Savage Hunger (Savage Trilogy 1)

“No,” I say quickly. “No, I don’t want you to leave.”

He gives me a nod and meets my father’s stare. “She gets to judge me by my actions, not my father’s, and decide if I belong in her life. Not you. You don’t get to judge me.”

A muscle in my father’s jaw flexes, tense seconds ticking by before he asks, “What do you do for the military, Rick Savage?”

“Surgical resident at Fort Sam, under my father.”

“You want to be like him?”

Rick’s expression doesn’t change, but there’s a sharp charge to the air around him. “Never will I ever be like that man.”

“But you want to be a surgeon?” my father pushes.

“Should we go to war, should I go to war, I will save our soldiers and I will kill our enemies, so in answer to your question: yes, sir, I want to be a surgeon.”

My father’s eyebrows jump up, which, no doubt, is my own reaction. “And fight? You want to fight?” my father asks.

Rick doesn’t even hesitate. “Abso-fucking-lutely.”

That reply twists me in knots. “Well, there you have it, dad,” I say. “You can stop judging him. That answer is the reason he and I are just friends.” Tears burn my eyes just thinking about my mother’s accident and my father’s deployment. “I need coffee and cake.” I walk to the counter opposite both men, open a drawer, and grab a fork. I then remove the top of the box my father brought, expose the yummy-looking chocolate cake and fill my fork with a giant bite. I shove it all into my mouth.

Savage and my father appear on either side of me. Savage takes the fork from my hand and then scoops a bite of cake that he too shoves in his mouth. He used my fork in front of my father. It’s this intimate, assuming act that says we’re as intimate and as assuming as the action. There’s a message in the action. That message is his rejection of us being just friends. “Damn good,” he murmurs, his eyes warm as he hands me back the fork.

“I can’t,” I whisper, certain he’ll understand my meaning. I can’t fall for him.

“Challenge accepted,” he replies.

“Let me get a bite of that cake,” my father says, opening a drawer and then producing his own fork, claiming a general-sized bite of cake. “Hmmm,” he approves. “Millie is damn good.”

Rick arches a brow at the comment that means nothing to him. “Millie’s been his housekeeper since I was a kid,” I explain.

“Your mother loved this cake,” my father says, and then quickly clears his throat, a hint of emotion there he doesn’t hide. “I do believe we all need plates and that coffee.” My father rotates and walks to the cabinet behind us.

Rick wipes my lip and licks the chocolate off his finger. “I like it even better now.” His eyes twinkle with mischief.

“You’re bad,” I whisper.

He leans in close and whispers. “Only as bad as you let me be.”

With that, my nipples are puckered, my thighs pressed together, and all while the hottest man I’ve ever known is a few inches from my father, the man I admire the most in the world.

A few minutes later, we are all in the living room, listening to the rain hitting the rooftop while eating cake and drinking hot coffee, the conversation turning to my father’s favorite subject: football. One it seems Rick enjoys as well. It’s not the night that I’d envisioned at all when I went to the coffee bar. It’s not the night I envisioned when I brought Rick home. It’s something much better.

My father doesn’t linger once the cake and coffee are gone, and it’s not long before I walk him to the door. “I’m glad you’re not alone,” he says softly. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I’m not going to get hurt, dad.”

“If he hurts you—”

“I’ll deal with him, not you.”

His lips thin. “He seems like a good man. Better than his father.”

I lower my voice. “What is the scoop with his father?”

“He’s got a God-complex and that’s bad news. It gets people killed. It also could be very hard to live with. I get the feeling your young man has lived that hell.” He kisses me. “Call me tomorrow.”

I nod and shut the door, wondering about how hard it was for Rick to grow up with his father and now to work underneath him. That darkness I’ve felt in Rick, the torment that I’ve tasted in his kisses, now has new meaning. He’s not here to spend a night with me and walk away. He proved that when he stood his ground with my father. But I have to walk away. I can’t fall for this man. I can’t. Not a soldier. My heart can’t take it.

With this in my mind, I hurry back into the living room where Rick sits on the couch. I step in front of him, towering over him. He doesn’t react by standing, by trying to claim a dominant position. He doesn’t get up at all.