I slide my fingers under his shirt and push it up to kiss his abs, every single square inch revealed for me, up to his brown nipples. Then I lick my way up to his nipple while he pulls my dress up to my waist and grabs my panties in one hand, tugging them downward. I stand until I kick them off, and he takes advantage of that to unzip his shorts and pull himself out.
Desire trembles through me as he puts on the condom. He reaches for me, and I lift my legs and fold them at his sides, lowering myself, the skirt of my dress falling over us so that no passing yacht or boat can see, exactly, what we’re doing.
He’s so big, I moan every time he’s fully seated inside me, but he likes it, he likes making me moan.
He likes making love to me.
Slowly, our bodies connecting, our mouths searching, the pleasure escalating. Our clothes lie between us but his flesh is inside me and I’m gripping him hotly, tightly, every rock of my hips meant to drive him deeper.
He murmurs something hot and dirty against the top of my head, and I nod without even being certain what it is I’m agreeing to, only saying yes.
We head to the cabin after a delicious meal. He sleeps without a stitch on, and it makes sleeping with him my first ever addiction. I slide under the sheets and press my cheek to his chest and listen to his heart as I fold my leg and hook it around his long, hard thigh.
I can’t even say how safe I feel right now.
“Do you feel better?” he asks in my ear.
“Much,” I admit.
I start to relax and think about what Gina asked. Whether he and I could have any future at all. Whether we could have something even remotely resembling a romance. I don’t want to hope that, even if I worked out my job issue, we have anything. But it’s hard to convince myself as he trails his hand up and down my back and we’re quiet, comfortable, as if we’ve done this a thousand times and could do it a thousand more.
I’m exhausted, but at the same time, I can’t sleep tonight. No matter how much I braced myself. How many emotional bulletproof vests I tried to wear. How much I fought myself. How many “stories” about Malcolm Saint I used as ammunition against the reality of him. I’m not immune. He affects me like nobody ever has. Knowing all of Malcolm’s faults did nothing to stop me from getting attached. Instead, knowing his faults endeared him to me.
I connect to him. I connect with him.
My exposé . . . what will I expose now? I came in intending to discover and unmask a legend, but what I found is now lying sweaty and sated in my arms, flesh and blood, imperfect and irresistible. And this—with him, here—is the first real spot I’ve ever been in in my life where I want to stand still.
We had an extensive sex marathon at night, so we’ve been dozing off this morning as The Toy smoothly glides through the water. My skin prickles under the warmth of the sun, the wind playing with my hair, the soft rocking motions of the yacht. The engines hum softly, lulling me to a near sleep.
Saint just hung up his phone from another business call. Now he’s lounging right beside me.
The sunlight strikes the lake, causing the yacht’s shadow to shimmer across the water. I stretch out and flip onto my stomach, untying my top so I don’t get a tan line.
Malcolm instantly caresses that spot, his hand spreading all over my bare back. “I’m going to tan with your big hand on me!” I laugh.
He chuckles and moves it to curl around my neck, then up to my scalp. His phone rings again, and he stands and paces while he talks. I watch a smile flash across his face.
He runs his fingers through the sexy disorder of his hair. “Yeah? Good.”
I grin like a dope, addicted to watching him work, wondering what he’s doing. When I’m with this man, I can never think of anything but all that makes him who he is.
He glances at me with his cell phone to his ear, crooking a finger to call me over. God, he’s so bossy. I frown, but I sit up and try to tie my bikini top, curious as to what’s going on.
I pad over and he hangs up. He whispers, “Got to show you something. Come here.” He hooks a finger into the side string of my bikini bottom and uses it to have me follow. We go to the sitting area on deck where suntan lotion and fruit are set out, along with his laptop and tech gadgets. He pulls open his laptop and types in some passwords.
I sit on his thigh sideways to allow him to type. He logs on to some administrative page, then clicks a button and a window pops open with an image of a street.
“What is that?” I frown and stare closer at the screen.
“Something,” he says in his low voice, “I believe the lady will like. Look at the screen.”
The screen displays several images—a grocery store entrance, a street corner. “End the Violence has been pushing for citizen surveillance,” he explains.
Shock flits through me.
“I know.”
“I funded their movement. The government’s got several satellites up already, with a few more to follow.”
I’m so stunned, one of my hands is covering my open mouth, my obvious disbelief making Malcolm’s eyes fill with amusement.
“Nothing to say?” he prods.