Ms. Manwhore

I whirl around and look at Malcolm, who wears a black button shirt and black slacks today. He seems to pull in his surroundings like a black hole, power and money clinging to him. He fits right into the spectacular setting as if it was made for him. I give him an awed glance. “This is amazing.” A sudden thought strikes me, and my eyes flare wide. “Is this . . . ?”

“Ours.”

My stomach flips in excitement. “You’re not teasing me?” I laugh in disbelief.

He walks toward me and takes my hand, kissing my forehead. “Here, I’ll show you around.”

I just follow, dumbstruck as I look around the massive apartment/house/villa/castle nestled in the heart of Chicago.

He stops in a huge room that has a view of our park. The park where we slept together for the first time. Not slept as in sex, but just slept. For the first time. I can see it from here. I can see . . . everything.

“This is the living area,” he says, in that delicious rumbling voice of his. He spreads his hands wide, and I realize there’s room for at least three or four lounging sections.

“And then,” he continues, signaling to the center of the room, “a fireplace can divide our lounge areas in two. Two plasma TVs, one on each side,” he says, matter-of-factly.

I step in. “What? No, no fireplace. It’ll block the view of the window.”

I point outside.

He frowns. “I want a fireplace though. We’ll read right here. Chill out by the bar.”

“Well, we can put it here.” I point to the back of the room.

He assesses the area. “Fine, whatever, we’ll plan that later.”

I smile privately, intending to bait him a little bit.

He takes my hand and I’m led through a series of corridors into another room.

This one has a wall of mirrors on one side, cabinets, and state-of-the-art gym equipment. And it connects by a glass door to a freaking indoor pool.

I arch a brow.

His smile is absolutely cocky. “Indoor exercise room. For when it rains and outdoor sports are out.”

“Of course.”

Then I’m being pulled away again. We go up a flight of stairs that stand close to the elevator.

We reach the top and I see another room with a dividing wall in the middle, and another huge window with perhaps the best view in the world. Skyscrapers sit below us and the clouds seem to be within a hand’s reach. It’s like we’re on top of the world.

Malcolm comes up behind me. “This is our room.”

I picture the bed somewhere here. All I picture is a freaking bed. With a thick suede headboard—a cushion for my head when he fucks me deep. I’m immediately bombarded with images of Malcolm and me lounging in bed on a Sunday morning. Laughing about something I said, a plate of grapes on the nightstand as he feeds me some for breakfast. The sun rising through our huge window. The white bedsheets tangled at our feet. His hands traveling up my back and down my legs, while he nestles his head in my neck, his lips lazily traveling along my jaw. I get goose bumps at the thought.

“This is incredible.”

Turning, I wrap my arms around his waist, tipping my head up to look at his face. “Just when I’m finding my balance, you sweep me off my feet again.” I kiss his neck. And then his jaw.

He cups my face in his hands and gives me a slow, delicious kiss. I break the kiss because I start to get breathless, and I look around again. We’ll have a fireplace here also, and there’s a door that leads to a terrace.

“Well, what about children? All of these floors too hard for them?” I ask.

He looks down at me with the most curious look on his face, his eyes searching mine with a little heat and anticipation.

“Hand-woven rugs. Plush, thick carpets for them. We’ll keep them safe. I’ll take care of you all.”

He takes me to see the bathroom and I spot another room adjoining it. It has that perfect wood smell because, inside, there are all sorts of aisles with white-lacquered mahogany cabinets. The ceiling has a beautiful cut-glass dome that lets in the sunlight. It looks ethereal, like a church, but Saint informs me it’s just my closet.

My closet? What twisted, delicious, fabulous world is this? This man will be the death of me, I swear. And I will die happy.

Saint’s closet is to the other side of the bathroom, all of his cabinets in coffee-colored wood, a dome exactly like mine but with a modern design to match the masculine mood.

Between the closets, the bathroom has two sinks, one to each side. One huge shower with the most beautiful tile design in gray and white, a waterfall showerhead hanging from the ceiling, and at the end of the room, a marble bathtub that spreads out endlessly. It’s smooth and sleek, and the sexiest bathtub I’ve ever seen.

“That’s quite a Jacuzzi.”

I lift my lashes to his, and see a smile touch his eyes.

He has been watching me all this time.

“Enough room for you and I to play around in.”

My lungs practically collapse when he says that and I can feel my heartbeat between my legs.

He just smirks and leads me down the stairs again and toward black granite counters.

“Kitchen,” he says, showing me a huge island in the middle. The work is still under way but I’m amazed by how clean and tidy everything is.

Awe-inspiring colorful Murano glasses that look alarmingly by Dale Chihuly hang from the ceiling, lit from behind. Sleek cabinets frame a set of stainless steel refrigerators. The wrappings are still on. There’s a pair of Wolf stoves. And vacant spots within the cabinets seem to be waiting for even more state-of-the-art equipment.