Can Rachel Resist Falling Under Malcolm's Seductive Spell?

Katy Evans returns with this sexy novella, Ms. Manwhore, the final installment of the unforgettable love story that began in Manwhore. Will Chicago's wealthiest and most notorious player finally settle down, or will one woman never be enough?

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My eyes widen when he reaches out and picks me up from the ground and straight to his lap. Every bit of him is surrounding me, enveloping me, maddening me. Malcolm turns his head and narrows his eyes when he notices, like me, that some people are whispering and pointing at us.

Self-conscious, I drop my face and his lips press warmly into my ear. "I'm going to cry when I walk up the altar."

"I'll hold you."

"I'll be alone walking up there with no dad."

"Your mom can walk you to me. And then I've got you. For the rest of your life or mine."

It strikes me that he, too, will be alone waiting for me up there. No father, no mother, just his best man and groomsmen. Saint will be the only man in my life, and I'll be the only living family that he loves.

"Did you like being an only child?"

"No."

I peer into his face. "So you'd be fine with us having two? When we're ready?"

He chucks my chin and chides me: "Where's your sense of adventure, Rachel? I was thinking more along the lines of four."

"I'm going to kill you." My eyes flare wide. "Four Saints running around the penthouse?"

"I can get a double penthouse. And nannies for each."

"I'd be fat for almost four years. Of my life!"

His eyes grow lusty as he spreads his hand widely, encompassing my flat stomach. "You'd be pregnant. With my children."

I blush. "So you want a Kyle, a Logan, and a Preston . . ."

"I want a mini-Rachel." He squeezes my tummy and looks pleadingly at me.

"Noooo. You can't have her. It's a boy first . . . my precious little Saint. See, why should we wait to get married? The sooner we get married, the more we can enjoy each other before the babies come."

"We need to wait."

"So I can sign your prenup contract?"

"That one. And the one making you my wife." He loves my greediness. I can tell he loves that I'm eager to have him. "Do you realize this is something I never thought I'd want? I can't think of anything else but making you my wife. My priority is merging your life with mine."

He looks greedy and anticipatory and strong and tender.

My walls have crumbled before him and I don't ever want them back up. My lids are heavy, but so are his. We're both tired after our sex marathon last night.

But I still want him, every second more and more.

Barely surviving the dull throb between my legs and in my heart, I lift my head and kiss his jaw and settle back down at his side, close for warmth.

"Look at me. I was just sitting on the ground . . . with bare feet. I'm a simple girl. I like simple. And I want us to get married without the world watching us so closely."

"You chose the wrong guy."

"I've got enough complexities in my guy . . . so if we have a simple wedding then we can get to the good stuff. Like a honeymoon."

"You would deny me the pleasure of giving you a big wedding?"

"I wouldn't deny you anything, much less myself."

I close my eyes, relaxing against him. Saint works so hard and leads such a fast-paced life, I treasure my calm moments with him.

"But I do want you to be my wife as soon as possible," he tells me. "And I do want to protect you from the media frenzy."

My eyes fly open. "You do?"

"You're my passion, Rachel. More than work. We'll do what makes you happy."

"What about you?"

"Either one we go for, I get what I want."

He pulls me back against him. We fall silent and just stay there, leaning against the tree trunk.

PEACE, a sign posted by a fellow camper, stares back at me. I'm doing one of the things I most love, with the guy of my dreams. My body starts relaxing into its arousal and into him. My body's on fire and my soul is serene. Peace is what I find in his arms.

Peace and wildfire.

He carries me down to his place. He's holding me so tight I can't breathe, but I don't want to breathe.

We undress and pet heavily for half an hour in bed, our mouths latched and savoring each other's taste, each other's warmth, each other's mouths. My mouth is red and swollen from his kisses, and my skin feels hot and tingly under his fingertips.

God. I feel like Venus. Beautiful, weak, strong, everything, as he tenderly tells me how good I taste, smell, feel.

"I really love you." Four words spoken in quiet amazement — husky and deep and just a whisper in my ear.

"I do too."

Warm fingers stroke along my curves as I rub my hands up the wall of his chest and look at his eyes in the dark.

The sheets beneath me feel so soft and like nothing compared to the hard substance of his body above mine. Strong, firm lips take me again, a perfect fit. We kiss for a long minute, stopping to nibble only so we can catch our breath.

His breath is hot on my face as he looks at me closely, in the dark. "I loved hearing that 'yes' come out of your mouth."

I smile up at him. "Mmm. Yes," I repeat, all sultry and wanton.

He smiles a little, and he looks so boyish and carefree. But then he grows serious again. Hungry again.

He sits up in one fluid move, pulls me on top, and fastens his mouth to my lips, never taking them off me as he drags them down my neck to suck on one of my breast tips.

The suction causes my nerves to start tingling and the blood to start boiling inside me. We sit in bed like this, my legs wrapped around his hips, his thighs beneath me, his mouth and hands devouring me. This man devouring me.

I rock my hips, slowly pleading for him to fill me. He comes back to my mouth and kisses me passionately, deliciously, deep enough to make my toes curl. My nipple beads under the brush of his thumb.

Before I realize what I'm doing, my nails are digging into his hair and I hear the low, soft pleas I make, begging, Saint, please, I'm aching for you . . .

The words end up a sigh that he covers with his mouth again. Our bodies shift closer, my smaller one molding to his hard, unyielding planes.

"Rachel, you're drenched for me."

A breathy gasp escapes me when he teases my entry with his erection. He rolls me onto my back and folds my legs, curling them around his shoulders, opening me. Every inch that he advances is bliss compounding on more bliss. The sharp, clean smell of his soap envelops me, weakens me. My senses overload on Malcolm Saint.

His mouth opens on mine with the same thorough deliberation he opens me with his hardness. His weight presses me down on the bed as he drives all the way inside. I groan. Saint rocks his hips to set a rhythm, his hottest parts taking over my softest ones. I pull his face closer to me and drop kisses on his thick neck, up to his jaw, as he gnashes his teeth while he enters me, over and over, harder and deeper.

My folded legs tighten against his shoulders. "Oh. More," I beg, surprised by my own breathlessness.

He gives me more, giving and taking with each thrust.

He waits for me to get to the pinnacle. Quickly, I reach it. I hear myself purl out his name. I whisper I love you as he intensifies his thrusts and jets off powerfully inside me.

When I fall limp, he uncurls my legs from his shoulders, lies on his back, and runs a hand down my back as I spoon at his side. I sigh in relaxation. Is love like this? Where you keep falling and falling, every day that you look into his eyes?

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