Seychelle pushed the food around on her plate, sat back and picked up her drink. “We weren’t even going to be friends.”
“We were always going to be friends. Don’t kid yourself. It didn’t matter whether or not I was here with you, we were going to be friends. I told you, I have Torpedo Ink and I have you.” He indicated her plate. “Are you finished?”
She nodded and stood up. “Thank you for cooking tonight. I’ll do the dishes if you want to clean the grills.” She frowned. “Where did those grills come from?”
“Transporter and Mechanic dropped them off for me. Once I knew you were back in town, I knew I’d need them. They’re small, but they get the job done.” He liked watching her move around, filling the sink, doing little things that were domestic. He didn’t know why. He did his own dishes as a rule and never considered it anything but a task.
Watching Seychelle, doing dishes became something altogether different. He leaned back in the chair, eyes half-closed, legs stretched out in front of him, and found himself content. At peace. For just those few moments, with the sound of the ocean in the background and the scent of this woman drifting through the small room, filling his lungs, the demons always howling for freedom had quieted.
“Tell me what’s really wrong, Savage. I don’t like you so upset.”
Seychelle’s voice was that pure tone, like an angel’s, slipping beneath every guard until she wrapped herself inside him. That was how she got in. He rubbed his hand over his aching chest. He was a big man with a lot of muscle, but still, she got in.
He was used to pain. Taking it. Giving it. He never let pain get to him. He never thought anything could take pain away or give it to him in a way that would distress him to the point that he couldn’t eat or sleep. Or even think clearly. She’d done that to him.
Savage didn’t answer her right away, contemplating what he could say. He would never give Seychelle less than the truth. In this case, he wasn’t certain he knew the truth, only that he had to have her in his life. That was terrifying when nothing ever scared him. He couldn’t afford to be out of control. He couldn’t have anything in his life be outside of his control. He was too dangerous. He lived carefully. He was regimented in the way he lived. He had to be, in order for everyone around him to be safe.
She glanced at him over her shoulder, that hair of hers, all golden and platinum, soft silky strands, flying as she turned her head. His stomach dropped. It shocked him that she could do that to him without even trying. It wasn’t like she was trying to be sensual. She wasn’t trying to seduce him, yet she was the most seductive woman he’d ever met.
Looking at her, he couldn’t stop his mind from seeing the erotic images of her bent over the table while he stripped those little shorts off her body, baring her cheeks to him. She had pristine skin. Flawless. A perfect canvas for a man like him. He’d dreamt about her, tied, body stretched out, completely naked, tears in her eyes, that liquid his. All his. She would wait. Unable to see him as he stood behind her. Never knowing when the lash would fall. When it would land across her, leaving his marks on her. She wouldn’t make a sound because it wasn’t allowed. Only her tears. Those were his. Those she could give him.
Just the thought put so much steel in his cock he could barely contain the erection. His jeans were stretched so tight the material hurt. His skin hurt where the scars were tight, but they gave way to the scorching-hot blood filling his cock at the thought of having his own woman willing to put herself in his hands. Giving herself to him. Surrendering to him when his cravings grew so dark there was no containing them.
In all the years of needing relief from his demons, he’d never once wanted or looked for a woman of his own. Until now. Until Seychelle. Now he couldn’t conceive of another woman meeting his needs or satisfying his dark addictions.
“There are too many things wrong to even start,” he admitted. His voice came out low. Velvet soft. Whispering over her. He could see the results, the way goose bumps rose on her skin. She was very susceptible to him. Receptive to his voice. She was as connected to him as he was to her.
Deliberately, he dropped his hand over his cock, massaging the terrible throbbing ache. It hurt like hell. Made him feel alive. His reaction to her was real. His erection was real. He hadn’t commanded it. He hadn’t put stripes on a woman’s body to get an arousal. Just the images in his mind of them on her skin, the sight of the scars on her leg, and his cock was fuller and hotter than it had ever been.