“Rachel,” he says as he takes my arm and pulls me out of the car.

“What . . . what are you doing?”

“Something I should’ve done before.”

I refuse to take a step as he takes my hand and tugs me toward him. My eyes are huge. “You’ve lost your mind.”

“I have,” he agrees, then he lifts an eyebrow. “Are you coming up, or do you want me to carry you?”

“Please don’t carry me,” I beg, aware of Otis’s absolutely stunned stare.

“Then come with me.”

I take one step forward, his fingers lacing, strong, through mine, and then we’re back on the elevator. When the doors open, when nobody else can see us, he swings me up on his arms and folds me over his shoulder.

“Saint! Malcolm SAINT! Put me down, what are you doing?”

“I’ll put you down soon.” I fall still and melt a little inside, my heart done for. “You’re not doing this,” I say in swoony disbelief as he drops me down on the bed.

“Yes, I am. You’re sleeping over. You’re staying the night here.”

Looking pretty serious about it, he tugs my top over my head to get me comfortable, and I know I should probably not stay over, I know I shouldn’t like being together so much, and I know I’m not thinking straight right now—no, I’m not thinking at all—but that doesn’t stop me from unbuttoning his shirt with reckless speed, until I quickly pull it off his chest, sighing when he spreads his body above me.

@MalcolmSaint is it true you have a girlfriend? #imsad #pleasesayno

I lower my phone and turn in bed two hours later to stare at the sleeping man beside me.

I reach out and touch his jaw. I stare at his sexy mouth, completely still as he sleeps. I just slept over after wild, hot sex sessions. Me. My entire life, my fear of rejection and of being hurt by a man has made me focus solely on things I can control. My studies, my career. My body and its needs have been overpowered by my brain for years, it’s true. But not now, not tonight, not with this male.

The way he wants me . . . it takes my breath away.

Before I realize what I’m doing, I stroke my fingers over his face, tracing the contours of his jaw first, marveling over the abrading feel of his night stubble.

His lips are plush, firm, and so pink, my pulse accelerates as my own lips tingle in complete envy of my fingertips.

Without even thinking, I hold my breath and try to be as quiet as possible as I bend my head. You’re making my world spin so hard and so fast. The words shudder in my heart as I cup his jaw in both hands and press my lips as softly as I can to his without waking him up.

Something gooey and warm washes over me. Oh god, Malcolm . . .

I press my body closer to his, feeling him, looking at him. I never thought I’d see him like this, asleep with me, after sex. I’ve been admiring his smiles, the twinkle he gets when he teases me or amuses himself at my expense, and how protective he gets when his friends want to horse around with me. I never thought I’d connect with a man like this.

I love that he is centered and logical, but that with his friends, he is sometimes just a teenager—a very big, very handsome teenage boy with very expensive, very powerful toys. I love to work on him and interview him because I feel hungry for every bone he throws me. I love to be just a little bit part of his life, and right now, seeing him in a way I never thought I would, naked, in bed, sleeping, I’m so much more into him than I ever thought possible.

So when his arms come around me, and his mouth opens under my lips, and he slides his warm, damp tongue inside me, and a thousand flutters of pleasure race to my nerve endings, the only thing I can do—the only thing I want to do—is let both it, and him, take me.

22

EXCITEMENT, ECSTASY, AND EXPOS

We spend Sunday with the guys watching another White Sox game.

I fully intended to write notes on my phone to keep adding to my file, but I’m so relaxed, I’m letting myself chill out for a while.

I’m starting to feel comfortable with them—they’re like the noisy big brothers I never had. They both seem to have gone to some sort of function because they’re in suits, their ties discarded on the side, one’s jacket slung over the chair, the other’s over a sofa.

The announcer’s voice is saying something about a goal, or maybe it was a touchdown or whatever, and the boys are glued to the television screen. I’m sitting next to Malcolm, who is wearing a light blue cotton T-shirt that clings to his shoulders and light-wash jeans. He looks comfortable and commanding, sprawled on his couch. Callan and Tahoe are saying something about some player and Malcolm still has his eyes on the TV, occasionally taking a sip of his wine. That’s right, no beer for these boys. They watch their games with Pinot Noir.