My fingers bunch warm fistfuls instinctively as he curls a hand around my nape and pulls me finally to his mouth. When our lips connect, they’re already parted, and our tongues meet halfway as they search for each other.

He caresses my back and then settles one strong hand on my hip, his fingers spreading out, toward my butt, while his thumb caresses the jutting hardness of my hipbone. And as his warm tongue keeps knotting me up tighter than the cherry stems, I forget everything else.

That my name is Rachel Livingston and my career is in a jumble and I want my world to stand still.

Right now I just want Saint’s tongue and I want the world to spin and spin and spin the way only he makes it do so.

His hand slides down my thigh and grabs behind my knee and he slowly folds my leg, bringing it up and curling it around his hip.

I shift my other leg to straddle him and his hand trails down the small of my back, then his fingers start sliding into my bikini. He cups my ass, pressing me to him as he kisses me. And all the time his tongue is grazing, playing, rubbing, tasting as his mouth moves on mine, devouring, taking—taking.

The heat of our bodies could melt a glacier. His other hand slides into my hair, into my ponytail. He holds it in one big fist and leaves my mouth burning with fire when he edges away from my lips and plants kisses on my shoulders, neck, face.

My hands chart their own journey, massaging down to his shoulders, but his fist keeps me from moving my head, so that he can come back to devour my mouth whenever he wants to. I’m gasping, breathless, as he raises his mouth from my neck and for three long heartbeats, looks heatedly into my eyes. I feel raw, vulnerable, and his eyes are stormy with lust but so clear, I’m afraid he sees me; sees he’s my one true weakness. And so I close my eyes and offer my lips.

When his lips latch on to mine, his mouth is wetter and hotter, slower and firmer. I taste him back, feeling greedy and desperate as I slide my hands under his shirt, aching to feel his bare skin.

He jerks it over his head, and I tremble when his warm flesh presses against my skin.

He reaches between us and slips his fingers under the triangles of my bikini top, moving his fingertips over the peaks of my breasts—which feel so tight and achy, a jolt goes through me as he strokes up and down, around and around.

I press a little closer to his hands, a barrage of sensations fluttering in me as I kiss near his ear. “I like the things you do to me,” I quietly confess.

“I get high on you,” he gruffly whispers before he goes back to kissing my mouth, caressing my lips with also a little bit of teeth.

He slides a line of kisses down my neck, my chest. “Right here. Where it’s pink and pretty for me. I’m going to kiss you right here tonight.” He bumps his nose against the tip of my nipple under the fabric.

An exquisite shiver of wanting runs along my spine as his thumbs stroke my nipples again. I feel the electricity of his touch in my core, my toes, my very being.

“If you want to,” I agree.

“I do want to.”

He cups my breast and suckles through my top. His head lifts a fraction when I gasp, and he brushes my lips with another kiss. Gently, leaving me gasping.

“Saint,” I breathe.

“Malcolm,” I hear him murmur into my mouth.

“Mmm . . . I get to call you Malcolm now?”

“You get a lot more.”

He unclips my hair and watches it fall to my shoulders, and the lustful glow in the depths of his green gaze sends a shiver through my being.

“What did I do to deserve this absolute . . . privilege?”

A smile shines bright in his green eyes. “Malcolm, Rachel. Say it,” he coaxes.

I frown a little. “It’s such a respectable name. Why do you make it sound so dirty and naughty? Malcolm?”

He both laughs, low in his throat, and groans at the same time; then he ghosts a kiss over the corner of my mouth as though to let me know he appreciates it. We hear the noise of an incoming boat and I separate a little, self-conscious of it approaching even though he doesn’t seem to mind.

It’s a speedboat with eight individuals and blaring rock music. I notice they’re taking out their phones to take pictures of Saint’s yacht. No. I hear the shrill women’s voices in the yacht and realize they’re taking pictures of Saint. And . . . me.

I roll my eyes. “Oh great. They’re going to have a field day with this.”

“SAINT! OHMIGOD, MALCOLM SAINT! Can we come on board?!” someone shouts. “It’s Tasha! TASHA! My friends and I met you once at Decan’s club, the Orion!”