“Saint!”

“What’s up, T?”

“I’ve got four words for you. Bachelor Party. Monte-fucking-Carlo.”

He shoots me a sidelong glance, a glint of humor lighting up his eyes. “Can’t. I’ve got a packed schedule with the wedding coming up. Need to get everything set if I want peace during my honeymoon.”

“Bachelor party. Monte-FUCKING-Carlo, Saint.”

“Can’t.” Malcolm calmly keeps driving. “Unless you want to move it to Dubai. Got a project I’m cracking open soon.”

“Fine. Dubai’s our baby. When do we leave?”

“Next Friday, seven a.m. at O’Hare.”

“About time I tested out that new G650 of yours. How about some bikini-clad flight attendants?”

Another sidelong glance. This one with even more sparks dancing in his eyes. “Got to say, T. You’re on a roll here. You just went up high on Rachel’s blacklist.”

“Ah, well damn. Hey, Rachel,” Tahoe says.

“Hi, Tahoe.”

“And it’s a no on the flight attendants,” Saint says, reaching out to cut off the call. “No monkey business in my Gulfstream.”

He cuts off without a goodbye, and I look at him.

“You men don’t lose time with pleasantries, do you? No hello, no goodbye, just in and out.”

He speeds up a little on a stretch of highway that’s pretty clear, and chuckles low in his throat.

“Girls. Really?” I frown.

“Gambling,” he counters. “And business comes first.”

“Sin . . . no touching the girls. Or I swear I’m going to get a Chippendale and make out with him just to see if you like it.”

His eyes twinkle. “I don’t. Like it. So it’s not happening.”

“I’ll think about it. While I spread whipped cream on his chest and lick his nipples.”

His brows shoot up now. “You’d do for a Chippendale what you don’t do for me?”

“I’d do it for you next Saturday. Oh, wait! You won’t be here .”

He laughs, then he frowns thoughtfully and keeps on driving. “I’ll stock up on whipped cream.”

“Okay.”

“I want it all over you.”

“Okay.”

We’re entering the outskirts of the city. I’m absolute lava in my seat, noticing Malcolm’s voice has gone raspy and thick. Noticing the green shade of his eyes has darkened considerably.

“They’re going to bring girls for sure.”

“There are girls everywhere. You’re my girl.”

I look at his hands on the gearshift and the steering wheel. He’s got great hands, perfect hands, and he knows how to use them like nobody’s business. I don’t want them on anyone else.

“And Rachel.” A dark warning enters his tone, as if he’s also thinking about me and the Chippendale. “My girl doesn’t get touched, or touch another man.”

The possessiveness in his voice brings out a tingle between my legs. “My guy doesn’t touch any other girl.”

“He doesn’t want to.”

When we reach my building, I’m hunting for the keys to my apartment inside my bag when he pulls the door open for me. I grip the keys in my palm as I step out, and Malcolm’s looking down at me with tender heat, like he wants his hands all over me too.

Like he wants to devour me, right here and right now, whipped cream or no.

“Mr. Saint, Miss Rachel,” Otis says to greet us as he walks over from the Rolls-Royce parked just ahead.

Saint leads me toward my apartment building and then pulls the door open for me. He holds the door open with one shoulder as he takes a pile of boxes from Otis and tells him, “I’ll see you upstairs.” We head into the elevator. Someone is buzzing his phone.

“Callan?” I ask.

“Probably.”

I laugh good-naturedly. “You guys are incorrigible.”

Incorrigible, and such boys at heart. But I love that they genuinely care for one another.

He follows me to my apartment door. Before opening my place, I whirl around and search his face. “Are you sure you’re ready to share all your space with me?”

He leans his dark head down without any hesitation and takes my mouth in an all-lips, heated kiss. “I’m sure. Let’s get you packed.”

MOVING IN

Our new apartment will be ready in six months, so I’m moving into his place in the meantime. My mother, Wynn, and Gina are helping with the last of my boxes.

I’ve already transferred several boxes this morning with Otis.

Already at Sin’s place are: A box with pajamas. A second box with important papers—birth certificate, passport. Some of my articles. My baby album, which he skimmed last night, start to finish—teasing me ruthlessly on my most embarrassing pictures and then kissing me to tell me how pretty I was. I’ve sent another box with my accessories. Photo albums, photo frames. My slowly emptied bedroom fills me with both dread and excitement of what’s to come.

Now the girls and Mom are helping me tackle the rest.

“Dude, I heard you two in the shower this morning. You giggling. His voice was all low but it’s still deep enough to be heard in my room. Plus the noise of all that water slapping muscles.”

I lift my head from where I am organizing my cosmetics, getting ready to pack them, and my eyes widen. I remember him soaping me up, and me soaping him up—hot hands and hungry mouths and teasing touches and lathering fingers and the way he lifted me and lowered me down on him—and a hot blush creeps up my neck as I remember the rest.