Savage Road (Torpedo Ink 7)

She arched her left eyebrow, calling attention to the small scar that bisected that eyebrow, the one she’d gotten saving his life. The moment he noticed it, he was hot all over, just as he was thinking about the way she took his whip for him. She looked so damn innocent and young, with her thick, wild hair falling in waves around her face and down her back. He loved it the most when she just let it be instead of trying to tame it.

“Sit down with me, baby.” He indicated a low-slung Adirondack chair made from redwood slats. No cushions. There was a small table made of the same redwood. His chair was across from hers so he could look at her face, see every expression. Ordinarily, he would have talked things out with her right after they had wild sex, but not when he was so out of control. He had to work it completely out of his system first.

Seychelle sank gingerly into the chair, keeping her legs a little apart. She wore soft gray boots to match the sweet little dark lavender sweater with the thick gray lines zigzagging through it. The sweater didn’t cling to her generous tits like most of her clothes. She was wearing a bra, but it was one that was lacy around her breasts, so that the mesh caged the weight but didn’t press against her nipples.

“I don’t want to make you late for your meeting, Savage.” She looked a little worried, brushing back a strand of hair that was persistent in falling across her face.

“There are things that need to be said.” He was decisive. “I have plenty of time.” There was no way he could be away from her without clearing things up. He leaned toward her, his eyes meeting hers. “I’m not saying there’s a hope in hell of this happening, but I gotta know, Seychelle, if you want out.”

Her brows drew together. “Out of what, honey?”

She wasn’t playing him. There was honest puzzlement in her voice. On her face. She spread her hands out in front of her.

“Us. Me and you. Do you want out?” He could feel the familiar panic rising. His chest hurt. His heart beat too fast. Sweat was beading on his forehead. She couldn’t love him because he was a fucking sadistic monster.

Her blue eyes drifted over his face with that same expression she’d been giving him consistently. No holding back. Stark, raw love. She didn’t try to contain it. Or hide it from him. She just gave it to him, whether he deserved it or not. All of him. Every bit of him. A slow smile made her look even more angelic.

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily, Savage. Just because I make you pick up wet towels and throw them in the laundry basket isn’t a good enough excuse to try to shove me out.”

He pushed his palm hard against his chest. “You think it’s the wet towels?”

She shrugged casually. “Probably not. You caught me studying the patterns on your mannequins and you know my evil plan, don’t you?”

It was his turn to raise an eyebrow, because she had been in the courtyard with the mannequins. She’d been there for some time, studying them, tilting her head from side to side, walking around them and looking from every angle.

“You weren’t just admiring my skills?”

“I was, actually, but I was also going to match the whips with the patterns. That way, I could kind of build up to the harder ones. I thought the one you did on me was beautiful, but it hurt like hell. When I say hurt like hell, I really mean that. Those whips were the very devil.”

“I was careful with you,” he pointed out. “Didn’t break your skin.”

“You didn’t. I was impressed,” she admitted. “But I still thought we’d talk about working up to the harder patterns.” Matter-of-fact. Easy. As if they were discussing the weather. Interested, even.

She sat there calmly across from him, her body still bearing the welts from their last session, and she was talking about preparing for his next cycle. He turned his head away from her to stare at the pounding waves. He didn’t dare keep looking at her. She was going to make him believe she loved him just the way he was and that maybe, just maybe, she’d keep on loving him year after year when he couldn’t stop being the monster.

“That’s a good idea, Seychelle,” he agreed, when he could finally get words out. He still sounded gruffer than he wanted.

“I tried to work out from looking at them which ones were more intense, but I really have no way of knowing. I thought maybe next week you could show me the whips again and explain which ones do what and which are used to create the artwork on each of the mannequins. I find all of it beautiful. Your accuracy … astounds me.”