I tug my top down an inch, enough that he can see the top swell of my breast beneath my lace bra. He growls in his throat, and I blush and go warm as I straighten myself. “I was happy to hear from you, big one.”

He chuckles. Then, more tree bark, rasping over my skin. “I was happy you could see me tonight. . . .”

I angle my head a little and study him, the roiling energy circling around him. His thirst, his desire, his frustration evident in the fists at his sides.

My heart tumbles over itself to get to him.

“Rough evening?” I ask softly.

“It’s looking up.”

The ice that’s usually in his irises is completely subdued as he reaches out for my hand, pulls me across the car, sits me as close as possible to his side, and starts kissing my mouth, running a path to the shoulder I bared, running his fingers over the curve. Heat, moisture, the softness of his lips with the strong movements of his mouth. “Definitely looking up,” he rasps. “And you?” He nibbles a path up to my mouth. “What were you doing before I came calling?”

“Hmm. Let me think,” I say, pretending to think hard about it. “The real answer? Or the one you’ll like most?”

Shifting so I can watch my fingers slide up his throat, I run them to his square jaw, a jaw that is so stubborn—as stubborn as him—and I like that he lets me touch him like this very much.

“Both.” While he caresses my shoulders with his hands, his thumbs dip into my top, slowly tracing my collarbone.

“I was working.” My own thumbs run over the stubble of his jaw now. “But while I was doing that, I was anxiously waiting for you to text me and invite me somewhere.”

“Anywhere,” he corrects, husky.

“Exactly.” I press my mouth to the corner of his mouth, not even thinking of what I’m doing, acting by pure instinct now. “Are we there yet so I can gorge on you too?”

His arms tighten around me, and one of his hands slips under my shirt to explore the hollow of my back. “Rachel . . . I didn’t want you to see me when I’m not at my best.”

“On the contrary, I want to see you like this. I desire you, I crave you, and I want to comfort you and give you whatever you want.”

Hot lips nibble on my shoulder. “Then I want you.”

“Anywhere” turns out to be The Toy. Away from prying eyes and from the public—to my complete relief and delight—it feels like we’re in another world. The yacht is docked and the crew is not aboard, so it’s just Malcolm and I sitting in silence up on the top deck, both of us still a little sweaty from the hard, and then the slow, fuck he just gave me.

He’s wearing his black slacks but nothing covering his chest, while I’m wearing the shirt he was wearing not long ago. He’s brooding and silent, and I’ve never felt so protective toward something so large and strong before.

“M4,” I whisper, my cheek resting on his chest while the rest of my body conforms to his hard lines. “You do things by four so many times, I’ve noticed. Why four?”

We’re almost to our fourth time together. Are we over then too?

He exhales and sips the last of his wine, sets the empty cup aside, and we stare at the Chicago skyline. “I have a temper.” He stares into the distance, his profile thoughtful.

I reach for his hand on his knee and link my fingers through his.

He looks out, his voice coming lower, husky, almost regretful. “It was worse when I was young. Control is something that’s always taken me some effort. The staff kept quitting because nobody could keep me under control; the more they tried, the angrier I became. But my mother was the embodiment of patience. I guess this is why she could tolerate my father. She was patient, far more understanding than anyone should probably be. When I lost it, my mother said to count to three, and I’d argue that I had. That I’d counted to three—it didn’t work. So one day she pulled me aside, worried because my father has a temper too—she could predict the worst for me and the ways I seemed to push his buttons. And she told me I’d need to count to four. And that’s what I’d do. More than anything else, that’s what came with being a Saint. If you were asked for three minutes, you gave four. If you had to count to three, you counted to four. I do things in fours.”

“You even like foursomes.”

He lifts his brows. “Not with you. I enjoy taking my time with you.” He runs his hand up my spine, under his shirt. I shiver.

Shiver and want and melt.

And most of all, I’m crumbling to pieces inside and eaten alive with guilt over knowing such an intimate detail about him.