Savage. She whispered his name. She couldn’t imagine her life without him in it.
She had no control when it came to him. No more control than she had when it came to her strange gift—or curse—of attempting to heal others. She’d never felt so much for another human being. She’d never felt so alive. So passionate. So completely happy or sad. So . . . everything when she was with Savage. She had no balance anymore.
She caught glimpses of the violence in his life. Of darkness. He was worried about his dark sexual practices coming to light and that she would be disgusted. She was intrigued. She even, to some extent, fantasized about them. That was a hidden secret she barely wanted to admit to herself. Why she would be hot, slick and wanting whenever she thought about Savage and what he needed, she didn’t know, especially when nothing else seemed to put her body in the mood. She wasn’t entirely certain she wanted to explore that side of herself, although the thought was both thrilling and terrifying.
But other women? She couldn’t do that. She just couldn’t. No matter how much she loved him. How much she wanted to be with him. The emptiness she felt when she was away from him. Just feeling the raw lust those women had for him as they fixated on him had eaten away at her. She’d felt less of a woman than she ever had in her life, and Savage had dismissed her concerns and doubts so easily.
She stared at herself in the rearview mirror and then, making up her mind, she locked her car and went inside. There were mostly men sitting at the bar and a few couples occupying the tables. A country-western song was playing, and the lights were low. Exactly what she needed. She bought a pack of cigarettes and immediately went outside and lit one. She might have enjoyed it, but she felt a little like a guilty, defiant child instead of an adult making her own decisions—because lighting up the cigarette was just that: defiance. She didn’t even want to smoke. Restless and unhappy, she crushed it under her foot, picked it up and tossed it in the trash can just outside the bar.
Back inside, she ordered a drink, and immediately one of the men at the bar insisted on paying for it. He slid from his bar stool to sit beside her. His name was Bill, and no, it wasn’t her first time in the bar, but she didn’t come here often. He gave out harmless vibes of loneliness, so she let him pay for her drink. He seemed a nice enough man, just trying to find his way the same way she was.
Two drinks later she was back outside with another cigarette. This smoke was much more enjoyable than the last one. Bill stood with her, still talking, but his vibe had gone from lonely to far more amorous. He was easy, though. Easy to talk to. It was easy to make decisions about whether or not she wanted to be with him. He’d tried to kiss her once, but she couldn’t, not with her suddenly churning stomach threatening to empty itself all over him. Smoking outside was a better thing to do. She felt so sick. And the world kept tilting, first one way and then the other.
“Come on, baby, time to go home.”
She blinked rapidly to bring the speaker into focus, because she knew that voice. So soft. Velvet soft but with steel under it. Savage stood there, gently removing her arm from Bill’s grasp.
“She’s with me,” Bill said, but he stepped back.
“Actually, she’s my woman, and touching her isn’t allowed.”
Again, that voice was very soft, but a little shiver went down Seychelle’s spine. She stuck her chin out belligerently. “Actually, you can’t stop me from being with Bill.”
“Babe. Really? I could put Bill six feet under, and then I’m sure you wouldn’t want to be with him. Corpses don’t make good lovers. Let’s get you home. You drank a little too much.”
“I can’t go home. I can’t drive.” She was certain of that. She could barely stand. She wasn’t used to drinking, but she wasn’t going to admit to that. The world was spinning, and so was her stomach.
Savage wrapped one arm around her waist and took the cigarette from her hand. “Where’s the pack, Seychelle?”
She loved his voice. That soft, velvet brush along her skin. The sound sent a million butterflies winging their way through her body. Her stomach did a slow roll, and always, always when he spoke like that, she went damp and needy. Little fingers of desire danced up her thighs and down her spine. Just with his voice. She really had to tell him.
“I love your voice. It’s so beautiful.”