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

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

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.

SIN, 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.

“Rachel,” he says in thick approval, cupping my face with both hands, smiling down at me with pure heat. He rubs his thumbs over my cheekbones as he pulls my face up and back as he leans forward to kiss my lips. “Do you like it?” he asks.

I nod. Stroking his thighs, up his abs, I whisper, “I want to taste you. . . .” I’m beyond happy when he sets his hands at his sides and lets me get back to him.

I stroke my fingers up the length of his shaft and kiss the wetness at the tip, my body one single throbbing nerve as I savor his breath changing, one hand reaching out and his fingers clenching in my hair, the words he whispers to me as he starts pushing me and losing control. That’s right, Rachel . . . God, that’s right. . . . Do you like it . . . ?

I don’t even realize my own hands are acting wild, rubbing up his chest, clawing at him, up his neck, the back of his head, as I try to get closer to intensify my blow job, to give him the kind of pleasure he gives me.

As I suck with more vigor, he whispers, his voice raw and low, “I come with you, Rachel,” and he pulls me up with his hands on my face, then urges me down on the car bench as I start yanking down my jeans with record speed. He strips them off my legs, and then his hungry lips nibble a path up my stomach to my breasts as he pushes my top upward and my bra downward, freeing my nipples. A soft, helpless moan leaves me as I arch my body, offering him everything I have and more.