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.
And true to Tahoe’s claim, in fifteen minutes Wynn and Gina appear at Saint’s place, dressed to impress. They gape a little at their surroundings, and I’m almost embarrassed for them at how long it takes them to recover. The guys usher them to the living room with the huge cinema-size screen. “What are you girls up to?” Tahoe prods—gazing directly at Gina. “What were you so heatedly discussing coming off the elevator?”
“Um . . .” Wynn says, hesitating. “We were talking about Rachel’s love life,” she blurts out. “How she’s lived perfectly well without a man her whole life. Not even a boyfriend, ever, really.”
“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.
And true to Tahoe’s claim, in fifteen minutes Wynn and Gina appear at Saint’s place, dressed to impress. They gape a little at their surroundings, and I’m almost embarrassed for them at how long it takes them to recover. The guys usher them to the living room with the huge cinema-size screen. “What are you girls up to?” Tahoe prods—gazing directly at Gina. “What were you so heatedly discussing coming off the elevator?”
“Um . . .” Wynn says, hesitating. “We were talking about Rachel’s love life,” she blurts out. “How she’s lived perfectly well without a man her whole life. Not even a boyfriend, ever, really.”
