“As the only man in your life, I strongly disagree,” he says, but seems to put the matter aside in good humor.
“I bet you do.”
When he laughs, he sounds so boyish. His laugh breaks off, and his eyes start to smolder with something beyond lust, and more like need. We stare at each other: Every time our eyes lock, I want his taste in my mouth.
He’s looking at me hotly.
As if he wants more than to taste.
He reaches out and tugs the knot at the nape of my neck. “I miss the sight of you.”
My bikini top unravels.
I reach for it.
“Don’t,” he gruffly commands.
His eyes lazily rove over me, like a feather’s touch on my skin.
He brushes a finger over the back of my neck, touching my body as naturally as he breathes. “You’re blushing.” He runs a finger down my cheek. Gone in a second. His eyes flick up to mine, and then he’s looking at me with an intense and secret expression. “By the time you let me have you again, you’ll be blushing even deeper.”
“Enjoy it while it lasts. The blushes. I can’t be a blushing old lady.”
“I rather hope you will be.”
“Nope. I need to be a composed old lady.”
“I’ll do my best to decompose my old lady as frequently as I can.”
God, I have a desperate urge to kiss his devil-sucks-my-dick-every-night smile.
Unable to resist, I kiss his lips, quickly, and feel him pat my ass as he gets up and we head for our rooms. “Decompose me after the wedding.”
“I’m planning to do much more than that.”
As we gather our towels, he looks at me and says, “Hey, I sent something to your room.”
My eyes widen. “What?”
“Why do you look so uncomfortable when I get you something?”
“I’m not used to it.”
He frowns. “I need to work on that.”
“Not you, I need to.”
“I plan to spoil you, Miss Saint . . . often.”
“I’m going to let you.”
He stares down at me with heated eyes. “Good.”
“And spoil you right back.”
“Have fun with it.”
“With what? Spoiling you?”
“That too.”
“Oh. My gift! What is it? A vibrator?”
He frowns. “Why would I want anything inside you other than me?” He tsks and taps a fingertip playfully to my temple. “This abstinence isn’t doing you good, Livingston.”
VISIT BEFORE THE WEDDING
In my room I find four dresses.
The Vera Wang, Reem Acra, Yumi Katsura, and Monique Lhuillier—two of them even include handwritten notes from the designers themselves.
From simple, to Regency style, to one covered in what looks like diamond dust, these are the most beautiful dresses I’ve ever seen—the finest for his girl. I feel warm just thinking about him having a hand in making sure they were ready for our day.
I touch the materials, then I spend the next hour trying them on.
They’re so spectacular, each one as pretty as the last. I wouldn’t even know which to pick!
But no.
I think I’ve set my fear aside. I’m getting married with his mother’s engagement ring and my mother’s dress.
As I take off the last dress, Gina, Wynn, and my mother are all oohing and aahing in my living room.
“He spoils you, girl!” Gina says laughing.
But Wynn and Mom are gushing.
I remember my mother reading about love languages. After my father died, she wanted to be sure that I felt loved as a child, so she read books, went to conferences, and explained to me that people express love in different ways. She said there were five basic ways, which include: touch, gifts, service to your loved ones, quality time together, and verbal feedback. Not everyone responds to, or uses, the same language, which can cause miscommunication in relationships.
Touch was my language. She was told to be tender, and she was. I responded well to her hugs. I simply respond well to physical contact.
I can’t explain, even on the evening before my wedding, how good and perfect it feels when Saint holds the back of my head in one hand and my entire back in the other and kisses me. I think Sin’s love language is touch too. But also gift giving—this man is relentless when it comes to showering me with amazing things!
While the girls and Mother help put each dress back into its protective cover, I head into the adjoining bedroom to change.
I slip into Saint’s large, white button shirt, a pair of leggings, and my socks, then I pull open the glass doors and step out to feel the breeze and get some fresh night air. Through the crashing of the waves, I hear the guys talking in the private patio. My skin crackles pleasurably as I hear Saint’s baritone.
“. . . reason both you and Gina didn’t bring dates to the wedding . . . ?” Malcolm’s tone is cool and quiet, but there’s an underlying threat of caution in his words.
A full-on silence that follows, broken only by Tahoe’s quiet “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”
“Gina. Now there’s a lady who goes down as smoothly as an abrasive,” Callan says.
“Stay away, T. She’s Rachel’s best friend.” This from Saint. No nonsense, and kind of exasperated.
Tahoe stays quiet.
The silence stretches, and then comes the sound of what seems like ice cubes being pulled out of the chiller.
“When you saw Rachel for the first time, what did you feel?” Tahoe asks, low.
“Felt new. I felt like I saw a woman for the first time.”
Oh my god. I’m fluttering to my toes.
“Yeah. That’s not how I feel,” Tahoe says.
“You’re just irked that she hasn’t thrown her underwear at your head,” Callan lazily deduces.
“Fucking pissed.”
“Pissed that she’d rather have anyone else than you and your billions.” Callan keeps on expertly rubbing it.
“Absolutely ludicrous, but there you have it.”
“She’d rather be your friend than be in your bed.”
“Motherfuck me, yes,” Tahoe growls.
I get that little squeeze right in the center of my tummy when Saint’s voice floats up to me next. “She’s a good girl, T. The kind you play house with, not games.”
“Fucking relax, Saint. I won’t do anything you wouldn’t do.”
There’s a soft laugh. “Touché.”
I turn back to the living room and realize the girls are wide-eyed, especially Gina. Could she hear them, too, through the open doors? An amused smile touches my lips, and I grab my phone from the bed and text Malcolm:
We heard you
Just thought you should know
Gina looks like she just swallowed a little bit of wire
Shortly he replies:
Sorry
He’s had a bottle of Pinot
U going to sleep any time soon?
Me: Too excited to
Saint: You miss me?
Me: A little
Saint: Text me when you miss me a little more
Me: Oh don’t wait up! Enjoy the booze and the boys. I know how HARDcore you are
Saint: How well you know me
I smile at the phone. And ache in all sorts of places. I write, I do miss you. Perfect wedding night seems more impossible by the second, but I’m determined
Saint: It’ll be perfect
Me: So don’t tempt me, SIN!
Saint: I want my girlfriend in my arms, our last night together
Oh, fuck him and the Saint Effect. My butterflies are flapping, so awake right now I can hardly stand steady enough to text: I want my boyfriend too. Tell him to come over before he goes to sleep. He’s been the best boyfriend I’ve ever had. He should get one last kiss.
He replies simply, I can taste you already.
The guys keep talking with lowered voices. Heading back to the living room to drop myself on a couch, I pop my phone into the stereo and play soft music so the girls don’t overhear anymore.