She didn’t pay him heed in the least. “Who knew you were so popular, Savage? All those sparkly hats and all of them wanting to dance with you. I had more requests for songs. The other bikers in the bar last night were quite enthusiastic about making certain the right music was requested. Everyone had ideas. I even saw Jackson and Jonas slip in. They were grinning from ear to ear, and at first it looked as if they might have been there on official business.”
That did it. At the mention of the cops, there was no way he was going to be a saint. Savage rolled and took her with him, so that she sprawled over the top of him, her sore, bare ass in the air, legs on either side of his hips. Her amazing blue eyes laughed right down into his, causing his heart to perform some silly, weird melting sensation. He rubbed her bottom, hoping she would consider that a threat.
“You didn’t tell me I had so many rivals for your affection. I went into that blind. All those ladies giggling. They brought cookies, Savage. There were plates of cookies with your name on them.”
If a man like him had the ability to blush, he might actually have done it when the Red Hat ladies marched in with their crazy purple-and-red hats and their wild clothing, as if each had tried to outdo the others in outlandish skirts and layered dusters. Secretly, he applauded them for their carefree apparel and their insistence on living out their lives the way they chose. If they wanted to go to a biker bar dressed as a cross between fairy godmothers and something out of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, more power to them.
Ten of the Red Hat women had shown up, all bearing plates of cookies. And then Zyah, Player’s wife. She had come along to keep an eye on her grandmother. Anat Gamal, her grandmother, had unofficially adopted all of Torpedo Ink as her grandchildren. Savage wasn’t going to admit to his woman that he might really be one of the favorites, because she would give him no end of grief over it. She was already far too amused over how the evening had played out.
“I shared the cookies with you, you little monster,” he pointed out. He kissed the hollow of her neck. She always smelled so good—a wild strawberry fragrance that was just so subtle.
“You weren’t very generous with the bar.”
“They were snickering.”
“Because you wouldn’t dance. Those ladies wanted to dance.”
“I don’t dance.”
“You dance with me.”
“You’ve got something I want, baby.”
“What would that be?” She traced one of his scars with her tongue, and then the tattoo that ran over the top of it.
“That mouth of yours. Love your mouth, Seychelle. I’m going to love seeing your lips stretched around my cock. You’ve got the most amazing tits. Firm and round, more than a handful. Impressive nipples, and you let me play. I’ve decided to see if I can make you come for me just by playing with your nipples, baby. Your sweet little pussy. It’s hot as hell and so tight you strangle my cock when I’m inside you. Then there’s your perfect ass. I love the shape of your ass cheeks, the way they show my marks. The way they bounce when I strike them. I think about fucking your ass while you scream and come over and over even though you don’t want to, and it makes me so hard, I think I’ll explode. So, yeah, I’ve got reasons to make the effort to dance with you and make a fucking fool out of myself.”
All the while he spoke in a low, velvet tone, he rubbed her sore cheeks gently. He could feel her heat growing as he continued. He slid his fingers lower, between her legs, to find her slick, just like he knew she would be. She was always responsive to him. He loved a hell of a lot more about her than he told her. It wasn’t all physical; in fact, there was a lot that wasn’t physical, but making more of a fool of himself than he already looked with those women wasn’t happening.
“Is that why you dance with me, honey?”
She rubbed her chin on his chest and then looked up at him, those long lashes feathering over her eyes and then lifting, nearly stopping his heart.
“Maybe. Or maybe I just like to hold you.” He was rewarded with her smile. It was slow, curving those full lips so that her straight little teeth gleamed at him and her eyes picked up a shine.
“Maybe you are a fucking choirboy after all, Savin Pajari.” She lifted her head and framed his face with both hands, looking innocent and sweet as only Seychelle could do. “It never lasts more than five seconds, but in those five seconds, that choirboy deserves all those Red Hat ladies and their adoration and cookies. I’m absolutely certain of it.”