It wasn’t as if Seychelle was a biker bitch who knew the rules of the game. She was no patch chaser, wanting the protection of the club and some man to take care of her. She didn’t even appear all that interested in him or the club. If anything, she was more amused by him than attracted to him. He pulled back, thinking about that kiss they’d shared. The one he still tasted in his mouth. Now he wasn’t going to get her out of his mind. Not that he’d been able to before.
“Savage,” Maestro said, caution in his voice. “This woman. I don’t know that much about her, just the little that Code gave me before we came here, but she seems to be someone we ordinarily would consider off-limits.”
Savage shook his head. “She’s going to say yes to singing with you, but you just remember what I said. Seychelle belongs to me. That’s the bottom line.” He turned on his heel and stalked back into the bar. Already she was interfering with their club. That was the kind of woman she was. Shit.
He faded back into the dark, where he could watch Joseph Arnold drink and glower at Seychelle from a chair close to a wall. Joseph should have gone home. He was beat all to hell. His face practically caved in. His nose was swollen and one eye was closed. His ribs had to be bruised, but he was staying, his eyes on the singer, his cell phone out, recording or taking photos.
By midnight the place was so packed the dancers could only hold on to one another and sway. Word had gotten out that the singer of the band was damn good, and the locals—and bikers—had dropped by to see if it was true and stayed. The bar was still packed at closing time.
Seychelle caught up her jacket from behind the bar, waved toward the bartender and left before the band had broken down the stage. She didn’t stay to help, which indicated to Savage she wasn’t happy with the way Hank treated her and she wanted to avoid Joseph. He followed her at a distance, needing to make certain she got home safely. The road was very dangerous and took an hour for her to drive even without fog. He hung back, but he followed all the way to her cottage and waited until she was safely inside before heading back to Caspar.
* * *
She knew better than to allow Savage anywhere near here. Seychelle still felt every single smack of his hand on her bottom. There had been heat spreading through her body. Fire. Her sex had clenched and throbbed. Every nerve ending in her body had leapt to life, just the way it did when he came near her.
She should have reacted completely differently when Savage pushed her up against the wall and smacked her on the butt. No one had ever hit her in her life. He could say it was a punishment if he wanted to, but she felt the sexual intent behind it. Or maybe everything about Savage was just sexual. To her, he was the epitome of sexual. She’d never been able to respond to anyone or anything the way she did to him. He scared her. Terrified her. She scared herself, because she had no idea her body would respond so completely to him.
A part of her was elated that she even could respond. A part of her was appalled at herself. Just thinking about him and what he’d done to her made her sex throb and burn. She found herself wanting to cry but not really knowing why.
THREE
Savage sat up in bed, scrubbing a hand down his face, wiping the sweat away. Another fucking nightmare. He couldn’t close his eyes. He hadn’t for a long while and he needed sleep. Desperately. If he didn’t get sleep soon, he was going to explode, and anything in his path would be annihilated. He glanced at the clock. Fifteen minutes. That was how much sleep he’d managed before the nightmare woke him—again.
He threw back the sheet, the only thing draped over him, because sometimes he’d get twisted up in his nightmare world and come up fighting. That was never good, considering he slept with weapons close to his hand at all times—except he wasn’t sleeping.
It took only a few minutes to take his third shower that night. The first two had been in hopes the hot water would get him to sleep. The third was for her. Seychelle. He’d held out for nearly a week. He had this itch he couldn’t get rid of. He wished it were in his cock, but it wasn’t. He rubbed his chest.
He didn’t want to give in. She was coming to their bar on Thursday . . . that was the damn problem. He wasn’t certain she would come, and he was probably the reason she wouldn’t. She knew if she did, he wasn’t going to let her go. It didn’t matter, because he was going to her. He didn’t want to. His seeking her out would let her know she had the upper hand. She was the one woman in the world who could actually make him feel like a real man and not the walking dead.