Excerpt Reveal
Manwhore
(Manwhore #1)
by
Katy Evans
(Manwhore #1)
by
Katy Evans
~ Synopsis ~
Is it possible to expose
Chicago’s hottest player—without getting played?
This is the story I’ve been waiting for all my life, and
its name is Malcolm Kyle Preston Logan Saint. Don’t be fooled by that last name
though. There’s nothing holy about the man except the hell his parties raise.
The hottest entrepreneur Chicago has ever known, he’s a man’s man with too much
money to spend and too many women vying for his attention.
Mysterious. Privileged. Legendary. His entire life he’s
been surrounded by the press as they dig for tidbits to see if his fairytale
life is for real or all mirrors and social media lies. Since he hit the scene,
his secrets have been his and his alone to keep. And that’s where I come in.
Assigned to investigate Saint and reveal his elusive
personality, I’m determined to make him the story that will change my career.
But I never imagined he would change my life. Bit by bit,
I start to wonder if I’m the one discovering him…or if he’s uncovering me.
What happens when the man
they call Saint, makes you want to sin?
~ Excerpt ~
I look very different than the girl Saint
met in his office. But I don’t feel any different. My nerves are frayed to the
edges as I give my name to a bouncer at the entrance and I’m allowed into the
club, every part of me snug and tight in my dress as my black heels hit the
floor.
Whereas M4 was all museum-like, the Ice
Box is pure dark decadence. Ice sculptures sit on pedestals around the room.
Cages with body-painted dancers hang from the ceiling. A bar with white and blue
lights stretches from one wall to another.
Strobe lights flash across the space as I
get jostled by the crowd. The bass thumps as the song “Waves” by Mr. Probz
plays for the dancing crowd. Drinks are flowing on shiny silver trays, and the
drinks are so adorned—by fruits, olives, salt glitter or colorful liquid
swirls—they’re like artworks. This isn’t a normal swanky club. It’s the rich
boys’ club and everywhere you look are beautiful people wearing beautiful
things.
“I met him! God! When he
said hi I thought I’d faint…!”
My nerves eat at me as I hear that,
because I know for sure they’re talking about him. Trying to breathe, I wind
deeper into the club, wishing for Gina so bad I ache. The room is packed with
women, some clearly on the hunt, others already paired with someone, a few
hanging out with their friends. I breathe slowly, in and out, telling myself I
can do this. It’s just a club. I can have some fun. It’s been a while since
I’ve gone out to a club, and never a club like this, but it doesn’t matter. I
can interview people, and if I’m lucky, I can do more than that.
After scanning the area and trying to
find the best spy-spots, I go to the top level and that’s when I get the best
look at what’s happening downstairs at the most crowded corner.
And speak of the devil. My heart stops a
beat when I see that dark head of his, and that loathed, burning knot in my
stomach squeezes with a vengeance. I swear
no one in my life has ever made me this nervous.
He sits with his arms stretched out
behind him, a wine glass and two women vying for his attention as he chats with
his friends. His masculine face is illuminated in certain angles when the
lights flash—his beauty unprecedented.
Okay. Breathing.
Do I want him to know I’m here or not?
A watery sensation seems to spread down
my limbs as I force myself to go downstairs. I wind a path to the ladies’ room
and worm myself through the throng of bodies toward a wide mirror above a set
of modernist floating sinks. A group of women preen at themselves while I look
our reflections. To my right, a woman pouts her red lips, and to my left, her
friend pouts her pink ones. Me? I’m still me, but I look extravagant, like I
was born here. I look very different than the young girl in coveralls he met.
Will he even recognize me like this?
“You going to the after-party?” Red Lips
asks Pink Lips as they retouch their lipsticks.
“No key yet.”
“Lookie lookie.” Red Lips waves a keycard
in the air.
There’s squealing in the room and she
tucks the key into her bra. “Mine!”
“So there’s an after-party?” I ask them.
“At Saint’s penthouse,” one says,
nodding.
“How do you get invited to this party?”
“A hundred keys are distributed during
the evening.”
A sudden thought of stealing the very key
she’s just tucked into her bra flickers through my mind. I mean, it’s just a
key. It couldn’t possibly be a felony.
“Babe,” she tells me, “stop giving my key the
eye! I’ve been waiting three years to get a key like this. Go and work your ass
out there if you want one. Only the finest asses make it.”
“Thanks,” I say, turning to look at my
ass in the mirror questioningly. Gina says I’ve got a great ass. It’s perky and
the perfect handful, some would say. But would Saint say that?
I sigh and lean against the wall, then I
spot all the little writings on an open stall door. I narrow my eyes, forcing
my focus.
Malcolm for my baby-daddy
I sucked Saint’s cock
Tahoe rammed me right here
Callan licks cunt like a
caveman
I head back into the noise and try to
find a good spot for spying when I see him again. The two women won’t leave his
side and now my stomach for some reason feels jumpy, annoying me. One of the
blondes takes a shot from the waiter, licks the rim, and then adds salt.
Saint edges back and watches her with an
expression of casual boredom, but his lips are curled, as if he’s having some
fun.
I’m so engrossed watching—a little too
fascinated and a little bit disgusted—I don’t realize a guard has walked up to
me until he’s right in my face. He signals to the back of the room—to where
Saint’s best friends are now watching me. Saint isn’t even looking my way. Oh
no, he’s too busy being entertained, still wearing that almost-bored smile.
Maybe they need to take their tops off to get him excited?
All three men fit in perfectly with the
lavish surroundings, but I can’t look at the other two. Only at Malcolm.
Malcolm’s dark good looks blend with the shadows like Hades in his own little
corner of hell.
Suddenly he laughs over something one of
the blondes does and he turns a little, his eyes landing straight on me—and
stopping there.
I feel his stare like a hit of
adrenaline. I want to look away, but I can’t, I feel trapped. I don’t know if I
made this up but I could’ve sworn his chest jerked as if he sucked in a breath.
Does he recognize me?
Do I want him to?
Suddenly the atmosphere is so heavy I
can’t breathe. My lungs feel like rocks and I really can’t breathe. As he rakes me in one fast, complete sweep of his eyes that
makes my stomach grip nervously, he takes in my pumps up to my long blonde
hair, and I become aware of my dress hugging the top of my thighs, my hips, my
abdomen, my breasts and even my ass. Oh god. I force myself to follow the guard
in his direction, every step accelerating my heartbeat. In that black suit and
without a tie, the top button of his shirt open and his hair a bit rumpled,
Saint is the embodiment of luxurious and decadent and sin. He is Sin Itself and
I feel like an absolute…virgin.
He stretches his long legs out before
him, his stare fixed on mine without any seeming inclination to move away.
“Mr. Saint,” the guard clears his throat. “The
gentlemen had me summon her.”
Although his smile doesn’t waver, the
look on his face is completely remote and unreadable.
“Here she is, gentlemen,” the
guard then tells the other two—the blond and the copper-haired men looking at
me like lunch.
“Tahoe,” the blonde says.
“Callan,” the copper-haired says.
Saint merely pats the blondes on
the butt and sends them on her way, then he reaches out to take my elbow
somehow in an instinctive gesture that brings me a strange sense of comfort. I
don’t know anybody else here, so when he tugs me to his side, I go down and sit
next to him on the edge of the long booth.
And that’s when he leans his dark head
over to me and murmurs, “Malcolm.” His voice is so deep and rumbling, I shiver.
“Rachel,” I lamely offer.
He raises his eyebrow and stares at me. What are you doing here, Rachel? he
seems to ask.
I’m wondering what to say, when Tahoe
lifts his drink and drains it. “You’re up past your bedtime.” The Texan oil
baby. Oozing charm, drawling out the words.
I don’t know why but I’m acutely aware of
the position of Saint’s body in relation to mine. He just straightened fully in
the booth and somehow shifted so his arm is very noticeably stretched out
behind me.
“Like they say, no rest for the wicked,”
I answer Tahoe with an extra-wide smile, my heart pounding over Saint’s
nearness.
Suddenly I can smell him. Just him. Among
all the mingled scents in the room, it’s Saint somehow in my lungs, in every breath. He radiates a vitality that
draws me like a magnet. It unnerves me but something in his presence, so close
to me, soothes me too.
“Apparently there’s a dress code—Saint
had to drop his tail and horns at the door,” Callan jokes as a waiter sets a
drink before me.
“Oh yes.” I tug the hem of my skirt
self-consciously, “I had to drop half my dress.”
“Did you now?” Tahoe asks.
“T.”
One word, one letter, from Malcolm.
“Yeah, Saint?” Tahoe returns, lifting his
eyebrows.
“Dibs.”
I almost spit out the drink. I cough and
slam my hand to my chest, and Saint calmly reaches out to take my drink from my
hand and sets it aside. “Okay?” he asks,
ducking his head and peering into my face.
I give one last cough and squeeze my eyes
shut and nod, and when I open my eyes, Saint is the only thing I see. I find
him staring at me in such a penetrating way I can feel the stare in my bones.
“Did you just get to the party, Rachel?”
he asks.
As he waits for my reply, he reaches for
my cocktail and extends the glass out to me. His wrist is thick and looks so
strong, so golden, his skin smooth, his arm dusted with a little bit of hair as
I cautiously take it from him, our fingers brushing.
Tahoe reaches for his coat pocket and
waves whatever he extracted in the air. “Saint! May I?”
Excitement leaps in my chest when I
realize it’s the key!
“Not happening, that’s not her scene,”
Malcolm murmurs besides me.
“Aw! Come on, let me give her a key.
She’s a dime, man,” Tahoe drawls.
I’m so disbelieving, I’m not even
breathing as Malcolm slowly stands. I follow him up, staring up into his face
in confusion.
“What do you mean it’s not my scene?” I
demand. I feel like there’s no gravity when he stands so close to me. I’m
dizzy. Confused. And unexpectedly hurt.
For the first time since we met, he looks
at me like he’s actually losing his temper…with me. He leans closer and puts his lips close to my ear. “Trust me
when I tell you, it’s not your scene. Go home,” he whispers. He sends me a look
laden with warning and walks away, blending into the crowd.
Tahoe and Callan stare at me, speechless.
“That’s a first,” Tahoe mumbles and heads away.
I feel myself burn in humiliation and
confusion. Worse is that, when I go outside, the same man who drove us around
the day before walks over to me.
“Miss Livingston, a pleasure to drive
you,” he says, hanging up his phone as if Saint just called him. He is a huge
man, with a bald head, an earpiece, and no expression. A second later, he’s
opening the car door of the Rolls for me.
Seriously?
Did Saint call him just now and ask him
to escort me home?
Aware of people staring and seeing me
being led to Saint’s car, I climb into the back of the car and I murmur my
thanks simply because it’s not this man’s fault.
The car smells new and expensive and,
like him. A bottle of wine and water
bottles ride with me. There’s music in the background and the temperature is
just right. The perfect luxury of it all tempts me to run my hands down my
dress and look down at myself in confusion. What is wrong with me?
I feel as if he pulled the rug from under
me and reminded me what I’m up against. The top of the species. Somebody
ruthless.
I can’t take the heat in the back of my
ears and on my cheeks. I sag on the backseat and set my forehead on the window.
Focus, Livingston! Exhaling, I grab my phone and try to write down all the
details about what I saw, but I can’t right now. I just can’t do anything but
ride here, in his car, wondering why I feel so vulnerable.
~ Links to Pre-Order ~
Katy Evans grew up with books and book-boyfriends until she
found a real sexy boyfriend to love. They married and are now hard at work on
their own happily ever after. Katy loves her family and friends, and she also
loves reading, walking, baking, and being consumed by her characters until she
reaches “The End.” Which is, hopefully, only the beginning…
~ Connect with Katy ~
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