by Katy Evans
I’m melting.
I’m scared.
I want him so much.
“If you hire me, you can’t get away with that,” I whisper.
He looks at my lips with the hunger of a panther. “Oh, I can get away with it.”
“You’ve never touched any one of your employees.”
“I make the rules.” He raises a brow in challenge, and then starts lowering his head again.
I sit here, shivering, as his warm breath fans my face on the other side of my mouth. I swallow back a whimper, sliding my fingers into his hair. He exhales and goes to my ear, kissing the back of it, relaxing a little as I let him draw me back into his arms.
We stay there for a little while. I think I’m going to die tomorrow remembering.
I wrap my arms around his neck.
I want to speak but I don’t want to break this. He seems to need to hold me and for me to let him, and I need this connection.
“Malcolm Kyle Preston Logan Saint,” I say.
I feel him smile against my hair.
“Why so many names? Hmm?” I peer into his face.
“Because my father’s stubborn. He was determined to name the first boy like his father. And my mother wanted to have four children, so she gave my father the right to choose first if she got to use the three she wanted next.” He inhales and peers down at me. “I wasn’t an easy birth. When they told her she might not be able to have any more children . . .”
“She gave all the names to you? Kyle, Logan, Preston . . .” I smile, then breathe, touching my fingers to his chest, “Saint.”
“God, Rachel, you don’t know what you do to me.”
“Tell me.”
“One day I’ll tell you.”
“Good things.”
“Yeah. Good things.”
His mouth starts trailing and my lungs start overworking as he puts them on my ear. My forehead. My cheek.
“What did you do all this time?” I ask him.
“I worked.” His shoulder lifts carelessly. “Bought a new car. Tested a few planes. Got the top four. Three for the M4 directors and one for me.”
“I’ve been watching baseball,” I offer, setting my face on his chest with a smirk.
“Since when do you watch baseball?”
I shrug. “You know. I branch out now and then.”
“Do you?” He’s amused.
God, I love him amused.
“This is the year the Cubbies break the curse. Did you know that?”
“Really now.”
“Hmm. Yes. With our star pitcher? And that ERA? It’s definitely the year.”
“Really now?” He purrs, shifting, interested, amused.
“Are you watching? Baseball?” I ask, and peer up into his face.
He peers back down at me with a cocky little grin. “I’m busy watching you talk baseball right now.”
I shove him. “Come on. Have you?”
“Yeah.”
I sigh and settle in closer, and he hugs me a little tighter. “You’re right, it is the year the Cubs break the curse.” He grins at me, and I grin back, melting so hard.
Melting so hard and wanting him again equally hard.
We haven’t slept, aren’t aware of time or space or place, only of each other. Holy god. I’m so aware of him it’s as if I’m memorizing him all over again. The scent of his soap, his sheets, his shampoo, his warm, toasty skin, all the ways his green eyes change as he makes love to me, and how good it feels, right now, as he holds me.
He eases his forehead down on mine, then his hand turns my face aside so he can kiss me—I reach one arm behind me and caress his hair as I kiss him back, him inside me. “You’re insatiable,” I tease him. “Are you ready to go already?”
He tugs my ear. “As you know, Rachel, greedy men are insatiable by nature.”
I laugh and drop back, pulling the sheet to cover my sweaty body just because I’m suddenly shy. Is this really me?
Am I back in Malcolm’s bed?
Fucked to my bones?
My chest feels so full I am grateful, humbled, fearful, joyful. My job situation is a mess and I still worry about my mother and yet if I can slowly fix things with him, I feel like I can do anything.
Malcolm . . .
God, please let him be greedy. Please let him want all of me, not just this.
I watch him get up to get a foil packet and I plump the pillow, rearrange my hair, and pray to god I don’t look a mess by the time he comes back. I hear him run the sink water.
I said I loved him before, but shit happened and I haven’t had the courage to say it again. What happened after I said “I love you” the first time must have devalued my words so much that I’m not sure he even wants to hear them again. But I think he knows that I still love him.
I think the only reason he forgave me was because he seems to have an intuitive knowledge of me and I think he feels the love I feel for him as much as I feel the hurricane of his energy drawn toward me.
God. This falling in love—it’s the subject of so many movies, songs, books, and artworks. It’s as common to us as being born and dying and somehow just as mysterious.
There’s never a warning.
You think it’s lust first.
That the powerful feelings are something else.
Admiration and respect.
Then the feeling becomes stronger, deeper, and when you would do anything for them, when their happiness is your own, when even their flaws are fascinating, and when you want to be better, worthy of them, you know it’s love.
What now?
He walks back to bed, flops on his back, and pulls me over him. Seeking closer, I twine my legs around his hips and wrap my arms around his shoulders as we start kissing, and after I mount him, and ride him, letting him take me to places only he’s ever taken me to, I end up more exhausted than ever.
When we’re done and I fall onto my back, we’re both panting. I tentatively reach out and place my hand on top of his, staring at the ceiling in the way he is—kind of waiting to see what his reaction is.
I didn’t know that I was holding my breath until he turns his hand and grabs mine in his grip, and holds it like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
After our Saturday sex Olympics, we sleep almost all day Sunday.
We wake up slowly, lazily fucking. Then he tosses me one of his shirts as we head to his kitchen. Later he’s in his living room as he works a little bit and I finish my coffee.
“I really should get home,” I keep saying.
“It’s raining out. Just stay here,” he keeps saying back.
And by the time he seems to realize I am going to go change to leave, he stops working, scoops me up, and takes me to his bed, and then the only things raining are hot, smoldering Malcolm Saint kisses all over me.
ALL THE COLORS IN THE WORLD
On Monday morning, I feel as if someone just turned on the light switch. Colors are bright and clear, my awareness of my body is exquisite. I wake up and Malcolm’s chest is beneath my ear, his heart beating solid and slow, our bodies tangled along with the sheets.
When the alarm of his phone buzzes, he stretches slightly, exhales, then gets up to shower. I stay in bed, deliciously dead. I text the girls, I feel so delicious today OMG! And sore to my bones. I never want to leave this bed
I’m excited to scream with my friends but that’s almost the extent of what I plan to tell them—what I wrote on the text.
Is it strange that when you grow close to a man, you start keeping details from your closest friends? Friends who used to know everything about you? I’d never held things from my friends until I met Malcolm. Now there are things that seem to be private. Worthy of just me and him.
I text my mother, Momma, how are you feeling today?! So much to talk about when I see you! Love you!
Then I send an email to myself reminding me to work on my column when I get home.
I roll over and my sexy places hurt.
It’s like the world contains only two people, him and me.
I ease up from the bed, force my sore body into walking mode, and follow him into the huge bathroom. Quietly I brush my teeth with my finger using a little bit of his toothpaste and then I wash my hands, dry them, and run my fingers through my hair.
In the mirror, I see the frosted glass of his shower and I can make out the dark shadow of his tall, muscular figure inside. Then there’s the pattering noise of water slapping his hard skin. After all the sex we had I shouldn’t be instantly hot and aching but I am.
My phone pings outside, and I run out to check it. Interview, it warns. I check the time and notice I only have fifty minutes. Feeling too embarrassed to just leap into the shower with him, I go ahead and dress and then wait for him in the kitchen.
I prop myself up on the massive granite kitchen bar and sip my coffee, light streaming from the floor-to-ceiling windows. It’s sunny today, windy of course because the flags and trees are swaying from what I can see, and from here it almost feels possible to hold the entire city if you spread your arms wide enough.
Between that view, and the view of the storm coming out of his bedroom in black slacks and open shirt, his hair wet as he talks on the phone and stares out the window, I feel a sigh work its way up my throat. I think of Gina and suddenly wish she didn’t think donuts were the thing to sigh over; this is so much better. Maybe she should give Tahoe a chance?
Rachel! You’re turning into the girl who wants all girls to see hearts and stars just because you are? That’s Wynn! And Tahoe and Gina? Really? The last thing she needs is another broken heart.
Scowling at that, I scan the online news, stopping when I see some comments about Chicago’s Darth Vader, aka Noel Saint, on the usual sites I visit.
NOEL SAINT’S LINTON CORP. TO ACQUIRE LOCAL MAGAZINE THAT EXPOSED SON’S SECRET ROMANCE ONLY LAST MONTH
I feel sick to my stomach.
Malcolm’s just hung up and is having his own coffee, the Tribune spread before him while he’s scanning his phone with the other hand. I slide off the bar. “Saint, I have to go. I can’t be late today. I have an interview.”
Malcolm frowns a little and lifts his head. “Interview? Where?”
I hesitate. “Well . . . I don’t want to jinx it. But you know that I made some calls.”
“Tell me who’s seeing you,” he coaxes.
His attention is too intense for that to be a casual question. One beat later under his scrutiny, I add, with a reluctant smile, “Please don’t pull strings.”
He cocks an arrogant brow. “Strings are there to be pulled.”
I laugh. “Saint! Promise me.”
“Tell me where,” he says, setting everything aside.
“Not M4,” I assure. I search his unreadable expression, then sigh. “I can’t be at Edge anymore. I don’t feel safe there.”
He looks at me in silence as if waiting for me to say more.
“I can’t go with you either, so don’t suggest it. It would complicate things and I have a hard time with all the attention you get. This would only put your business sense into question.”
“I disagree. I’ve got perfect business sense. We’d be lucky to have you.” He cocks his head, and his eyes suddenly bathe me with admiration and concern. “You did everything for that magazine. You bared your soul for that magazine.”
“It wasn’t for Edge. I ended up baring my soul for you. I can get another job. Edge is not going to survive . . . you know that. Not without someone very savvy behind the wheel and with large pockets too. And if your father succeeds in purchasing it, I don’t want to be there.”
His glance becomes opaque as it always does when his father is mentioned.
“I know truth and loyalty are important to you, Saint,” I continue. “And I won’t work for a man who’s constantly butting heads with you.”
“Come work with me, Rachel.” His voice is full of its usual depth and authority but it’s silky with entreaty.
Hating to deny him, I still manage to shake my head. “I couldn’t have you as a boss and then come to your bed, a girl has to draw a line somewhere, Sin.” And then, when I realize what I just said—and wonder if I’m jumping into fourth gear too fast—I backtrack. “I mean . . . IF you want to sleep with me again.”
Fuuuuck. I turn around and take my plate to the sink to quickly wash it.
God, did I say that?
He approaches. “What’s so wrong about working for me?”
I set it aside to dry and then towel my hands before turning to meet his gaze. I take his face in my hands, boost up on my toes, and set a soft, dry kiss on his lips. “We said we’d take this slow, but wherever this goes, I don’t want you to be my boss. Promise me.”
He looks at me carefully as I drop down to my toes. His jaw starts to flex in frustration. “Don’t make me promise, Rachel.” He shakes his head and heads back to fold the newspaper.
“If you promise me, I’ll believe it,” I say.
“We’ll discuss this later. I can’t make that promise.”
Urgh. Impossible man. But because he said we’ll discuss this later, I let it go with a little tingle of joy at the prospect. “You won’t sway me, I’m sorry to say, but you can try with sex and kisses of course. God, I’m so late.” I hurry to get my bag from his bedroom and when I come back, he’s also getting ready, knotting his tie and then pulling out one of his many identical jackets.
I pause and take a moment to drink him in and think, incredulously, Dibs on that, bitches.
“I’m late too.” He shoves his arms into the sleeves and steps into his ruthless Saint persona the moment the suit is fully on him. “Otis called in sick. Claude’s picking up my eight o’clock, who flew in from Dubai.”
As I finish strapping my shoes, I grab my phone to call a cab service when he stops my hand and tucks something into the palm of the other.
“Here,” he tells me.
I’m super confused as I investigate the shiny leather and steel key ring, suspicious by the twinkle in his eye. “What is it?”
“Your ride.”
SOMETHING BORROWED
I feel suddenly so spoiled and decadent when I slide into the front passenger seat of the shiny chrome-and-black BUG 1 Malcolm gave me the keys to. It smells divine, looks divine, and I’m horny just thinking about driving the fucker.
I exhale as I close the door, and click the ignition button.
The motor rumbles and scares a little laugh out of me. Holy crap.
The wheel slides under my fingers, the seat hugs me, vibrating with the rumble of the motor. This car isn’t a bug, it’s a beast.
A beast that should be driven at breakneck speed and I’m cautiously driving at half the speed limit to a thousand envious stares of those passing.
An old man passes by with a grin and I’m glad he got to feel superior today.
After a quick pit stop at home for a fresh set of clothes, I walk into Bluekin’s kick-ass downtown offices in Chicago. I’m running on adrenaline.
The thing I most love about this place is . . . well, hell. Everything. Their covers are usually hand-drawn sketches, and somehow this allows for a very ample diversity to the content inside. If anyone colors outside the lines, it’s Bluekin.
Their pieces on human interests are always real, sober, and very heartwarming—but that’s not all they feature. They have everything from funny articles to the most somber articles, covering every topic under an umbrella that they keep making wider and wider.
I’m rather blessed to be interviewed by Mr. Charles Harkin today, a very well-respected member of the company who used to work at a big New York magazine.
“The CEO is an acquaintance of Saint’s. He was impressed by how thoroughly you seemed to grasp him, and especially how brave you were in your honesty. You should be very proud of that piece.”
Fuck me. Does everyone have to mention that or know Mal
colm? I hear him say “Saint” and I can’t stop the reaction: visceral. Like an elephant—Rosie—just kicked me in the heart.
Sleep deprivation weighs on me, but I feel as relaxed as if I were buzzing with alcohol. What swims in my veins is better than alcohol. Intoxicating. It’s pure beautiful torture to remember last night. He told me I wouldn’t forget spending the night and he’s right. I feel . . . possessed.
I exhale. Forcing myself to get out of his penthouse and come back here, to the HR department and the interview I never thought I’d want until the sacrifices I made for a career I loved brought too many complexities to rein back under control.
“Sometimes the good pieces are the ones that take the most from us,” I finally tell the man on the other side of the desk, admitting to myself that, well, that piece took so much from me I’m still not fully recovered.
He’s a nice, unassuming man, but behind the glasses, his gaze is shrewd and admiring. “In a way, I can relate. The hardest things to do are sometimes the ones that prove most meaningful, but not necessarily the ones we remember most fondly.”
We share a smile and then he reviews the pages before him. “It says here you’re interested in covering serious topics.” He nods approvingly. “We’re definitely looking to bring someone like you on board, who’s not afraid of taking risks.”
I wait and try to settle down my nerves as he reviews the paper again.
“Sorry for going into territory which might seem personal but . . .” he adds, “we’d like our reporters to gain their reputations for their pieces, rather than who they’re involved with. And dating such a figure in this city, well, it’s got to be tough. Saint is a man known to overpower what he wants and we’re surprised you’d be interviewing here . . .” he admits.
I smile a little. “He respects my career choices, I assure you.”
“Hmmm . . .” he says.
I start getting the feeling they’re somehow concerned that hiring me will piss off Malcolm.
“So you’re not interested in even partly writing on your previous subjects?” He looks down. “Your column usually discusses the trends around the city, though lately you’ve seemed to be steering onto dating advice for women.”