“Are you alone?”
“Of course I’m alone,” said Gina.
“I’m coming over.”
I flip my laptop open and cross the apartment to her room, make her scoot over, hop on her bed, and show her. She reads, frowning as if she can’t figure out the emergency, then her mouth flaps open.
“Wow.”
“Come on, it’s more than wow.”
“Double wow.”
She looks at me, scowling bleakly. “Wow!” she explodes. “This is a whole new level of playerness that’s just . . . so Paul-like.” She scowls and is agitated and mad. Normally I’d agree with her. This is a douchebag move. But she doesn’t know the details—that he is also a human being. That he has, incredibly, not really been accepted by his parents.
She doesn’t see things through my eyes, the way he has this really, really genuine smile, and a wholly different smile when I’m amusing him.
“Aren’t you outraged?” Gina explodes.
“I . . . well, I—”
“Rachel. Rache. Do not go Wynn on me.”
“Wynn is adorable. She always gets the guy. You know why? ’Cause she thinks she deserves him, and that it’s possible.” I pull my phone out, my heart doing things. Excited, weird things. “I’m going to text him.”
“Text what? He might be in bed with the girl he’s in a relationship with.”
“Then I’m going to call.”
I hit dial and wait for him to answer with his usual curt hey.
“So I want to take you out tonight. But as I see you’re in a relationship, I wanted to check if you were still available.”
He laughs.
God, his laugh.
Butterflies.
“Where are you?”
“Golfing with the guys.”
“When did you change your status?”
“What?”
“On Facebook.”
“I didn’t change it. One of my assistants must have.”
“Oh.”
He laughs and I feel like a dick.
“You’re disappointed, Rachel?”
“No, I wouldn’t even expect monogamy from you.” I guess I’m testing him with that comment. I’m doing a girl thing, needy for reassurance, needy to hear him define what it is we have going on between us.
He doesn’t give me much, but he says, “I do. From you.”
“What? You think I can tackle any other guy at the same time I tackle you?” I ask.
Oh, my heart.
“Tahoe’s dicking with the golf cart—I’ll call you back.”
“Fucking Tahoe,” I mumble to myself as I hang up.
“Tahoe. I swear he needs something to do,” Gina says.
“Like you. Just say it.”
“Never.”
“He’s the product of your every fantasy.”
“He’s an animal.”
“He thinks you’re succulent.”
“What?”
“Yes, he asked me your name. ‘That succulent friend of yours.’ ”
“He did not. Motherfucker!”
I sit there staring morosely at my “single” status.
Gina sits there, stumped because Tahoe thinks her succulent.
She recovers first. “I feel awful for you, but you walked into it with your eyes and, apparently, your legs open, Rachel.”
I roll to my shoulders so I can face her. “Gina, just having feelings for him makes me feel like I’m betraying me and you. We said we wouldn’t do this.”
“And now you’ll have to make a choice, Rachel: the job or the man.”
“There is no choice! If I choose him he’ll fly away like some wild falcon before I can even hold him for long.”
Gina grimaces. “Then pray he ends things soon.”
“It hurts praying for something you don’t want.”
“Then end it yourself. Get it over and done with.”
I sigh.
“Rache, did he really say that?”
“Tahoe?”
“No, his dick. Of course, Tahoe. Well, Tahoe and his dick.”
“Yes, but I don’t want him near you.”
She scowls. “I hope he stays away from me next month—it’s the anniversary of Paul’s dumping me, and I always feel particularly vulnerable.”
I groan and fall back on the bed, rubbing my face. “Gina! What’s happening to us?”
“Man. Mankind. Manwhores.”
Sigh.
“You and Saint.” She studies me dubiously. “You ever wonder if you and he could have an epic relationship?”
“You mean epic disaster.”
“No, I mean”—she shrugs—“he’s excitement, and you could ground him. It could be an epic relationship if he doesn’t fuck it up . . . or you.”
“This from you? I’m blown away right now, Gina.”
“I’m just asking. You have to have wondered. You know. Like a sex fantasy but without sex.”
“I do,” I admit. “I wonder what it would be like to be a part of his life, not just his bed. I know it was me who set up the relationship that way . . . not wanting to be part of public scrutiny. But I also know deep down it would never work. He can’t be had, G.” I shake my head. “Saint will never be had.” And even if he could be, a scenario of what it could be like pops into my head. “Plus I’ll live in fear of every other single woman out there and of Malcolm’s nature to fuck around just because he can.”
“Then just enjoy it, Rachel.” She sighs and pats the top of my head, saying exaggeratedly, “You have my blessing, child.”
“Do you mean that, Gina?”
She smiles. “I wish you wouldn’t, but you’re too far in. Plus, if I say no, you’re going to keep doing it behind my back. Please don’t. I’m your friend, that’s what I’m here for.”
“Thank you.” God, it’s like an enormous weight has been lifted from my shoulders. It’s torture to be on a roller coaster, unable to scream, and that’s exactly how having to bottle up the experience has felt.
I stare blankly at the ceiling, and then just smile because . . .
Well. His assistant changed his Facebook status. Cathy, maybe? Oh, how I wish I could have coffee with Cathy one day and know everything.
Everything.
I grab my phone and text him:
My hands would be very busy if you were next to me right now
My mother answers.
Hey darling. What do you mean?
I text him:
OMG I just sent a dirty text to my mother
Then to my mother:
Yes, Momma, I’d love to massage your neck. New technique I learned
Sin’s text:
Resend to me
Me:
SIN! This was an absolute mood killer. You’ll just have to wonder what it said ;)
The next day, I’m worn out from going hiking with him. I’m also sleeping at his place. Pushing up on my arm, I take inventory.
Every chiseled feature on his tanned face. LIKE.
His wicked mouth. LIKE.
His gorgeous, tiny brown man-nipples. LIKE.
Oh god. I LIKE him so much.
Sighing, I slip back into his arms. I LIKE this too much, too.
He picks me up in the Rolls two days later. Otis opens the door for me and Saint’s just landed, back from some hot-shot conference in New York. He is the epitome of a sexy and golden black-haired god in a suit.
SIN, IN A SUIT.
I shift on the seat and slowly slide to the car floor, inching between his hard thighs, grinning up at him when he stops talking on the phone. Because yes, he’s talking on the phone. Doing business. How strange? Ha ha.
I rub my jaw on his thigh and slide my hands up the hard muscle. “Yes, Charles,” he continues. The mystery in his gaze as he watches me beckons me. Smiling in mischief, I rub my cheek on his other thigh, then my lips, then I nuzzle my way upward until my mouth and jaw rub against his erection. He’s hard as rock under my lips as I lightly scrape them
over the fabric, the thickening texture of his voice thrilling me. “. . . the short sell . . .” I hear him say, and as I look up to see if he likes what I’m doing, his eyes are gleaming down at me like glassy volcanic rocks.
The sound of my breathing echoes in the silence as Saint allows this Charles guy to speak—then zip. I lower Saint’s zipper, then pull open his belt, never once taking my eyes off his face. His beautiful face. His lids look weighted as he watches my every move, and his gaze flares hot and tender as I take him out. He is all smooth velvet flesh, all of him, hard and thick. So strong. So vital. So ready.
I lick him, base to tip. I encircle his cock with my mouth, my tongue roaming, pressing, tasting as I feather my lips across the head. He tastes exquisite. His cock was made for sucking and for fucking, and right now nothing will convince me it wasn’t made for me.
His fingers slide into my hair as his cock swells even thicker and longer between my lips.
I suck harder, the head of his cock massaging my throat.
“That sounds right,” he says quietly into the phone. As he speaks, he brushes my hair behind my shoulders. He wants to see my face, I realize.
He wants to see mine, and I really want to see his.
Prolonging our eye contact, I continue savoring him, getting lost in the moment, and he tightens his hand on my hair. I pour myself into it. I want this to be a most memorable blow job, just like I love to mentally replay the times he’s gone down on me.
He is enormous, pink flesh straining to be inside me—to be pleased. And right now I have one goal only: to make Saint come inside me. He’s beautiful and in control and powerful, and I want him to come in my mouth.
My sex throbbing, I hear his voice as he tells Charles to keep him posted; then he hangs up and tosses the phone aside.
“Rachel,” he says in thick approval, cupping my face with both hands, smiling down at me with pure heat. He rubs his thumbs over my cheekbones as he pulls my face up and back as he leans forward to kiss my lips. “Do you like it?” he asks.
I nod. Stroking his thighs, up his abs, I whisper, “I want to taste you. . . .” I’m beyond happy when he sets his hands at his sides and lets me get back to him.
I stroke my fingers up the length of his shaft and kiss the wetness at the tip, my body one single throbbing nerve as I savor his breath changing, one hand reaching out and his fingers clenching in my hair, the words he whispers to me as he starts pushing me and losing control. That’s right, Rachel . . . God, that’s right. . . . Do you like it . . . ?
I don’t even realize my own hands are acting wild, rubbing up his chest, clawing at him, up his neck, the back of his head, as I try to get closer to intensify my blow job, to give him the kind of pleasure he gives me.
As I suck with more vigor, he whispers, his voice raw and low, “I come with you, Rachel,” and he pulls me up with his hands on my face, then urges me down on the car bench as I start yanking down my jeans with record speed. He strips them off my legs, and then his hungry lips nibble a path up my stomach to my breasts as he pushes my top upward and my bra downward, freeing my nipples. A soft, helpless moan leaves me as I arch my body, offering him everything I have and more.
“Oh, yes,” I moan, raking my nails over his back, wanting to feel his skin on mine.
He claims my lips. I’m not sure we can deal with this, with how we feel. No. Maybe only I feel like this, but he feels something for me too, I can feel it in his hands, his looks. So this is what we do. He nibbles my lips, urges my legs open with his palms. I’ve stopped breathing when he lowers his head. He tastes me. Firm strokes of his tongue.
He turns me into a bubbling mess, torturing me, pushing me to the brink of orgasm and then . . . making me wait as he tears into a condom packet and sheathes his glorious cock.
He covers me with his body, and the next second we’re locked, groaning in relief. His torture doesn’t end there. He drives deep and slow, forcing me to savor every pulsing, delicious inch of every thorough and perfect plunge. I can’t keep still. I can’t hold back the fierce sensation of something building inside me, straining for release. My mouth sucks his beautiful full mouth, his ear, his neck, his jaw raspy under my lips.
I’m so scared to consider what it is. I’m so scared he’ll hurt me. I’m so scared I’ll hurt him. I suck back a quiet sob as I start coming, shaking and trembling in both excruciating pleasure and quiet internal pain.
My eyes blur. I hear his loud bark as he comes, feel the long, deep pulses of his body coming over mine, and I take advantage to wipe my eyes and then kiss any part of him I can.
Saint invites me to dinner at some posh, top-rated, hard-to-get-into place, but I tell him I don’t want a crowd. So he does something I don’t expect; he gets us into Navy Pier after hours. We walk the long, quiet path that usually bustles with people; tonight it is quiet and empty, except for us. On one side are the stores, games, little shops, and on the other, the pier.
“How did you pull this off?”
“Otis knows one of the night guards.” He chuckles.
“Let’s go into one of those.” I point at the Ferris wheel, and we get into one of the empty seats, shielded from the wind as he asks me if I ever came here when I was younger.
“Sometimes, with my mother,” I say. “You?”
“My mother wouldn’t have been caught dead here.”
“But here you are. You look just as handsome in those jeans as in your suit.” I touch the collar of his crisp white button-down shirt. “I love these shirts of yours. Sometimes I want to see my lipstick on one, just because.”
He laughs, the sound full and rich. Mischievous, I lean over and press my mouth to the collar. His smile fades. “You have a rebel streak in you, Rachel.” His eyes are admiring, filling me with heat.
“You bring it out . . .” I accuse, laughing as I step back, and I swear he looks even more powerful, more unattainable, and more handsome with my lipstick on his shirt. Just a little bit mine.
He asks me to visit him at his office, teasing me on the phone that he’s got an opening. Do I want to talk about Interface? he asks.
Why, yes, I say.
I drop in at the time he indicates, and then he stands there, taking me in, his shirt up to his elbows as if he’d been knee deep in work, his hair rumpled. His voice sounds tired as he tells Cathy to leave us, and then he asks me, “How are you, Rachel?”
“Good now,” I whisper, and we start kissing, the papers on his desk shoved aside with one of his arms as he props me there like his most pressing business, and he goes right to taking care of it.
I text him in the afternoon, wondering what he’s doing tonight. Just then, he appears inside Edge, to everyone’s shock. My eyes widen, sure that my stomach just flew to my throat, and I glance over to see if Helen has seen him. She’s both pale and flushing. I hurry to ask her, “Helen, can I—?”
“Go!”
I grab my bag and come out of my cubicle. “Hey,” I say.
He smiles at me, especially at my bag. “I hope this means you’re coming with me,” he says, eyes twinkling, the entire office melting right with me. Even Valentine.
“’Bye, Rachel!” he calls excitedly.
“’Bye, Valentine,” I say, slipping my arm into the crook of Malcolm’s.
“Friend?” Malcolm asks me about Valentine. Sizing him up. The girl inside me shivers as I wonder if he’s jealous.
I nod. “Fan of yours,” I whisper.
He cocks a brow. “Not heterosexual?”
“Not fully. More like bi.”
He bursts out laughing, a sound that is rich and makes my knees weak, and I grab his face and flat-out kiss him in the elevator, pulling that laughter inside me. “I like to hear you laugh,” I whisper.
He doesn’t say anything, but I feel thoroughly liked when he looks down at me, his lips smiling, but his eyes hot and admiring.
I’m staring at my computer screen.
Every link I click about Saint is talking about him
having a possible relationship with ME.
Speculation is fierce.
Somehow, people are more interested in wondering whether or not he’s in a relationship than they ever were about him womanizing.
His Twitter feed is full of questions about his girlfriend.
I’m stressing about it, wondering what I’ve gotten myself into, until I spot a new tweet from Tahoe appear in my feed.
So the guy actually tagged me.
Hanging tonight w/ my boys unless @MalcolmSaint girlfriend @RachelLiv objects
Fuuuuuck.
A dozen replies have followed up in the next few seconds:
I give it a week
Saint could not be monogamous if he wanted to, he needs the variety
She’s not pretty enough!
Is this for real? I thought this was some sort of publicity stunt. Saint really has a girlfriend?
Hours later, I see Tahoe deleted the tweet, and I’d bet my life Malcolm made him.
Later that week, Saint asks me out.
“I can’t, your social media is already ablaze about us.”
He ends up taking me to The Toy, and we go out onto the lake in the afternoon.
He spends all of the first hour doing business. “How many hours can you be on the phone, who are you talking to?” From my lounger, I attempt to pry his phone away, and he holds it above his head, out of my reach.
“Do you see the blonde on that other yacht?” I point, distracting him.
He’s wearing shades, so I can’t see what he’s looking at, but he keeps his phone in his hand and leans back casually on a folded arm. The sun really loves this man. He’s gold, his hair gleaming, my own reflection in a blue bikini staring back at me in his mirrored lenses. He doesn’t bother to turn around to scan the girls on the other yacht nearby. “I see the one in front of me,” he murmurs huskily.
“Blondes are your type, no?” I point at her again—she’s on the top deck of the other yacht, in a striped navy-and-white bikini, definitely looking this way. “Look at her. Pretty. Just your type.”
He tucks his phone under his lounger. “I don’t have a type, not really.”
“Am I your type?”
“You’re the first of a type.”