That I suck! I want to cry. I look down to his hand on my hip, and I slip my hand over his just because I don’t want him to remove it—and I know that when I turn in the exposé, I will never feel this big, strong hand holding me by the hips again. Can I really do this?

“We didn’t see eye to eye on anything,” he continues. He brushes my hair behind my ears as the wind flaps it around, then grabs it in his fist and holds it to the nape of my neck so we can look at each other. “Nothing I did was good enough. I could never live up to the Saint name.”

“So since you couldn’t live up to the Saint name, you gave it a whole new reputation?”

His eyes glint greener. “Nah. I just did my own thing, tried to be happy regardless.”

He watches me as if wondering why I’m not happy.

No. He watches me with intensity as if he’s wondering what he can do to make me happy.

“Most times, I am happy,” I admit. “Others it’s like I keep waiting for something. I feel like I’ve lived with this little hole all my life.”

“I know that hole.”

When he nods, I tease him a little, reaching out to jab him. “I thought all your toys filled it up quite nicely. And your blondes.”

“Not the toys.” He laughs, then he catches my arm before I stand and ends up pulling me down on his lap with a forceful tug. The moment I land on his lap, well, let’s just say it’s not a soft landing. “Only one blonde.”

He wants me.

His cock is so hard it’s throbbing prominently against my bum. A heat rises in me as he slips his fingers into my hair. He whispers in my ear, “You look wound up and ready to be loved.”

“And you don’t waste a boner,” I tease.

He laughs, and our smiles start to fade as we look at each other.

“I saw . . . how you got rid of the rumor about us,” I finally tell him.

He looks at me, as if waiting for the question.

I want to ask, but I can’t. It would be so hypocritical of me to ask if he’d slept with her when at the same time I want to keep our relationship casual.

“No, I didn’t,” he answers, watching me, and I’m sure he can see the tumult of feelings I have for him in my eyes.

I’m aware that I’m falling, I’m falling so hard my tummy aches. I’m playing with fire, putting my heart right on the train track for it to be squished soon. But neither the threat of being burned nor the oncoming train can stop me.

“You totally could,” I say, as nonchalantly as I can.

“Yeah, I know.” His lips twitch, his eyes sparkling tenderly, as if I amuse him.

Heart pounding, I wind my arms around his neck and whisper, “I’m glad you didn’t,” and rain slow, deep, anxious kisses up his thick neck while I tug his shirt out of his waistband.

“I won’t,” he rasps, and for a man who makes no promises, this feels like one, like a warm promise on my ear as my fingers slide up the bumps of his abs. It unravels me, all the knots inside me, so hard and so fast that a tremor racks my body and he notices, smiles at it.

“Malcolm,” I breathe, all of a sudden as wet as I’ve ever been, feeling like he’s mine right now, all mine. He lets me do the kissing for a moment while he drops his nose into my hair as his hands tangle in the length of it.

I slide my fingers under his shirt and push it up to kiss his abs, every single square inch revealed for me, up to his brown nipples. Then I lick my way up to his nipple while he pulls my dress up to my waist and grabs my panties in one hand, tugging them downward. I stand until I kick them off, and he takes advantage of that to unzip his shorts and pull himself out.

Desire trembles through me as he puts on the condom. He reaches for me, and I lift my legs and fold them at his sides, lowering myself, the skirt of my dress falling over us so that no passing yacht or boat can see, exactly, what we’re doing.

He’s so big, I moan every time he’s fully seated inside me, but he likes it, he likes making me moan.

He likes making love to me.

Slowly, our bodies connecting, our mouths searching, the pleasure escalating. Our clothes lie between us but his flesh is inside me and I’m gripping him hotly, tightly, every rock of my hips meant to drive him deeper.

He murmurs something hot and dirty against the top of my head, and I nod without even being certain what it is I’m agreeing to, only saying yes.

We head to the cabin after a delicious meal. He sleeps without a stitch on, and it makes sleeping with him my first ever addiction. I slide under the sheets and press my cheek to his chest and listen to his heart as I fold my leg and hook it around his long, hard thigh.

I can’t even say how safe I feel right now.

“Do you feel better?” he asks in my ear.

“Much,” I admit.

I start to relax and think about what Gina asked. Whether he and I could have any future at all. Whether we could have something even remotely resembling a romance. I don’t want to hope that, even if I worked out my job issue, we have anything. But it’s hard to convince myself as he trails his hand up and down my back and we’re quiet, comfortable, as if we’ve done this a thousand times and could do it a thousand more.

I’m exhausted, but at the same time, I can’t sleep tonight. No matter how much I braced myself. How many emotional bulletproof vests I tried to wear. How much I fought myself. How many “stories” about Malcolm Saint I used as ammunition against the reality of him. I’m not immune. He affects me like nobody ever has. Knowing all of Malcolm’s faults did nothing to stop me from getting attached. Instead, knowing his faults endeared him to me.

I connect to him. I connect with him.

My exposé . . . what will I expose now? I came in intending to discover and unmask a legend, but what I found is now lying sweaty and sated in my arms, flesh and blood, imperfect and irresistible. And this—with him, here—is the first real spot I’ve ever been in in my life where I want to stand still.

We had an extensive sex marathon at night, so we’ve been dozing off this morning as The Toy smoothly glides through the water. My skin prickles under the warmth of the sun, the wind playing with my hair, the soft rocking motions of the yacht. The engines hum softly, lulling me to a near sleep.

Saint just hung up his phone from another business call. Now he’s lounging right beside me.

The sunlight strikes the lake, causing the yacht’s shadow to shimmer across the water. I stretch out and flip onto my stomach, untying my top so I don’t get a tan line.