Free Manwhore +1 by Katy Evans Page A

is empty and the next he’s there.
    I can smell him in every breath, especially his aftershave. Oh god, how can you miss a smell so much?
    He takes his menu quietly and reads, and my concentration is nil as I pretend to do the same. Then some guy comes over to say hi, and Saint and he discuss oil prices. Saint’s hand is on the table, resting there, idle—his big tanned hand. That’s all I’m looking at—I’m this pathetic.
    I think about reaching out. Touching his hand and linking my fingers through his. Sending a message that says, Dibs on this. Dibs on you.
    I am obsessing about it. I slowly set down the menu but don’t dare do anything. I offered to work the weekends; this isn’t a date and I want to respect the distance he seems to want to keep between us. But I still can’t stop staring at his hand and remembering how it feels, how thick it is and strong and warm. Malcolm shifts in his seat then and shoves his hand into his pocket, scanning the menu again when they drop the conversation.
    “It’s getting cold out and we’re barely out of summer,” I say.
    “Yes,” he agrees, lifting his eyes to me for a long, long second. Then, he sets the menu down and shifts his shoulder to face me a little more.
    His gaze is fiercely direct and a bit stormy. Oh god.
    Chills down my arms, my legs, my feet.
    “So. Wine tasting,” I say.
    “A man shouldn’t let another man choose his wine,” is all he says.
    “Only make it?” I quip.
    He looks at me as if for the first time tonight. And then, he smiles. Full on, mega-watt, grab-on-to-your-panties-sweet-bitch smile.
    God.
    There’s no wine, no drug this powerful.
    His smile.

    We remain seated as we start the tasting.
    After the fourth wine, I notice that Sin makes a signal to a waiter, and soon, the waiter sets a blindfold over my place settings. “For the lady newcomer,” the waiter tells me with a little grin.
    I watch as Malcolm’s long, tanned fingers take the blindfold. He lifts it up and looks at me, a frank question in his green eyes.
    “May I?”
    Oh god. “I . . . um, sure.”
    He starts to lower the blindfold over my face. I’m not breathing when he covers my eyes with the velvet material. All the darkness in the world engulfs me. I hear the clink of glass, the sound of footsteps, of chairs. I catch my breath when warm, long, achingly familiar fingers guide my own to curl around the stem of a wineglass.
    Saint’s touch is so familiar to my body, I’m raging right now. All my systems on go .
    “Noel isn’t going to ever drop his issues with you, is he, Kyle?” a businessman sitting very close asks in a low voice, clearly meant not to be overheard.
    Saint is quiet beside me.
    Kyle.
    Is the guy addressing him ?
    Saint’s thumb pauses on the back of mine until he’s sure I’m holding the glass on my own. His nearness is so disturbing and exciting it takes me a moment to get a good grip.
    “Ever going to address the rift between you two?” the voice speaks again.
    “No,” Malcolm answers. Then he whispers to me, “Smell it.”
    My senses fire up. All but my eyesight. Sin’s voice feathers down my spine as I scent the wineglass he still hasn’t released even though I’m holding it too. I can smell the soap on his hand. I can hear my heartbeat. My skin prickles as I drag in the scent and almost taste it.
    “Taste it,” he says, in my ear, and when he speaks again, his tone is different. Colder. “Whatever I had to say to my father, I said it long ago.”
    “But he blames you.” The man is still whispering, but Saint is not.
    “He can blame himself.”
    One more whisper from the businessman: “So is that why you’ve never tied yourself up to a woman? You suspect it’s going to be like father like son?”
    He lets out a long, rumbling laugh. “I’m not anything like him,” he murmurs dismissively.
    I’m quiet, trying to make sense of what I’m hearing, sipping the wine, when I feel Saint take the glass from me, whisper,