Start a sexy new series with this steaming excerpt from Manwhore, the first in The New York Times bestselling series by Katy Evans.
What happens when the most determined journalist in Chicago sets out to expose the most mysterious, powerful entrepreneur in the city? Rachel Livingston is going to find out, and she’ll do anything to get the story — anything to get under Malcolm Saint’s thick skin.
As we grow quiet, the breeze shuffles past us, the air between us different. What game is he playing with me? The picture he took was taken while I was so vulnerable, my profile showing my confusion. I can’t bear that he saw me like that.
He’s looking at my picture now, serious.
“I realize the company I keep is special. I appreciate being given a chance to make it up to you,” Saint tells me soberly, staring at the dark sky where the fireworks used to be. When he turns his head to face me, I have to fight not to look away from that probing green gaze.
“Thanks for inviting me . . . I’ve had a good time,” I say, my voice as husky as I’ve ever heard it.
Suddenly I feel hungry too.
For him to tease me again, and make me smile, and get that twinkle in his eye that both infuriates me and makes me feel little bubbles in my veins. I feel hungry to know why he called dibs on me, why he wants me to have his shirt.
He smiles amicably and signals at me.
“I’ll bargain with you now, Rachel. If you’d like to ask me something, I’ll give you an answer — and I’ll ask you a question,” he says, watching me.
“Really?” I perk up, and when he nods indulgently, I gesture to him. “You go first.”
“All right.” He leans forward, his muscles straining under the open shirt he wears.
“Why couldn’t you look at me down there, Rachel?”
“What do you mean?”
“Down there. Why couldn’t you look at me? Even now, why aren’t you looking up here?” I follow his fingers to where he taps them over one of his eyelids.
I think of my answer.
Before I can even reply, he murmurs, almost warningly, “The truth.”
I blush. God, he’s always wanting the truth. Does he trust nobody, then?
“You were right about me, this isn’t my scene,” I say with a shrug. “You’re good at reading people, I can tell.”
“I can tell you are too.”
He waits. I guess it’s my turn. I want to ask him things that are personal, like why I couldn’t come to his after-party, but I need to focus on the interview. So I focus on him. “The question that’s on everyone’s mind: Do you think she’s out there? One woman to embody all your desires?”
I make a quick appraisal of his features, but he reveals no glimpse into his thoughts at all. “Is that really what everyone would like to know?”
“You’re answering with a question.”
“And you’re not asking the right questions.”
I scowl and grab from the fruit tray his yacht personnel put upstairs too.
“That’s not how it’s done,” he says. I remember the way he was fed grapes below.
“Excuse me? I’m not part of your harem.” I laugh. “Here’s your grape.”
I toss him a grape. It bounces off his chest. I feel a jolt when his thigh brushes mine as he shifts and grabs a grape too. “I was taught not to play with my food but to eat it.”
The mere touch of his hand circling the back of my neck sends an odd little warmth running through my veins.
“What are you — ”
My body short-circuits as he leans over. The scent of soap reaches my nostrils as he brings the grape up to me, his pupils so blown up they’re all I see.
“Open your mouth,” he coaxes.
The gentle brush of the grape across my lips sends a current through my body.
He stares down at me with a wicked smile, and then I feel him brush the grape over my lips again. Instinctively, sensually, I open my mouth and let him feed it to me, breathing hard. By the time I swallow, his smile is gone.
Our eyes hold for the longest of seconds. Then, gently, I feel the brush of his thumbs on my cheeks.
A tremor runs through me as he ducks his head. And then, oh god. He places one single kiss on the corner of my lips. I tremble to the tips of my feet.
The tremor intensifies as Malcolm takes my chin and turns me so that his green, green eyes look into mine. They’re cautious and still so hungry. I’m telling myself this can’t be real! He couldn’t possibly want you like this!
I’m afraid to be kissed. Afraid to want it. He smells even better than in my dream, feels even better, and I want him so much more, more than more.
He’s breathing fast, clearly fighting for control. And I want him to lose.
No. No, the only one with everything to lose is me.