I stir a little.
“Malcolm, we can’t. I can’t . . . I don’t want to say no.”
“Don’t say no.”
“Don’t ask me.”
His eyes glimmer in the shadows. “I’ll just get you there tonight, then. I need my girl—the sounds she makes. The way she moves. The pink she gets.”
As I look into his face, all the love I feel for him is like a fireball in my chest. “Did you get a lap dance?”
“No, I just watched dozens of naked women dance for me. Sent them over to lap-dance the poor fuckers who don’t get what I do.”
“Were they beautiful?”
He laughs a soft, dry rasp. “You’re asking the most jaded eyes in town. They’ve seen lovelier. Every day they see something lovelier.”
I feel like a teenager, so needy for his love. I can’t have his body but I can have his love and I’ll take that over anything.
I focus on his hands again, which are parting my thighs now. I feel the bed shift, and I open my eyes. He’s kneeling between my legs. We make eye contact and I almost fall apart right there. His bare muscles look edible. His eyes look darker, a little scruff lining his jaw. The city lights play on his face, making him look hotter. Darker. Mysterious. Especially the way he is now, kneeling between my thighs, spreading them out farther, his eyes like storms, jaw clamped, hands rubbing up and down my thighs.
“That was the last time you get to . . . play,” I warn.
“No, it’s not. I play with you now.” He’s teasing, confident, and sexy. Then sober. “Missed you, Livingston.” He reaches to the nightstand and I sit up, shocked to realize why he’d exited the bedroom moments ago as he picks up a can of whipped cream and urges, “Lean back.”
I feel my heart hiccup. Skip a beat. And I squeeze my eyes shut. Holy god! All my other senses start amplifying. My shirt has ridden up to my waist now, my panties on full display. I feel that damned imaginary hand give a squeeze right below my belly button.
I lean back, as he asks.
His fingers are playing with the edges of my panties. Teasing. Rubbing. Painting his little circles. Stroking his thumbs back and forth beneath the sides of my panties. I’m breathing slightly harder now. I say slightly, but I fear my breath has become audible. A little laugh escapes my lips. The laugh turns into a gasp when I feel his lips skim against the top of one of my thighs. His hands are wandering over my legs. The backs of my knees, my inner thighs.
It’s dangerous, how much I want him. Need him.
His lips are lovingly leaving little kisses across my thighs, slowly making their way up until he is kissing the little bow on the top of my panties. His hands push the shirt up higher, his mouth fixating on my belly button and giving it a little kiss. His warm hands mixed with his hot mouth slowly opening and closing on my skin gives me goose bumps. I feel my nipples harden, and Malcolm does not fail to notice.
“Keep your eyes closed,” he murmurs, taking a breast and squeezing a little.
Heat explodes in my midsection.
Quivering, I lie here motionless.
“Malcolm, I didn’t want to have one. A party, I mean. I didn’t want some strange man near me. I definitely don’t want anyone with whipped cream but you.”
“Good. You have me. I’m all the man you’re getting. And the one who’s getting creamed is you.”
He starts to unbutton the shirt of his I’m wearing, easing it off my shoulders to reveal my bare breasts. My legs still tingle from where he touched me. My insides feel like hot candle wax. He makes me want to melt. Combust. Explode.
I hear a sound and feel a little shock of cold in a perfect circle around my navel, and I’m dead. Whipped fucking cream. Around, and then into, my belly button.
His mouth kisses down my neck, toward the cream. Sucking on my skin, his tongue rubbing against my skin. Cue more goose bumps. And a rush of more when he tugs my panties down my legs.
His takes my knees and hooks my legs around his hips as he dips his head and starts lapping up the cream. I moan and grip his hair, loving the feel of it between my fingers.
I can feel his chest between my legs, right where I want him.
Where I want him and can’t have him.
He takes my hands in his, our fingers interlacing, and he holds them at my sides. He’s sucking on my abdomen. I feel like butter. My belly feels warm. I’m tingling all over. My head is turning to mush. I don’t want to think—I can’t think. He just feels so . . . good. Just so, so good. Gentle, firm mouth. Strong, smooth hands. Soft hair brushing against my breasts as he slowly trails his tongue upward.
I open my eyes, and when he looks at me, I see he’s dying for it too. Just like I am.
“I can’t wait to be inside you again,” he growls softly. “My cock is jealous of my tongue and what it’s about to do.”
“Oh god, Saint, you’re killing me.”
“No, you’re killing me. Little one, you’re killing me. But the next time I’m inside you, you’ll be my wife. Wife. I’ve got patience for you to spare.” He kisses my mouth tenderly, and I gasp and pant. His body is buzzing with pent-up desire. Hunger of the kind that eats you up inside.
I can’t move, don’t stop him, don’t breathe . . . I never breathe right when he touches me, when he’s near.
He slides himself lower, slowly, making sure to rub between my legs, and I bite the inside of my cheek when he adds a healthy dose of whipped cream to my aching, throbbing, clenching wet sex. I shudder.
He looks ravenous when he bends his head and kisses me there, between my quaking thighs, and inside my body, and right up to my heart. His kiss is tender, possessive, completely breathtaking. He kisses completely. Takes everything I have. Leaves me breathless. I arch. Moan.
He groans and tightens his arms around me, his kiss deepening, his tongue thrusting mercilessly. He kisses me like that, over and over again. He tastes. Devours. Tasting me harder, deeper.
It’s not the whipped cream he likes to taste, and I know it. He grows greedier when I’m sure there’s no more whipped cream left . . . and only me. The way I want him.
Saint likes me like this, when I’m vulnerable and trusting him. And I’m a vulnerable mess right now. All noises and moaning and writhing.
He groans as I get wetter and wetter, my hips moving to the pleasure of his mouth. Turning to dust in his arms. I wrap my fingers around the back of his head, pressing him between my legs. His dark head moves, and he just kisses me, kisses the life out of me and tortures the hell out of himself as I climax on a hiss of breath, body bowing for him.
When he comes up, breathing harshly, every muscle is hard and flexed with need, taut from his denial.
I moan. “I want the whipped cream on you.”
He kisses me. For a whole minute, his hands holding the back of my head, his mouth slow and leisurely savoring as he ducks his head over mine and sucks and nips and tastes, curling my toes.
Everything falls away.
I kiss him back, hungry, so very hungry for him always. I kiss him with my heart, my lips, with my mind, my hands on his shoulders, my soul.
“I agreed to wait until the wedding.” His eyes twinkle with a devil’s glint, but his jaw sets determinedly. “I hope you’ll be ready for me.”
I can’t sleep. I’m anxious, excited. The wedding day feels so close now that Sin’s home.
I nudge him in bed during the night, and he lifts a brow. “Hmm.”
“Are you asleep?”
He rolls to his stomach and shoves his arm under his pillow, groaning. “Not anymore.”
“You’re jet-lagged. Go back to sleep. Sorry.”
“Why are you not sleeping?”
“The invitations came in.”
He looks at me as I steal away for a second, pull out the invitation, and show him the intertwined M and R, then the wording inside.
“Perfect,” he says.