Manwhore +1 (The Manwhore Series Book 2)
Manwhore +1: Chapter 24

I wake up in my bed Sunday, very late at night—or, rather, too early on Monday.

Confused, I pad out to the living room to find it empty. I head to Gina’s room. “Remind me not to drink on a boat,” I tell Gina, grabbing my head as I lean heavily on the door frame.

She groans in the bed.

“Saint?”

Gina stirs a little. “You were knocked out, he carried you in.”

“Why didn’t he stay?”

“He stayed in your room a bit, and then he left. You looked like the dead would wake up sooner than you.”

“When did he leave?”

“An hour ago.”

“I’m sorry I woke you, I think I’m still a little intoxicated.” I lean on her door a bit and sigh. “Gina, we had such a great time. We talked . . . we swam . . . we ate cherries . . . we had dinner. I had only two glasses of wine. Two! And I can’t remember the rest.”

“It’s the damn wind and the rocking motion, it knocks me out every time.”

I groan and deeply, deeply regret those drinks I had.

“Close the door,” she mumbles as I go out.

Back in the room, I turn on the lamp and get my phone, writing, Thanks for bringing me home.

But instead of sending the text, I try calling to see if he answers. When I hear his voice, my veins start buzzing with something even more powerful than alcohol.

“Thank you for bringing me home. I enjoyed spending time with you very much,” I whisper.

“Me too.”

I glance at the time; it’s past 3 a.m. My voice is awkward with drink and sleep. “I wanted you to spend the night.”

“There’s no way to describe what I’m going to do to you when I do.”

“Please do,” I beg.

Silence.

“I want you so much, Sin . . .”

Silence.

“You can do anything you want with me as long as you promise to do it again.” Sᴇaʀ*ᴄh the ꜰindNʘvel.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

“Now that’s a promise I’d like to keep,” he whispers huskily.

“I know you don’t like to make promises but your word is gold, and if you’d stayed over, I would’ve let you devour me. But not all of me, you know. You need to leave enough . . . just so that tomorrow when I’m sober, you can tell me what you did to me.”

“So I get everything but your ears?” His voice sounds close to the speaker again and absolutely amused.

“Yes!” I say happily.

“While I devour every part of you with my mouth?”

Every part! Ohgod, yes.

“I’m not sure I can resist your ears,” he says in a tragic tone.

Desire building and building.

“Okay,” I breathe. “Take my ears too.”

“You’re certain? I’d own all of your senses now.”

I breathe out, “I’m certain.”

“Rachel, I want you undone for me—absolutely wrecked.”

“Okay, Saint.”

I am!

“Okay?” he coaxes. Still amused.

“Hmm. I’m game, Saint. Bases loaded.”

“Spend the weekend with me after your mother’s?”

“I’d love to. I’ll be on all five senses. Very attuned to your naughty plans.”

“I’ll hide the wine,” he teases.

“Malcolm!” I laugh, then, worriedly, “Did I say something?”

“Nothing you haven’t said before.”

“Malcolm! What did I say, you dick?”

He chuckles. “Nothing I wouldn’t mind hearing again, Rachel.”

When we hang up, I stare at my ceiling. Oh god, did I tell him I loved him? Drunk? Why can’t I say it like a normal, courageous person when I’m sober, looking into his eyes?

I try to remember and I can’t, I just can’t remember if I said it.

But if I did . . . he wants to hear it again?

I could’ve just talked dirty, which would be sooo unlike me and something Saint would probably love to hear too.

I sigh, plump my pillow, and turn off my lamp, getting haunted and aroused by the simple thought of a knotted cherry stem.

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