Manwhore (The Manwhore Book 1)
Manwhore: Chapter 7

Deeper. His body’s on top of mine—hard in all places. He thrusts, and I like it so much I cry out and arch my body. “Please,” I whisper. “Deeper, oh please, deeper.”

His lips cover mine in an uncontrolled kiss. Hands squeeze my breasts, palms stroke my nipples. The back of my head is swallowed by the pillow as the weight of his body buries me deeper into the mattress.

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I agonize. I agonize because I haven’t had sex in so long and it has never felt like this, and he kisses me again, with raw hunger. He curls his fingers around one breast and suckles the tip. I curve and stretch my body up wantonly, my thighs parting beneath his hips so he can get inside me, as deep as he can. . . . Please pleasepleaseplease . . . I never beg, but I can’t stop saying please.

I nibble hungrily on his full lips and let my fingers trail up the grooves of his back. He feels the way he looks: hard, unyielding. But his body is oh so warm—there’s not an ounce of cold in this body. If I open my eyes, will his eyes be green ice or green fire? Please be fire, please want me. Please, deeper, I think, tossing my head as his next powerful thrust brings him so deep, every inch of his hard flesh buried inside me, every inch of me taken. He starts to move: out, in, out, in—

I wake up sweating and rolling my hips and just a hair away from orgasm, breathing in fast pants. I groan and roll to the side. 1:08 a.m. He must be at his after-party. Having a threesome. A foursome. God.

Seriously, Livingston! I chide. I’m trembling and it won’t stop. I’m already at the edge, just waiting to fall.

Groaning in misery, I slide my hand between my legs, where I’m aching. Don’t do it, Livingston, I warn, but I feel feverish. I squeeze my eyes shut and slide my finger between my thighs and then, because I just can’t stop it, I try to picture a hot actor instead of him. But as the pleasure comes back, icy green eyes look back at me. I bite my lip and want to bite his lips. Feverish, I feel his hand between my legs and it’s still not enough; I want more of his fingers, I want his weight crushing me. I savor what he’s doing to my body and tell myself that I just won’t say his name when I come. I won’t say it. Because he’s not the one doing slow, sweet, sexy things to me right now. Kissing me. Squeezing me. Moving inside me as I—

“Saint.”

After an earth-shattering orgasm, I lie in bed, dazed. Then shocked.

“God, I’m such a slut.” I turn on my lamp and go wash my hands, then wash my face and scowl at myself in the mirror.

Sighing as I pad back into my room, I open my laptop and find myself pulling up more links about him, putting myself to work. It occurs to me that right now he’s probably with one or two or three or four girls, having the kind of toe-curling, sheet-clawing sex he’s known for. I spy his personal social media and tell myself the exposé is the only reason I want to know.

His Instagram page is full of adrenalized pictures:

Saint black-diamond skiing, a black-clad form against a huge white mountain, a clear zigzag dent behind him.

Saint skydiving, flinging himself backward off the plane, hot as ever, the world a tiny blur beneath him.

But there’s nothing, absolutely nothing, from the after-party he didn’t want me to attend.

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