.”
“I’m going to let you.”
He stares down at me with heated eyes. “Good.”
“Have fun with it.”
“With what? Spoiling you?”
“That too.”
“Oh. My gift ! What is it? A vibrator?”
He frowns. “Why would I want anything inside you other than me?” He tsks and taps a fingertip playfully to my temple. “This abstinence isn’t doing you good, Livingston.”
VISIT BEFORE THE WEDDING
In my room I find four dresses.
The Vera Wang, Reem Acra, Yumi Katsura, and Monique Lhuillier—two of them even include handwritten notes from the designers themselves.
From simple, to Regency style, to one covered in what looks like diamond dust, these are the most beautiful dresses I’ve ever seen—the finest for his girl. I feel warm just thinking about him having a hand in making sure they were ready for our day.
I touch the materials, then I spend the next hour trying them on.
They’re so spectacular, each one as pretty as the last. I wouldn’t even know which to pick!
But no.
I think I’ve set my fear aside. I’m getting married with his mother’s engagement ring and my mother’s dress.
As I take off the last dress, Gina, Wynn, and my mother are all oohing and aahing in my living room.
But Wynn and Mom are gushing.
I remember my mother reading about love languages. After my father died, she wanted to be sure that I felt loved as a child, so she read books, went to conferences, and explained to me that people express love in different ways. She said there were five basic ways, which include: touch, gifts, service to your loved ones, quality time together, and verbal feedback. Not everyone responds to, or uses, the same language, which can cause miscommunication in relationships.
Touch was my language. She was told to be tender, and she was . I responded well to her hugs. I simply respond well to physical contact.
I can’t explain, even on the evening before my wedding, how good and perfect it feels when Saint holds the back of my head in one hand and my entire back in the other and kisses me. I think Sin’s love language is touch too. But also gift giving—this man is relentless when it comes to showering me with amazing things!
While the girls and Mother help put each dress back into its protective cover, I head into the adjoining bedroom to change.
I slip into Saint’s large, white button shirt, a pair of leggings, and my socks, then I pull open the glass doors and step out to feel the breeze and get some fresh night air. Through the crashing of the waves, I hear the guys talking in the private patio. My skin crackles pleasurably as I hear Saint’s baritone.
“. . . reason both you and Gina didn’t bring dates to the wedding . . . ?” Malcolm’s tone is cool and quiet, but there’s an underlying threat of caution in his words.
A full-on silence that follows, broken only by Tahoe’s quiet “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”
“Gina. Now there’s a lady who goes down as smoothly as an abrasive,” Callan says.
“Stay away, T. She’s Rachel’s best friend.” This from Saint. No nonsense, and kind of exasperated.
Tahoe stays quiet.
The silence stretches, and then comes the sound of what seems like ice cubes being pulled out of the chiller.