“Bad things are going to happen on the run, aren’t they, Savage?”
He shrugged. “It’s entirely possible, angel. Probable.”
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. That was why he needed to change the rules. He expected to need to have sex with her on the run to drain off some of the rage that would build up in him.
“How are we going to cope with your needs, Savage?”
“We’ll figure it out, baby,” he answered. “We’re both intelligent, and we have time.” He nuzzled her neck and then kissed her. “Tomorrow we can move all your things in. Put your house up for sale.”
She stiffened. She couldn’t help it, even knowing he would feel it. Half turning toward him, she shook her head decisively. “Absolutely not. I’m not selling my house. I’m not.”
“You don’t like this one?”
“I love this house, Savage, but I’m not there yet. I can’t give up my house. You can run away to the clubhouse. To the bar. Wherever it is you go on your motorcycle. I need my house. When you get how you get, I need a place to run away to. That’s my house.”
“Absolutely not. You have the clubhouse now as well. You can run to Czar’s house. You don’t run to your house, where fucking Arnold or Campbell are lurking around ready to pounce, especially if you’re pissed at me.”
“I won’t be pissed. Well, I might be. You’re scary and overwhelming sometimes. I need my house. I love my house. I love this one too, but I’m not ready to sell my house.” She turned back over, her shoulder in his face. “You can argue all you want, Savage, but as far as I’m concerned, this discussion is over. I’m not selling it.”
“You have a stubborn streak in you a mile wide.” His teeth scraped back and forth gently over the nape of her neck, spreading goose bumps all over her body. He kissed the same spot. “I love you, angel. Stubborn streak and all.”
She smiled. “I love you too. Bossy streak and all.”
* * *
Seychelle woke to an empty bed. She lifted her head and looked around. She had gotten used to Savage being with her. He liked to wake her up with his mouth on her. Usually between her legs. She wanted to try waking him up the same way, but he was very strict on her lessons and what direction they would take. Maybe she should have suggested that for their parties. Learning to give him a blow job while at a party. That might be fun—or not. For both of them.
Savage had been in the shower; the glass doors were still wet. She liked that the tiles were warm under her feet when she stepped out and that the towels were warm. That felt very decadent. She knew absolutely that Savage wouldn’t care about those things—but he did care that she had them. He was surprising in so many ways. He was rough on the outside, but with her, so incredibly soft on the inside—most of the time.
She found clothes in a far-too-large closet. There was a faded pair of blue jeans that fit like a glove, and a tank top that maybe showed a little bit too much of her generous breasts. Savage insisted she had the perfect figure. He didn’t seem to notice that because she was on the short side, one or two extra pounds really showed, always in her butt or her boobs or, most times, both. He didn’t seem to mind, but when it came to clothes . . .
She tugged at the tank top. It was tighter than anything she’d ever worn. The bra barely covered her breasts. They tended to sit high, and so the tops of the curves showed, and she could see the marks from Savage’s mouth, the strawberries he’d left behind. Just looking at them sent flutters to her sex. Her nipples had been a little sore when she woke up, but she had rubbed the lotion into them and tried to do the same on her bottom and thighs. That had been a little more difficult.
She kept staring at herself in the mirror, wondering how Savage had managed to make her feel sexy. He made her feel like she looked sexy. Her hair was a little wild, like it always was. Instead of being annoyed and thinking she looked awful, she thought the honey-colored out-of-control volume suited her face. Seeing the way her breasts stretched the tank top, instead of agonizing over being too heavy, she knew Savage would have a difficult time keeping his hands—and mouth—off of her. She liked that her bottom was cupped by the jeans, and that with every step she took, she felt just a little ache.
Seychelle strapped on a pair of sandals she found in the closet and went to the sliding glass door off the bedroom leading to the private courtyard. She could see the ocean from one view and, turning slightly, the woods from another. Stepping outside, she immediately felt the cool salt air and the flutter of the sea breeze.