Sugar on the Edge(58)
Honey and Max were transforming. His eyes no longer hungrily roamed over every piece of womanly flesh that came his way. No, they stayed glued to Honey the entire time, and hers to his. They developed a bond, which stretched, forged, and ultimately cemented through their darkest days together. In the worst of times, they were each other’s anchors. In the best of times, they became each other’s light.
My own sanity worried over this change, because it was an absolute divergence from the plot that I had promised my publisher. Max was a stud… most of his appeal centered in the loner, alpha tendencies he displayed throughout my first novel. Men wanted to be him because he fucked his way across the United States. Women wanted just one crack at the pleasures he promised.
But now… now he was monogamous and entrusting his heart to just one woman, and it worried me to no end that perhaps my own heart was becoming too deeply immersed in the sweet beauty of Savannah Shepherd. For the first time, in a long time, I yearn to walk away from the bitterness and pain of my past life, and move into something that was good, sweet, and without tarnish. I crave the light that Savannah shines on me.
Her smile calms, her soft touch unmans. Her laugh fortifies, and her brazen look overwhelms me.
I’m falling in deep with her, and rather than trying to claw my way out, I find myself wanting to tie anchors to my feet so that I can submerge in just a little further.
This was something I promised myself I’d never do again, so brutal was the hurt I suffered from Amanda’s hands. Yet even as I repetitively warn myself that I’m treading on thin ice by laying my heart on the line, I can’t help but seek her out over and over again.
Standing up from my desk, I roll my neck from side to side, loosening the tension that took hold from my thoughts and worries. Glancing at my watch, I decide to go for a run. Savannah is out at the grocery store and picking up my mail from the post office. I have time to get a run in and a shower before she returns, and then I think I’ll sit in the kitchen and ogle her while she cooks us dinner.
When I return from my run, Savannah is in the kitchen, a vision of domesticity as she mixes a red sauce on the stove. She lifts the lid of another pot and gives it a stir.
“Hey,” she says cheerfully. “You had a ton of mail at the post office, but I’ll sort if after dinner. I probably need to check it every day just to stay on top of it.”
I walk up behind her and slip my arms around her waist. Nuzzling her neck, I tell her, “You’re not working after dinner.”
Savannah tries to wriggle out of my grasp. “You’re all sweaty, Gavin. Gross.”
“Come take a shower with me then,” I urge her.
“Can’t. Pasta will be done in about five minutes. Go take a quick shower and then come eat,” she tells me firmly, managing to slip free. I think briefly about pulling her to the floor and getting her sweaty with me but instead, I swat her on the ass and jog up the stairs.
After a quick shower where I ignore my aching cock, because just being pressed up against Savannah is enough to get me massively turned on, I return down to the kitchen in a pair of old sweatpants and a T-shirt. She’s straining the pasta and humming to herself.
“Want some wine with our dinner, Filthy-boy?”
I grin at her nickname and walk over to my wine rack. Pulling out a bottle of Cab, I open the drawer for the corkscrew. Savannah pulls two plates out of the cupboard and dishes up a heaping pile for me that she drizzles with a garlicky tomato sauce. She then serves up a much smaller plate for herself, and I pour two glasses of wine.
We sit beside each other, making small talk, our knees bumping companionably against each other. I find I like her in my kitchen, in my house, sitting next to me, slurping noodles. It’s so simple, yet so complex, because my meals have all been enjoyed in solitary fashion for so long. Yet I can’t deny the feeling of peace and fulfillment I get just by having her here.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Savannah says as she twirls pasta around her fork. “Who is that adorable little boy in the photo on your desk?”
My own hand freezes mid-twirl, and my head spins slightly. I wasn’t prepared for Savannah to ask me about Charlie, yet my beautiful little boy isn’t exactly a secret. While it’s true he sits in my office with me day in and day out, the only reason he’s secluded there is because that’s the only photo I have of him and I want him near me while I work. All the other photos of his smiling face are now sitting in dusty boxes at my dad’s house in London.
I remember Lindie once asked me about Charlie, and I snarled at her so viciously that she turned pale and immediately started yammering apologies. I told her to mind her own fucking business and stormed out of her office.