“We need to stop,” I groan apologetically, fisting a handful of his hair. “I’m at the edge already, and I don’t want to be there alone.”

“I’ll be right there with you.”

He grabs the back of my neck and only kisses me the rest of the way to his place, and when the car turns into the building’s driveway, he stops with one last grazing kiss on the corner of my mouth as he tugs the skirt of my dress down and then pulls the rest of my strapless back up.

I try to pull myself together and fix my hair, a little mortified. “I can’t imagine how I look.”

He runs his eyes quickly over me. “You look ravishing.”

“Ravished by you,” I say, shoving his shoulder a little bit with a laugh.

He grins. “Yes.”

He smoothes a hand down my back as he leads me into the lobby of his apartment building.

“Mr. Saint,” he’s greeted by the staff.

He just lifts his hand in greeting.

Once in an elevator, I get a glimpse of us in the mirror and he looks divine, his lips a little pink, his hair a little messed up, and I look kind of sultry, my hair slightly mussed, eyes heavy. As we ride the elevator to the penthouse, a couple rides with us, and I try to behave and keep my hands at my sides. The couple is whispering and I realize they know who he is. And maybe they even know who I am.

“Good night!” they say effusively as they step out.

“Good night,” Saint murmurs as I smile and nod at them.

The elevator doors shut and he tugs me back to him, his head sweeping down. We kiss, softly, until the ting, and then he pulls away, his eyes as heavy as mine feel.

I’m shaking in anticipation when he takes my hand and draws me into his apartment.

He leaves me to press a wall switch to turn on a few dim lights, tosses his jacket aside, drops his cell phone, and kicks off his shoes.

The city blazes with night lights behind him as he comes back. And the sight of him in those slacks, white shirt, hair rumpled by my fingers, bulldozes through any fear I could have, any tentativeness about doing this. I don’t just want to do this. I never want to stop.

He walks toward me, eyes warm and liquid. He lifts his hand when he reaches me, his gorgeously strong and smooth hand, his fingers slowly caressing my neck.

Pheromones: the delicious scent of him. I swear water is the substance my thighs are made of now, and the rest of me is fire—and Malcolm Saint is the gasoline that’s lighting me up.

My world feels right again as his fingers drag down the front of my body, over my clothes, down my hips, then up my ass, the small of my back, until they come back up to curl around half of my face.

Green eyes capture mine, and I can see the silent question there. And then, I can hear him asking it, his voice pure dry bark. “Slow and deep? Or fast and hard?”

“Both,” I breathe.

He inhales sharply, his jaw clenching at my answer, then he coaxes me closer and, as an affirmative, sets a soft but firm kiss on my lips. “Yeah,” he says.

I hear him unzip my dress and a sigh of gratitude leaves me as he gently pulls it down my body.

“Take me,” I breathe.

“I’m taking you.”

“Use me. Do anything you want to me.”

“No,” he says chidingly. “You use something you discard. And I’ll never be done with you.”

My dress falls in a pool of blue at my feet. I stand motionless as a statue, trembling as the air surrounds me, wearing nothing but my panties and my strappy high-heeled sandals and my heart in my eyes.

Saint kisses my eyelids. As if he sees.

He sees.

Then, he presses his lips to mine as he eases his fingers into my panties, finding my wet folds and playing gently with me. My knees buckle when he touches me; he catches me with one arm and then draws back to stare down at me—the breaths leaving my lips, my face dewy with lust.

His face is harsh with need as he moves his fingers into my wetness, his eyes the most beautiful shade of all, a kaleidoscope of green. When I gasp as he enters me with a finger, a flash of wild lust appears in his eyes. Then there’s the dark black of his pupils growing and growing. And the glimmer of greed—greed for me.

No sooner does another gasp leave me than he kisses me harder, deeper, one instant apart, the next he’s the owner of my mouth, then he’s lifting me up and taking our wet kisses all the way to the bedroom.

“Here you are, Rachel,” he says as if he can’t believe it, and lowers me down on the bed.

“Don’t . . . leave me, just stay,” I curl my legs around his hips and my arms around his shoulders.