Manwhore Page 82

Heavy with feelings I can’t even process, I roll to my back to put a little distance between us. He props himself up on one elbow and flicks open the button of my top, and oh, god help me but there’s definitely more melting, melting, melting. I don’t protest, don’t move, only helplessly watch him pop a second button. Then three. Four. While the body beneath the shirt he’s parting open starts trembling in every centimeter.

I want to tease him, to lighten the intensity of the wild ache building in me. I whisper, barely managing to get it out, on a breath, “Take your time with me. It doesn’t bore me one bit.”

Four buttons. Five. And six. Until he spreads my top open and leans forward to kiss the center of my throat. The centers of my breasts. The center of my abdomen. And the center of my sex. Four kisses, then he nuzzles me between my legs. “I’m not one bit bored with you either, Rachel.”

I remember being so shy before. This time, when he flicks his tongue across my clit, I moan and spread my thighs wide open, rocking my hips up wantonly as I whisper, “Malcolm, Malcolm, Malcolm . . .”

“Hmm,” I whisper an hour later as he nibbles my ear, waking me from a little doze I was taking in the cabin.

“Your ear,” he rasps against the object of his delicious attentions. “I’m partial to it, and it matches your other one.”

I stretch with a smile, and he eases back to look down and watch me.

“I love it here on your yacht, it’s so peaceful,” I say, walking my fingers up his tanned chest.

“I’m never here alone. Too peaceful. I can hear my thoughts too well.” He frowns as he gets up from the bed and heads for his clothes. Dreamily, I roll to my side and stare at his absolutely mesmerizing physique as he jumps into his slacks. “Are you happy at Edge?”

I shake off the sleep fog, then sit up, one sheet clutched to my chest as I feel around in the bed for my underwear. “Why do you ask?”

“Rumors are it’s coming down.” He rams his arms into his shirtsleeves, measuring my reaction as he slowly starts to button up.

“I hope not. I like Edge very much.” Somehow I manage to find my panties and bra, and have to drop the sheet to get them on. “Why? Are you venturing into publishing . . . ? ” I ask, afraid.

He’s quiet as he tucks his shirt in, adds his belt—becomes Malcolm Saint right before my eyes.

“No, I’m not buying the magazine—that’s not where I see the money going. Businesses require time and vision. Reviving businesses is not where my passion is.” He looks at me for a moment. “Is owning your own business a dream of yours?”

“No, I want to write. I want to earn a good living so I can write more. More than more.”

He smiles. “You’re so little. I get a kick imagining those little hands typing up your big ideas.”

The fact that he thinks about me at all makes me butter.

He watches me dress. “So you see your future at that magazine even if you had a broader range of options?” he asks.

I’m taken aback. A grain of concern suddenly drops, like a tiny, uncomfortable little pin, in my belly. I think over my answer carefully.

“I guess . . . in a general sense, my ideal future is to feel safe in my career and, I guess, in my life. I want my mom to be and feel safe, and if I could help make the city physically safer for others as well, it’d be a dream. That’s the kind of thing I want to write about. But that kind of journalism takes time, and Edge has given me better opportunities than anywhere else. I feel linked to it, somehow. If it grew and I could grow right with it, that’d be a dream, it really would,” I admit.

He comes to sit on the bed and he edges forward, his expression intense. “Like, what would you like to do for the city? What’s your idea?” He tucks my hair back from my forehead with one large hand, searching my face.

“I don’t know. Change doesn’t happen unless there’s a huge collective effort, unless you’re very powerful.”

His lips quirk and his eyes glimmer with a predatory light that never fails to thrill me. “You’re sleeping with a very powerful man.”

I bite my lip. “Yes, yes I am.” I laugh and feel myself blush. He cups my cheek, and once again, I tuck my face into his palm, seeking his touch. “You’re not how I imagined you’d be, and I have a good solid imagination,” I whisper.

“That’s because you’re all good. Terrible things made me.”

“Oh no.” I laugh, but he doesn’t laugh. He’s quiet. “We’re all made of good and terrible things.”

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