by Katy Evans
“Gambling,” he counters. “And business comes first.”
“Sin . . . no touching the girls. Or I swear I’m going to get a Chippendale and make out with him just to see if you like it.”
His eyes twinkle. “I don’t. Like it. So it’s not happening.”
“I’ll think about it. While I spread whipped cream on his chest and lick his nipples.”
His brows shoot up now. “You’d do for a Chippendale what you don’t do for me?”
“I’d do it for you next Saturday. Oh, wait! You won’t be here.”
He laughs, then he frowns thoughtfully and keeps on driving. “I’ll stock up on whipped cream.”
“Okay.”
“I want it all over you.”
“Okay.”
We’re entering the outskirts of the city. I’m absolute lava in my seat, noticing Malcolm’s voice has gone raspy and thick. Noticing the green shade of his eyes has darkened considerably.
“They’re going to bring girls for sure.”
“There are girls everywhere. You’re my girl.”
I look at his hands on the gearshift and the steering wheel. He’s got great hands, perfect hands, and he knows how to use them like nobody’s business. I don’t want them on anyone else.
“And Rachel.” A dark warning enters his tone, as if he’s also thinking about me and the Chippendale. “My girl doesn’t get touched, or touch another man.”
The possessiveness in his voice brings out a tingle between my legs. “My guy doesn’t touch any other girl.”
“He doesn’t want to.”
When we reach my building, I’m hunting for the keys to my apartment inside my bag when he pulls the door open for me. I grip the keys in my palm as I step out, and Malcolm’s looking down at me with tender heat, like he wants his hands all over me too.
Like he wants to devour me, right here and right now, whipped cream or no.
“Mr. Saint, Miss Rachel,” Otis says to greet us as he walks over from the Rolls-Royce parked just ahead.
Saint leads me toward my apartment building and then pulls the door open for me. He holds the door open with one shoulder as he takes a pile of boxes from Otis and tells him, “I’ll see you upstairs.” We head into the elevator. Someone is buzzing his phone.
“Callan?” I ask.
“Probably.”
I laugh good-naturedly. “You guys are incorrigible.”
Incorrigible, and such boys at heart. But I love that they genuinely care for one another.
He follows me to my apartment door. Before opening my place, I whirl around and search his face. “Are you sure you’re ready to share all your space with me?”
He leans his dark head down without any hesitation and takes my mouth in an all-lips, heated kiss. “I’m sure. Let’s get you packed.”
MOVING IN
Our new apartment will be ready in six months, so I’m moving into his place in the meantime. My mother, Wynn, and Gina are helping with the last of my boxes.
I’ve already transferred several boxes this morning with Otis.
Already at Sin’s place are: A box with pajamas. A second box with important papers—birth certificate, passport. Some of my articles. My baby album, which he skimmed last night, start to finish—teasing me ruthlessly on my most embarrassing pictures and then kissing me to tell me how pretty I was. I’ve sent another box with my accessories. Photo albums, photo frames. My slowly emptied bedroom fills me with both dread and excitement of what’s to come.
Now the girls and Mom are helping me tackle the rest.
“Dude, I heard you two in the shower this morning. You giggling. His voice was all low but it’s still deep enough to be heard in my room. Plus the noise of all that water slapping muscles.”
I lift my head from where I am organizing my cosmetics, getting ready to pack them, and my eyes widen. I remember him soaping me up, and me soaping him up—hot hands and hungry mouths and teasing touches and lathering fingers and the way he lifted me and lowered me down on him—and a hot blush creeps up my neck as I remember the rest.
“Oh god. I’m sorry, Gina. I wasn’t thinking.” Then, frowning a little, I lift my index finger in the air, to be clear. “But I’m not sorry about the shower sex.”
Gina just smirks and continues to help shape the flat boxes into usable square ones.
“Can we make a suggestion?” Wynn asks as she finishes cutting bubble wrap into squares. “Cut the sex until the wedding.”
I scowl and start opening my dresser drawers to be sure they’re empty. My mother finishes taping a box closed, then heads to the next full one, peering up slightly at that. “I think that’s a great idea, Rachel.”
“No, Mom. Trust me. It’s not.”
Wynn starts to wrap all my photo frames in bubble wrap and tuck them into a box labeled FRAGILE. “Think about your wedding night. You’ll only have one of those. Don’t you want him to be wild for you?”
I look at them.
They don’t know that Malcolm enjoys me like saints enjoy holy water and sinners enjoy sin.
We’ve been having sex daily, several times a day. We need it like food and water.
“You guys don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Imagine how much more smoldering that first night as man and wife will be,” Wynn says, eyes bright with excitement.
“I definitely didn’t sleep with your father the whole month before. It drove him crazy but that’s why I got pregnant so fast with you.”
I shoot her a wide-eyed look, then her eyes widen as she realizes what she said.
“Mother! TMI!”
“He would wait until the wedding night if you asked him to,” Wynn advises. “Saint has been patient when it comes to you.”
I shake my head, refusing to speak more of it.
Finished filling up my makeup box, I glance around to see what I need to tackle next. The room is looking sparse now, save for the big things. Which are staying. All the furniture stays here with Gina and her new roomie. Wynn is supposedly considering canceling her lease and moving in. I plan to beg her to because I don’t want Gina to feel lonely, and I’m afraid that the month I’m on my honeymoon there will be loneliness here to spare. Even though Gina assures me that she’s “good.”
Wynn leaves the box of fragile items for my mom to tape and then walks toward my bed. “Are you taking your pillow?”
“No.”
“How can you not take your own pillow?”
“I don’t know. I like to lie on his chest.”
“What if one day you guys are mad and there’s no awesome chest?” Gina counters, opening a new flat box to make a box for the pillow.
“I hope even when we’re mad I get to lie on his awesome chest. Or his awesome shoulder. Or his awesome pillows. In his awesome bed. No, no pillow.”
“Oh, you! Well, this pillow’s mad.”
She hits me with it, and I grab it, squeeze it, and toss it back on the bed with a little pang of remorse.
It is my pillow. It is my room. My apartment. But if I clutter my future with too much of my past, there won’t be room for the new. And the new—even though a little scary—is something I’m looking forward to.
We take a lunch break, and my mom goes to her canasta game. Wynn and Gina stay until Otis helps us load the rest of the boxes. By the time we come back up, sweaty and exhausted, I’m done, my room looks bare, and pretty, and . . . I look at it harder.
I sit on my bed. My single-Rachel bed. I look at Wynn and Gina, who are looking at me with mixed emotions from the door. Emotions like “how exciting” and “we miss single-Rachel” and everything in between.
I love single-Rachel. But she was never as happy as I am now.
“Wynn, I hope you come live here. It’s such a good little room. I’ve got great memories here.”
That evening, I’m finally at his place. Malcolm’s on a phone call when I arrive, and he trails off when I walk in. I had showered and changed and I am wearing a
tight tracksuit and a ponytail. He’s in tan slacks and a black button shirt, and both of these clothing articles fuck his body every which way possible.
I melt first. Then I wave at him hello, walk up to kiss his jaw, and feel him give my ass a little possessive squeeze, his eyes meeting mine—hot and approving and welcoming.
I mouth: I’m going to go and invade your male space.
And as he murmurs something in German into the headset, he lifts his thumb and rubs it against the corner of my lips, his eyes silently saying, It’s all yours to invade.
God.
He makes my knees go weak, this fiancé I’ve gotten myself.
I go start making myself some room in Saint’s closet and en suite bath.
I hang all my clothes to the left side of the closet and put my sweaters, jeans, and shoes on one of the shelves next to rows and rows of identical designer items.
I’m finding space for my lipsticks and stuff in his bathroom when he stalks in, still speaking into the headset. A little cold, a little demanding. Kicking off his shoes, he yanks his shirt out of the waistband of his slacks and I can’t stop looking at him.
I can never seem to screw my head on right when he’s near.
Today, especially, when I think of how awful it would be to not have sex with him.
Torture.
Purgatory.
Absolute torment.
No, no, no, no abstinence.
My Sin is physical and hot for me, and I’m always a wet mess for him.
It would be hell for us. Hell.
I take off my shoes, kick them aside. At the sound of them falling he looks down, and then frowns a little as he stares at my legs, hugged by my tracksuit. He looks at my hand, my ring, smiling to himself, and his eyes slide up to meet mine.
And he looks so possessive right now.
Right now . . . that I moved in.
My stomach gives a squeeze and my hormones just won’t stay under control.
Not touching him?
By choice?
Alas, it’s only so that you can have the most perfect wedding night, Livingston, I tell myself.
And the thought of our wedding night makes me even hotter.
He unbuttons his shirt. Seeing him bare-chested causes a whirlwind in my body, unstoppable. Tanned pecs, tight brown nipples, flexing biceps, all promising to wreck me again. I want to look away, survival instinct, my body too wired, too tense, but I am thirstily drinking him up, the way his shoulders stretch as he removes his shirt, how his dark hair gleams under the lights, the small smile on his lips that reaches all the way to his eyes when he finally cuts the call and pulls off his headset, setting it aside.
“My . . . invasion was a success. As you can see. It’s all yin and yang now,” I say, my voice thick with lust.
Still bare-chested, he opens a drawer on the side I just overtook and peers inside. “Pink.”
“Yes.”
I see him check out the second drawer on the same side. Also mine. While he scans all of my neatly organized cosmetics, clips, toothbrush, and comb, I tug the hairband that has been holding my hair back and send my hair tumbling down my shoulders.
I tap the outside of a drawer on the opposite side of the sink. “This side is yours. And that side is mine.” I signal to my side, with the pink stuff, and grin.
His green eyes look liquid like seas as he slowly winds an arm around me and pulls me to his chest. “You’re mine.”
My breath catches happily, and our eyes meet. We both look so satisfied right now, it’s like we’re smiling with our eyes.
And suddenly I burn with need.
I want those hot eyes.
I want him to look at me with those eyes on our honeymoon. Eyes that inflame me like they do now. That unapologetically say that they want me, and only me, for eternity. I take his hand and lead us into the bedroom, and then I let go and just stand there, visually making love to his features.
I adore this man.
God, I adore him so much that I can’t fathom ever surviving losing him again.
He’s unzipping my tracksuit jacket and my body is swiftly responding to what I know is coming next.
I want it so much my throat feels tight with raw need, but as Malcolm smiles down at me and I feel the weight of his smoldering green gaze on me, I suddenly ache to see those eyes smolder just like this on our wedding night.
“Malcolm . . .” I begin, curling my fingers around his hand to stop him.
And suddenly I know that I’m going to do this, that I will only have one wedding, to this man. One wedding night in our entire lives. Waiting to be with each other again would be so worth it. Because my guy, he deserves a perfect bride and a wedding night that he will never forget.
And I want to be that bride, I want to be the girl that he can’t wait to touch, that he can’t wait to be inside of.
“I was thinking about possibly . . . abstaining from sex until the wedding.”
I step back a little, fighting my own hormones and need for this man.
He looks at me intently. His smile starts to disappear as he lifts one dark eyebrow. Then two. “You’re not kidding.”
I slowly shake my head. “Unfortunately no.” I gaze into his eyes and already miss him. “This would make the wedding night so perfect. Almost like the first time. I mean it’s just a week and we’ll be busy anyway.”
“Are you asking me? Or telling me?”
“If I ask you, you’ll say no.”
“So you’re telling me.” The eyes looking at me through those sable lashes are already brimming in frustration. They’re silently demanding that I say no.
But I can’t. I only nod.
He laughs and scrapes his hand down his face.
“Saint . . . come on.”
“Do I get you one last time? Before the wedding?” His hungry tree-bark voice is back full force. “Do I?”
I walk toward the window to gather my strength, then turn. “I need to do this cold turkey or I can’t do this at all.”
With long, purposeful strides, he comes over and lifts me in his arms. “I strongly disagree.” A warning cloud settles over his features.
“Come on. Please.”
He shakes his head and sets a soft kiss on my lips. “Not for a thousand pleases.”
“Four thousand?”
He sets me down on my feet, but keeps me so close to him that he leaves no room between us at all. He frowns as he looks down at me. “I get you tonight. All night.”
“Malcolm. You’re a shark in negotiations. You’ll say another night tomorrow and so on.”
“I never change the deal,” he says calmly. “This is irrelevant to our wedding night.”
“But it’s not.”
He takes my chin between his thumb and forefinger and angles my face upward, his voice uncompromising yet oddly gentle. “I get you tonight, Rachel. All night. No sleep. Nothing but you naked under my sheets.”
My sex is swollen and clenched in need, my knees rubbery. The mere thought of not having Malcolm again until the wedding is painful.
Saint’s expression is calm, but the look in his eyes is raw and primal, possessive and determined.
He waits patiently for my answer, and as I battle inside, he ghosts the pad of his thumb across the corner of my lips, and I moan softly and tremble.
I cannot deny him one night; I cannot deny myself one night.
“Okay,” I say.
One beat later, he bends to my ear and whispers my name in pure male lust—Rachel—his lips curving sensually as he inches back and fucks me with his eyes. Then he scoops me up and tosses me on the bed, falling on top of me.
“Saint!” I cry, laughing in protest, but he smothers my mouth with his hot one and I curl my limbs around him, needing him to breathe.
DRESS
I’m sore and fucked to within an inch of my wonderful life the next day, and I’m thinking about sex with him all through the next week as I shop for the honeymoon to . . . somewhere.
“Cold or warm?” I ventured on Monday.
“Warm. That’s all I’m going to give you.”
“East? West? North? South?”
He simply looked at me with mysterious eyes and handed me two credit cards with the name Rachel Saint. A platinum Visa and a black Amex.
I’ve had a bit of trouble getting used to using them.
First, because it kind of turns me on! But so is the abstinence, even if it’s killing me. Saint’s kisses are longer, almost as if he wants me to be in a constant state of hyperawareness until the wedding.
I’ve hit all the high-end department stores in search of the perfect outfits. I’ve forced myself to use the cards and I’ve noticed, a little bit annoyed, that upon the sight of the cards, the salesladies buzz around me like bees to my guy’s honeyed money. I bought bikinis, cover wraps, soft, flowy dresses, tight dresses, lingerie and baby dolls and nighties.
If only it were this simple to find my wedding dress.
On Thursday, after no news from the stores or the designers they’d contacted—Vera Wang, Reem Acra, Yumi Katsura, and Monique Lhuillier—my mother summons me to her house. I take an early lunch break and head over there.
The door swings open and she spreads out her arms, and I walk into them and squeeze her. She doesn’t have a lot of words, at least not in the beginning. She simply pulls my hand out, discreetly brushes the corner of her eye at the sight of my engagement ring, and ushers me inside.
“You look slimmer. You always slim down when you have too many things on your mind and forget to eat,” she says as she leads me to her paint studio. “How is the move coming along? Do you need any more boxes?”
“No. I’m leaving the furniture with Gina, the bed too, for her new roommate. Just my belongings. I’m almost done.”
“Is Wynn really considering moving in with her?”
“I hope so.”
I nod and let her reveal the artworks she’s been doing for the covers of Face.
“Mom, they’re exquisite.”
“Truly, Rachel?” she asks hopefully.
“I love these! Let me take pictures.”
I use my phone to snap pictures of all five of them then hear my mother call me. “Rachel, come. I want to show you something.”