Savage Ending (Savage Trilogy 4)

“Can you be inside me already?” she whispers.

“What about the food?” I tease.

“Rick, damn it.” She tugs at my shirt.

I kiss her hard and fast and then I pull it over my head and by the time it’s on the floor, she’s unzipped my pants.

I shove them down, cup her backside with one hand, and slide my fingers along the slick seam of her sex with the other. She is wet and ready, and damn, I missed this part of us when we were apart, but then, I missed everything about us. I slide inside her and she arches her hips, her sex squeezing me, her lashes lowering, unbridled pleasure sliding over her beautiful face. She says I’m crazy. She’s driving me crazy. And so, I drive into her and pick her up at the same time, and then we’re rocking together, all fast and furious, but none of it is enough. It never is with Candace. My hand splays between her shoulder blades. “Lean back,” I order, and she does. She trusts me to hold onto her when some might say I don’t deserve her trust. I left her. I hurt her. I didn’t hold onto her. I’ll never make that mistake again.

I thrust hard and she presses into me, her beautiful breasts bouncing with every move. Just like they did in my fantasies all those years I couldn’t let her go, I couldn’t even begin to replace her. I have no hope of lasting. I don’t even try. She moans loudly, this soft, sexy sound, and her sex clenches me hard and fast. I’m done. I thrust one more wicked time, and shudder into release.

When my body settles and she leans forward, into me, I set her on the counter. “Wear the robe.”

She laughs and I pull out of her, then hand her a towel, followed by the robe. “I’ll wear the robe.”

I lift her off the counter and I’m glad I told her everything about the Max situation.

We’re good.

We’re better than good.

I’m not fucking that up.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Savage

Candace and I end up back on the bed, eating our sandwiches and talking about the wedding and the honeymoon while we eat.

Afterward, exhaustion wins.

With Candace pressed against me, the shade covering up that magic moon, I fall asleep, and I sleep hard. I wake with Candace still close, the room dark, the clock reading six AM. With the cobwebs of exhaustion now gone, I replay the conversation with Max. Why couldn’t he just have given the location of the drive to the person he was handing it over to? Maybe he didn’t want the owner of the cabin to get hurt, I decide. Why didn’t he pick it up himself? Maybe he knew they were onto him. He was afraid to make a move and endanger his wife. But where the hell is his wife? Was she with him at the cabin?

With all these things bothering me, I slip out of the bed, pull the blankets over Candace, and watch her snuggle into my pillow. She’s content. She feels safe with me, because of me. I’m never letting that change. What I will do is let her sleep, and I do. I head into the bathroom to shower, shave, and dress. By the time I exit the bathroom, it’s only seven and Candace is still sound asleep. Once I’m downstairs, I start the coffee. Then I grab some egg whites and mix up a couple of omelets to throw on when Candace wakes up.

In the meantime, I think.

About Max.

About who he’d blackmail with that insurance I’d kept.

About the past, and Tag, and all the piggies that said “wee wee wee” for him.

But more so, I think of all the big shots in the government that Tag worked for. People with a lot to lose if that program were to be exposed. I grab a pad and pen and start writing down everything I remember about the mission locations. It’s all foggy, but there were at least one of those big shots I know I documented in my insurance. He is now the former NSA director, Jacob Allen.

I grab my notebook and google him. He’s started a business with Ned Walters, the CEO of one of the top tech firms in the world. Not working, I amend. Jacob now has a lot to lose.

“You’re up early,” Candace says, heading down the stairs, already dressed in black jeans and a pink T-shirt she bought from a gift store right after moving here. And like all proud tourists, it proudly reads, “I Love New York.” Only it turns out that she really does. Enough to stay with me.

I shut the computer and walk to the stove. “How about omelets?”

“Yes, please,” she says, setting her sketch pad down on the island and perking up. “And coffee.” She walks to the counter behind me and grabs a cup. “Someone has had a few cups,” she comments, noting the pot is now half empty. “I predict you will be wired today and that many a wickedly bad joke will follow.”