God, he really wants me. . . .
“This doesn’t mean anything, right?” I ask, panting and ready, so sopping wet I’m a little embarrassed about it, because his fingers are already trailing there.
“Right.” He drags his tongue over my ear, his hand sliding over my * lips.
I watch the harsh look on his face as I move slowly over his lap, teasing his hardness with my wetness, until he rasps in my ear, “A guy would kill to live here.”
He seizes my hips and urges me down on him; in this position he fills me to the hilt. Our eyes meet and cling. I lick my lips, and he runs his keen male attention over every part of me he can. He slides his hands down my butt, the backs of my legs, to curl over my ankles, his thumbs rubbing my ankle bones as I do the rest of the work.
My breasts bounce. He lies back on the bed, watching, as he drags one hand down the flat of my abdomen and fondles my clit. “Look at you,” he croons huskily, ducking his head to suck on my breasts in a way that makes my eyes roll into the back of my head. I just lose control.
“Malcolm,” I moan, wrapping my arms around his shoulders, savoring how they flex.
We hear the door.
I stop riding him for a second, but he’s so big and full inside me, I don’t want to stop.
“Shh.” He sits up, hands on my hips, locking me on top of him. “It’s just the guys, they won’t come in here.”
He sucks the tip of my breast into his mouth. My head falls back in pure red-hot pleasure as I move again.
More noise.
“Mmm,” I moan, savoring him. Every pulse in his body, I feel too.
“Saint!” they’re yelling.
He lifts his head. “BUSY!!!!”
Oh god, I can’t. I lift up on my thighs and pull him out of me, too nervous about being heard to continue.
“No, come here.” His arm locks around me, gently tugging me back to him.
“They’re going to see I’m in here with you!” I hiss as I squirm free and start gathering my clothes.
“So?” As I get my pretty little thong and my bra back on, his attitude becomes more serious.
“So I really don’t want to be your new whore to everyone. Just to me and you.”
I slip into my top and skirt, and he jumps into his jeans, still hard, his face completely remote now. He comes and wraps his arms around my midriff. “Stay here, and I’ll get rid of them.”
I close my eyes, his touch, firm, persuasive, inviting me to stay and have my way with his hair, his lips, him.
“It’s okay,” I whisper.
“You sure?” The mere touch of his hand on my chin sends a warming shiver through me, and I nod.
We go outside in silence. He gets me a cup of coffee and then brings a bottle of wine out from the wine room.
“Hey, bro!” The guys high-five him, and he gives them a silent look that clearly speaks volumes. As in: Why are you here?
“Well, hello there, Rachel.” Tahoe waggles his brows as he and Callan settle down on the huge leather living room couches. “You know, Rache, people have been asking me about you. Especially old Saint acquaintances,” Tahoe tells me.
“I can imagine. I’ve lately experienced a friend surge on Instagram, FB, and Twitter since the Interface inaugural,” I reply.
“Callan’s gotten more inquiries than me, even,” Tahoe adds.
“ ’Cause you’re a man beast, chicks are partly scared of you.” Callan nods at him and looks at me. “He didn’t hit puberty, he beat the shit out of it.”
I laugh.
They both look at me as if waiting for me to explain the situation, but I won’t. I think those two are too scared to drill Saint. So the guys start talking.
I’m trying to take mental notes, but mainly they’re talking about the White Sox.
I curl up on the couch and set my cup to the side, grabbing a little pillow. Sin sits across from me, maybe because I told him that I didn’t want them to think I was his whore. I smile at him in quiet gratitude.
He smiles at me and sips his wine.
I’m trying to convince myself that it’s better if I go home—though my body protests at the mere thought of not seeing him until I don’t know when—when I hear Tahoe casually tell Malcolm, “Her girls are coming over.”
My cup of coffee comes down with a clatter. “What?”
“Yeah. I invited them.”
“You? How do you even know my friends, Tahoe?”
“Succulent Gina?” He smirks. “Saint’s got dibs on you. And he’s got your landline.”
I stare at Malcolm, flushing when he returns that look with a straight, unflinching stare.