Ms. Manwhore

by Katy Evans

  There’s a jolt of excitement in me when I recognize the admiration in his voice. I’m wearing one of his white button-down shirts for sleep but it never ceases to amaze him. I rasp, “Look at you.”

  “How are you, Rachel?”

  A wave of intense feelings overtakes me as I nod over his concern. “How are you?”

  “Good.” The prolonged anticipation of the moment before he walks forward to take me in his arms is almost unbearable. We exchange a huge hug. A hug that is tight and warm and goes on for a minute, telling me that he missed me. His nearness kindles me to a burn as I savor the strength and warmth of his embrace. He smells of the leather of his brand-new airplane. And wood. And soap. And Saint. Oh god, Saint.

  “Glad to be home.”

  “Really?”

  The truth in his eyes is nearly heartrending. “Really.” He smiles down at me as he spreads a hand on my face to brush my hair back, then he opens his other hand on the small of my back and smashes me to his chest to greedily fit his lips to mine. I’m all too willing. Ready. Soft. And warm.

  “Oh god, I missed you, Malcolm,” I breathe, sliding my hands into his hair.

  “I missed you too.” He sucks on my lower lip, then he sweeps into my mouth one more time, groaning, “Next time I hit Dubai, you’re coming with me.” He reaches into the back pocket of his slacks, and he produces a casino chip, a twinkle appearing in his eyes. The chip is green as his eyes and it has so many digits, I can hardly believe that a chip for this quantity exists.

  “Meet my lucky coin, Mrs. Saint. Tahoe and Callan would kill for this beauty. I’m not going to cash it in until I take you to Dubai later in the year.”

  “Hmm. Bad call. You can’t cash the lucky chip if it’s the lucky chip.”

  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.

  I can feel his chest between my legs, right where I want him.

  Where I want him and can’t have him.

  He takes my hands in his, our fingers interlacing, and he holds them at my sides. He’s sucking on my abdomen. I feel like butter. My belly feels warm. I’m tingling all over. My head is turning to mush. I don’t want to think—I can’t think. He just feels so . . . good. Just so, so good. Gentle, firm mouth. Strong, smooth hands. Soft hair brushing against my breasts as he slowly trails hi
s tongue upward.

  I open my eyes, and when he looks at me, I see he’s dying for it too. Just like I am.

  “I can’t wait to be inside you again,” he growls softly. “My cock is jealous of my tongue and what it’s about to do.”

  “Oh god, Saint, you’re killing me.”

  “No, you’re killing me. Little one, you’re killing me. But the next time I’m inside you, you’ll be my wife. Wife. I’ve got patience for you to spare.” He kisses my mouth tenderly, and I gasp and pant. His body is buzzing with pent-up desire. Hunger of the kind that eats you up inside.

  I can’t move, don’t stop him, don’t breathe . . . I never breathe right when he touches me, when he’s near.

  He slides himself lower, slowly, making sure to rub between my legs, and I bite the inside of my cheek when he adds a healthy dose of whipped cream to my aching, throbbing, clenching wet sex. I shudder.

  He looks ravenous when he bends his head and kisses me there, between my quaking thighs, and inside my body, and right up to my heart. His kiss is tender, possessive, completely breathtaking. He kisses completely. Takes everything I have. Leaves me breathless. I arch. Moan.

  He groans and tightens his arms around me, his kiss deepening, his tongue thrusting mercilessly. He kisses me like that, over and over again. He tastes. Devours. Tasting me harder, deeper.

  It’s not the whipped cream he likes to taste, and I know it. He grows greedier when I’m sure there’s no more whipped cream left . . . and only me. The way I want him.

  Saint likes me like this, when I’m vulnerable and trusting him. And I’m a vulnerable mess right now. All noises and moaning and writhing.

  He groans as I get wetter and wetter, my hips moving to the pleasure of his mouth. Turning to dust in his arms. I wrap my fingers around the back of his head, pressing him between my legs. His dark head moves, and he just kisses me, kisses the life out of me and tortures the hell out of himself as I climax on a hiss of breath, body bowing for him.

  When he comes up, breathing harshly, every muscle is hard and flexed with need, taut from his denial.

  I moan. “I want the whipped cream on you.”

  He kisses me. For a whole minute, his hands holding the back of my head, his mouth slow and leisurely savoring as he ducks his head over mine and sucks and nips and tastes, curling my toes.

  Everything falls away.

  I kiss him back, hungry, so very hungry for him always. I kiss him with my heart, my lips, with my mind, my hands on his shoulders, my soul.

  “I agreed to wait until the wedding.” His eyes twinkle with a devil’s glint, but his jaw sets determinedly. “I hope you’ll be ready for me.”

  I can’t sleep. I’m anxious, excited. The wedding day feels so close now that Sin’s home.

  I nudge him in bed during the night, and he lifts a brow. “Hmm.”

  “Are you asleep?”

  He rolls to his stomach and shoves his arm under his pillow, groaning. “Not anymore.”

  “You’re jet-lagged. Go back to sleep. Sorry.”

  “Why are you not sleeping?”

  “The invitations came in.”

  He looks at me as I steal away for a second, pull out the invitation, and show him the intertwined M and R, then the wording inside.

  “Perfect,” he says.

  I smile and set it on the nightstand. “Do you think guests will keep a lid on it? Once the invites are out?”

  He lifts his head and squints. Then drags a hand down his face. “No.” He pulls me close. “We’ve got security anyway. No cameras, no press, no access, no anything.”

  “We can’t stop them from speculating. Can we?” It’s a waste of effort and energy to even try.

  “No. We can’t.” He signals to my smartphone on the nightstand. “Whatever is in there . . . stays in there. Not here.” He taps my brain. “Or here.” He taps my heart. “All right?”

  I nod.

  “Go back to bed; you’re jet-lagged.” I slip my shoulder under his head and run my hands through his hair.

  He turns and exhales near my neck. He kisses my forehead. Tightens his hold. “God, I missed you.”

  READY

  Saint teased me on Whipped Cream Night. He wanted to know if I was ready.

  I am so ready.

  The fleet of M4 airplanes is ready.

  Invitations are out.

  Gifts are flowing in and they sit perfectly wrapped, waiting to be opened.

  The invitations specify only the time and date we leave from O’Hare, and the date guests will be flown back. Apparently nobody is going to know where we’re going beforehand.

  Everything is set.

  Malcolm Saint and I are getting married next weekend.

  LEAKED

  Secret wedding info leaked!

  Speculation on magnate Malcolm Saint’s marriage to reporter Rachel Livingston has simmered across the city. Sources confirm there has been a secret wedding scheduled at a very exclusive private island resort for sometime this month. No more than fifty close relatives, business associates, and friends will be in attendance.

  More to come . . .

  THE ISLAND

  The M4 fleet of airplanes leaves early Wednesday to this perfect resort island, a favorite among celebrities. Private residences and beach bungalows occupy most of the land, along with a central resort hotel building where all cars arrive and depart from; the rest of the island is accessible only by golf carts, bicycles, or on foot.

  Our reception will be held at the island botanical gardens, a mere three-minute walk from the chapel.

  When the fleet of M4 airplanes land, Saint, my mother, and I emerge from one of the planes. Another brings Tahoe, Callan, and a dozen of Saint’s friends. Another flies in Wynn, Gina, Valentine, Sandy, and my old Edge colleagues. One more carries Saint’s business acquaintances. A handful more fly in our security and wedding crew.

  Everyone is impressed by the lush surroundings and the deliciously warm breeze because Malcolm Saint and I are getting married in paradise.

  “Wow.” Tahoe strides over and slaps Malcolm’s back, his Texan drawl coming out. “You did good, man.”

  Saint laughs and slaps him back. “Tell me something new.”

  PLAYING AT THE BEACH

  We’re sleeping in side-by-side presidential suites overlooking the water.

  Our guests occupy the rest of the resort, all of them in bungalows, save for my mother and friends, who want to be near me for preparations the day of the wedding. The hotel staff has treated us like kings and queens since arrival, which makes sense given that Saint booked the whole island for us—our guests, the security, photographers, and chefs are the only ones here.

  Sin has been spending every day since we landed with me, but when night comes, I end up alone in my suite, sometimes inviting my mother or Gina over so that I’m not tempted to sleepwalk—awake—and end up knocking on his door.

  Nights feel eternal, but between travel, getting settled, and the last of the wedding preparations, the days have flown by so fast, I can hardly believe that tomorrow, at last, is the wedding.

  Tomorrow we wed.

  We wed, and then bed. Yes!

  The girls have gone bike riding. My mother has been reading in her room. Saint and I spend our last free day on the island together, drinking Bloody Marys (me) and Aviator gin (him), diving into the waves and then lying out in the sun to get warm.

  The sky is orange as the sun sets right now. I’m wet enough that my fingers are crinkled and as I float in the water, too tired to swim, I’m pretty sure I see a flat, dark-colored moving object swim beside me.

  I freeze, hold my breath as it passes.

  “Malcolm, there’s a stingray. Right here, it just grazed me. Holy shit! ”

  I hurry out of the water, and instead of swimming away he dives into the water and swims forward, and after it.

  He comes back up. “It’s a banded guitarfish.”

  “Well, why are you following it?”

&n
bsp; He laughs and slicks his hair back as he swims forward and comes to his feet. “It’s harmless, Rachel.”

  I drop into the sand, clutching the towel to my chest. Sunlight gleams in his eyes as if it’s being reflected in water.

  He wades out of the waves.

  “You have no respect for predators,” I chide. “You’re absolutely irreverent. How do you even know it’s that kind of fish, Dr. Aquatics?”

  “Snorkeling across the world. Swimming with sharks. The adrenaline, Rachel.” He shoots me a devil-may-care smirk.

  My heart starts thudding, my mouth running dry. I miss him terribly. I miss the way his body talks to mine. The way he loves me with his hands and mouth.

  His wet swim trunks cling to his powerful hips and thighs as he comes over; he looks powerful but fluid, chest broad and muscular, and agile. He is a man whose muscles were built testing out his thirst for adrenaline.

  He drops down beside me, stretches his legs out, props himself up on his elbows, and gazes at the sky. I study the sky too, but only for a minute. I find the sight of him more interesting; in fact, I always seem to find myself constantly trying to read his thoughts. I study his confident profile and notice his mouth is curved humorously.

  His head swings lazily to the side and he looks at me with a slightly rising eyebrow. Then he reaches out and strokes the damp tendrils from my face. It’s only one touch. One tiny touch of his two fingers on my hair. Strong, warm, familiar, and a little wet. A long, pleasant shiver overtakes me.

  He just smiles, and I’m clinging desperately to my responsible, sensible self, who knows we will only have one, one, wedding night.

  “Don’t seduce me, Sin.” I lift the towel so he can’t see how hard my nipples have gotten.

  “Me?” He lifts his hands devilishly, a mischievous spark in his eye. “I’ve done nothing yet. Nothing that I really wanted to do.”

  I feel my skin color. “You have that glint in your eye, Saint. I want the perfect wedding night with you.”

  “And you’re going to get it.”

  “So why are you leaning forward?”