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She recovers first. “I feel awful for you, but you walked into it with your eyes and, apparently, your legs open, Rachel.”

I roll to my shoulders so I can face her. “Gina, just having feelings for him makes me feel like I’m betraying me and you. We said we wouldn’t do this.”

“And now you’ll have to make a choice, Rachel: the job or the man.”

“There is no choice! If I choose him he’ll fly away like some wild falcon before I can even hold him for long.”

Gina grimaces. “Then pray he ends things soon.”

“It hurts praying for something you don’t want.”

“Then end it yourself. Get it over and done with.”

I sigh.

“Rache, did he really say that?”


“No, his dick. Of course, Tahoe. Well, Tahoe and his dick.”

“Yes, but I don’t want him near you.”

She scowls. “I hope he stays away from me next month—it’s the anniversary of Paul’s dumping me, and I always feel particularly vulnerable.”

I groan and fall back on the bed, rubbing my face. “Gina! What’s happening to us?”

“Man. Mankind. Manwhores.”


“You and Saint.” She studies me dubiously. “You ever wonder if you and he could have an epic relationship?”

“You mean epic disaster.”

“No, I mean”—she shrugs—“he’s excitement, and you could ground him. It could be an epic relationship if he doesn’t fuck it up . . . or you.”

“This from you? I’m blown away right now, Gina.”

“I’m just asking. You have to have wondered. You know. Like a sex fantasy but without sex.”

“I do,” I admit. “I wonder what it would be like to be a part of his life, not just his bed. I know it was me who set up the relationship that way . . . not wanting to be part of public scrutiny. But I also know deep down it would never work. He can’t be had, G.” I shake my head. “Saint will never be had.” And even if he could be, a scenario of what it could be like pops into my head. “Plus I’ll live in fear of every other single woman out there and of Malcolm’s nature to fuck around just because he can.”

“Then just enjoy it, Rachel.” She sighs and pats the top of my head, saying exaggeratedly, “You have my blessing, child.”

“Do you mean that, Gina?”

She smiles. “I wish you wouldn’t, but you’re too far in. Plus, if I say no, you’re going to keep doing it behind my back. Please don’t. I’m your friend, that’s what I’m here for.”

“Thank you.” God, it’s like an enormous weight has been lifted from my shoulders. It’s torture to be on a roller coaster, unable to scream, and that’s exactly how having to bottle up the experience has felt.

I stare blankly at the ceiling, and then just smile because . . .

Well. His assistant changed his Facebook status. Cathy, maybe? Oh, how I wish I could have coffee with Cathy one day and know everything.


I grab my phone and text him:

My hands would be very busy if you were next to me right now

My mother answers.

Hey darling. What do you mean?

I text him:

OMG I just sent a dirty text to my mother

Then to my mother:

Yes, Momma, I’d love to massage your neck. New technique I learned

Sin’s text:

Resend to me


SIN! This was an absolute mood killer. You’ll just have to wonder what it said ;)

The next day, I’m worn out from going hiking with him. I’m also sleeping at his place. Pushing up on my arm, I take inventory.

Every chiseled feature on his tanned face. LIKE.

His wicked mouth. LIKE.

His gorgeous, tiny brown man-nipples. LIKE.

Oh god. I LIKE him so much.

Sighing, I slip back into his arms. I LIKE this too much, too.

He picks me up in the Rolls two days later. Otis opens the door for me and Saint’s just landed, back from some hot-shot conference in New York. He is the epitome of a sexy and golden black-haired god in a suit.


I shift on the seat and slowly slide to the car floor, inching between his hard thighs, grinning up at him when he stops talking on the phone. Because yes, he’s talking on the phone. Doing business. How strange? Ha ha.

I rub my jaw on his thigh and slide my hands up the hard muscle. “Yes, Charles,” he continues. The mystery in his gaze as he watches me beckons me. Smiling in mischief, I rub my cheek on his other thigh, then my lips, then I nuzzle my way upward until my mouth and jaw rub against his erection. He’s hard as rock under my lips as I lightly scrape them over the fabric, the thickening texture of his voice thrilling me. “. . . the short sell . . .” I hear him say, and as I look up to see if he likes what I’m doing, his eyes are gleaming down at me like glassy volcanic rocks.

The sound of my breathing echoes in the silence as Saint allows this Charles guy to speak—then zip. I lower Saint’s zipper, then pull open his belt, never once taking my eyes off his face. His beautiful face. His lids look weighted as he watches my every move, and his gaze flares hot and tender as I take him out. He is all smooth velvet flesh, all of him, hard and thick. So strong. So vital. So ready.

I lick him, base to tip. I encircle his cock with my mouth, my tongue roaming, pressing, tasting as I feather my lips across the head. He tastes exquisite. His cock was made for sucking and for fucking, and right now nothing will convince me it wasn’t made for me.

His fingers slide into my hair as his cock swells even thicker and longer between my lips.

I suck harder, the head of his cock massaging my throat.

“That sounds right,” he says quietly into the phone. As he speaks, he brushes my hair behind my shoulders. He wants to see my face, I realize.

He wants to see mine, and I really want to see his.

Prolonging our eye contact, I continue savoring him, getting lost in the moment, and he tightens his hand on my hair. I pour myself into it. I want this to be a most memorable blow job, just like I love to mentally replay the times he’s gone down on me.

He is enormous, pink flesh straining to be inside me—to be pleased. And right now I have one goal only: to make Saint come inside me. He’s beautiful and in control and powerful, and I want him to come in my mouth.

My sex throbbing, I hear his voice as he tells Charles to keep him posted; then he hangs up and tosses the phone aside.


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