“Don’t,” I plead when he’s done.
“I’m not saying anything,” he says innocently.
“Okay. Please don’t.”
I’m shaking from wanting him to say it now. Say something. Maybe he doesn’t feel it. Maybe I should’ve let him speak. Maybe I couldn’t take what he’d have said. Urgh. I can’t even look at him right now. I stare out the window as he pulls us back into traffic and feel my stomach flip when he takes my hand and gives it a squeeze, and I love him even more for that alone. Whatever his reply might have been, he’s still holding my hand. He’s still here with me.
But when I remain silent, he slows down the car a little bit and leans over and kisses my mouth softly, one hand on the wheel, the other on the back of my head.
“What was that for?” I lick my lips, look at his mouth.
And he says, “That was me doing whatever I want.” He kisses me softly again. “Get used to it.”
I wait until he hits a stoplight, then grab him. “Get used to this.”
We kiss a little wilder, then smile. Then the acceleration is back on.
We ride the elevator to the penthouse where he sleeps, eats, lives.
Where he’s made love to me like mad.
My heart is pounding so hard, I can’t even hear the “ding” of the elevator, just suddenly, the doors open. Saint didn’t even ask me if I was coming over—it was a given. We said we’d spend the weekend together as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. And it’s starting to feel like it is.
I step out of the elevator, the sight of his beautiful apartment hitting me with painful longing, and my lungs start struggling a little bit. I’m spending the night here again and somehow it feels as though we’re slowly evolving into something deeper, stronger, further.
I set the pie down on his shiny kitchen counter as he comes up behind me and takes my hips in one hand.
The butterflies awaken in my stomach.
He uses his hand on my hips to turn me around, and my breath catches on a moan as his lips come down on mine. Our mouths fuse effortlessly, and will I ever get used to the electric jolt of his kisses? I feel the natural high he gives me rise in my body. My pulse skipping. My mind reeling. My world narrowing to the mouth currently making slow, hot love to mine.
When his phone buzzes, interrupting us, I’m not sure what I see in his eyes but the butterflies keep moving. His gaze is as deep as a night forest.
He pecks my lips before he takes the call and steps aside. “Santori,” he says, his voice low but clear. “Yeah, I was busy. Update? Hmm . . .” He starts pacing toward the living room, frowning as he runs his hand through his hair.
I wonder who this Santori is as I remove the aluminum foil from the pie, search for a spoon, then lean over the kitchen counter, up on my toes as I take a little spoonful.
Mmmm. God. Mint and chocolate are so good together.
I’m licking the spoon when I realize Saint is staring at me. Grinning, I dip my spoon and savor it so that he realizes he’s missing out on really good homemade pie.
I keep watching him as he watches me back, the intensity in his stare starting to knot up my body in places only he manages to reach. I set down the spoon and . . . why is my hand trembling? Self-conscious of his very male, very powerful stare, I lick the corners of my lips, and his voice drops a decibel.
“Yeah, I can’t . . . do this now. Give me the night to think over our next move.”
He powers off his phone and tosses it aside.
My knees turn to Jell-O as he comes over. He rubs a silver thumb ring over my lips, his eyes gleaming with lights. “I thought I could get some business done, but I’d rather do you.”
Holy crap. He looks so decisive. So determined.
One sentence from this man and I’m as hot and ready as if we’ve spent hours on foreplay.
“Do you . . .” I lick my lips and stare at his mouth, trying to level my breathing. “Do you want pie?”
He tilts my head back so we make eye contact. And he shakes his head . . . very, very slowly.
Malcolm is big on eye contact.
He’s a predator, and I’m his most willing prey.
He cradles the back of my skull while his free hand curls around my neck, and still holding my gaze until it’s impossible for him to both hold it and kiss me at the same time, he lowers his head. “I want . . . these lips of yours. They’re all I want . . .”
First he trails his tongue, hot and wet, across my lips. I moan. His smell enthralls me and the hint of his taste, along with the chocolate and peppermint, lingers on my lips. If that isn’t the most delicious form of torture, I don’t know what is.
He slides his tongue again, and I shudder and part my lips. He thrusts inside. Fierce desire pools between my thighs. He keeps me there, where he wants me, and nips my lower lip, pulling it away from the top.
I mew softly and he brings me closer so that his hard body is aligned with mine. God help me, he owns me. “Sin . . .”
“And I want . . . these.” My breasts feel sensitive and aching when his hands cover them over my top.
My heart skips a beat.
God, those lips are wearing the most devilish smile he’s ever sent my way.
With one hand, he expertly tugs my top over my head, then lowers the lace of my bra until only one nipple pops free. He takes a moment to look at it with complete appreciation. He frees my other nipple and leaves them there, exposed, with the fabric of my bra bunched up beneath them.
“I definitely want these beauties.” When he bends his head, he sucks super hard, making the tip of my nipple swell and my sex ache, needing to be filled. He turns to my other nipple, rolling it under his tongue, then sucking again.
Arching instinctively, I clutch at his back, raking my nails over the cashmere of his sweater. “I really need this . . . oh, Malcolm, don’t stop.”
“I’m not stopping.” He drags his teeth over my nipple and then licks. “I want your hands on me,” he quietly tells me as he forces my hand to curl around the front of his jeans, where he is thick, pulsing, and strong as steel. My mouth dries up and I lick my lips as I stroke him over the fabric, and a low growl rips up his throat. “Look at you Rachel,” he husks out, looking at my nipples. And then he dips his fingers into the pie and rubs chocolate mingled with whipped cream on each of my puckered nipples.
“Saint!” I gasp, shocked and jerking with arousal.
He ducks his head to tongue-fuck my ear, and as he does that, he asks, “Do you want me to eat you?”