MANWHORE
book #1 of ‘the manwhore
series’
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?
MANWHORE by Katy Evans
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.
Hey! I’m Katy Evans and I love family,
books, life, and love. I’m married with two children and three dogs and spend
my time baking, walking, writing, reading, and taking care of my family. Thank
you for spending your time with me and picking up my story. I hope you had an
amazing time with it, like I did. If you’d like to know more about books in
progress, look me up on the Internet, I’d love to hear from you!
Email: authorkatyevans@gmail.com
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