His hand cups my jaw and holds me still now. He watches me until the very last moment as his lips descend to mine. He tastes me, savors me; then the heady taste of him hits me again, melting me. I catch the rasp of his jaw against my cheek, the moist heat of his tongue on mine. When I let out a moan that scares me, he eases back for another moment to look at me again.

Oh god. Trembling with how much we’ve kissed and how much I still want, I stare at his mouth. Every time he’s stepped back, he’s come back to kiss me harder. Harder. His mouth—was it really just on me? I feel in a strange way like it still is. My lips tingle from side to side, top bow to bottom curve. He’s looking at them too. Then his hands tighten on my arms and his mouth crashes down on mine, hard this time. I stiffen against the onslaught, afraid of the cataclysm overtaking me. I try to move away and pull free, but his mouth shifts every time I do, and it is always there, ready to taste me again, the tip of his tongue brushing me open.

Excitement thrills through my veins as I dare open my mouth as wide as I can, and then he tastes me. A heart-stopping, whole-mouthed kiss that makes me dizzy and unsteady and amazed. My hands on his arms, my body leans on his so hard my breasts ache against his chest, and I taste him back. Not slow or in a savoring way; more in a way that means I will never be kissed like this again and I very much want him to eat me like I want to eat him.

This is Malcolm Saint—my dream story and the salvation of Edge—and I should’ve pushed him away. But I’m suddenly desperate. I’ve been paying attention to every visual sign, every word we exchange, trying to silence whatever it is he makes me feel. Some kind of need. Some blatant thirst. But his mouth is on mine, and I’m thirstier than ever.

We peel our lips apart, and his mouth immediately seeks a path down my throat. I turn my head and tug his earlobe between my teeth, running my hands over his hair. I’ve never touched a man like this, his hair thick and silky, dark as soot. He groans under my slow but impulsive caresses, and the sound runs through me in an erotic wave. His slow neck kisses drive me crazy, but I still crave his mouth; my mouth is sore, and it feels like the only way I won’t be aware of its soreness is with his mouth on mine again, pleasing me like crazy.

I turn my head. He’s there, as if needing my mouth too. Our lips open and fuse again. He groans; I moan. We taste each other feverishly. His tongue is hot and wet against mine, and this kiss alone has me more turned on than anything in my life ever has.

But . . . who do you think you are, Rachel? Come on! Elizabeth Bennett? Jane Eyre, perhaps?

Peeling away with effort, I shake in place, leaning my forehead on his while my breath stumbles back to me.

“We can’t do that again.” I ease back, running my hands down my hair. “Can someone . . . Can you call me a cab?”

He doesn’t say no, only stares at me, then stares down at his hands, then up at me. He glances at my mouth with heavy eyelids.

“I’ll drive you home. Just give me ten minutes to cool down.”

“No, I’ll take a cab. I need to cool down too. I can’t see you except . . . for interviews.” He looks so sexy, hot, and suddenly so attainable, I can’t bear to stand here anymore. I pull my bag close to me and head to the door.

“See me outside in ten minutes,” he says, his voice still thick with desire. “Just let me cool down,” he repeats.

But if I see you outside, I’ll be the whore who sold her soul for your story.

I shake my head, not turning around to see him following me to the elevators. “I need to go.”

“Rachel. See me for drinks tomorrow,” he says.

I press the “down” arrow several times and thank god the elevator door opens right away. “I can’t . . . Saint,” I say, and slip inside.

“Malcolm!” he calls back gruffly as I board the elevator.

I’m numb on the way home.

Malcolm.

I can’t even think his name; it seems so intimate, after what we did.

What did we do? He touched my hand. He kissed the corner of my mouth. And then he kissed me, tongued me, put my arms around him, and he felt so strong, tall, solid, powerful, and I felt so weak, so liquid, so vulnerable that I wanted him to do more things to me, things that make me feel both more and less whole, that make me feel like air, like a pool of desire

We didn’t have sex, but we hardly even needed to; I basically let him eat me up alive.

Exhaling noisily, I try to focus on the buildings ahead, on the people walking down the sidewalk. Get out of your head, Livingston. No, get out of your hormones. Use this for the exposé. Saint is challenged or intrigued by you, and soon it’ll be over and you’ll have everything you need, everything the world wants to know.