Savage Hunger (Savage Trilogy 1)

I tell myself this is crazy, insane, wildly out of my character. “I don’t do things like this. Ever.”

He kisses me again and leaves me breathless. “Then make me the first.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Candace

Then make me the first.

Those words linger between us, my decision ending this encounter with Rick Savage, or making it last all night. My hand flattens on his chest, over his heart, and the thundering of his heart beneath my palm, the absolute proof that he’s all in, pushes me over the edge. “Yes. Yes, I want to go with you.”

“I don’t live far,” he says. “Do you want to follow me or get your car in the morning?”

“My place,” I say quickly. “Can we go to my place?”

“Of course.” He strokes my cheek. “Do you—”

“I’ll ride with you,” I say because I just don’t want to ruin this vibe between us, whatever it is. And I don’t want the chance to talk myself out of this. “But I need to go inside. I left my bag and my order.”

“I’ll go, but I also need to move your car. You really did park like shit.”

“I did not park like shit.”

He laughs and kisses me. “You did. Let me have your keys.”

I dig in my pocket and hand them over. “How are you and your big body getting in that door?”

He scoots back to his spot behind the wheel and turns on the engine, cranking the heat and then backing up the vehicle before pulling us into the next parking spot. “Like that.” He winks. “I’ll be fast.” He yanks up his hood, opens the door, and then he’s gone, shutting me inside in a wake of that delicious, woodsy cologne of his.

I scoot forward, trying to spy him through the rain, but he must walk around the back of the SUV because, in a flash, he’s beside my window, climbing into my car. He backs it up, and it, right along with the man, disappears. A minute later, he’s obviously parked it nearby because he’s already at the door of the coffee bar. He enters and disappears inside. My god, my heart is racing all over again. There is something about this man that I can’t explain. Something mysterious. Something broken. Something I can’t turn away from. He’ll hurt me, I think. Broken people hurt other people, but I can’t seem to care. It’s not like I’m going to fall in love. I’m just going to fall into him for one night.

I wait for his return and wait some more. I could almost believe he left, except that I’m in his vehicle. Maybe he hopes I’ll leave? No. That’s silly. The connection between us is real. You can’t imagine this kind of heat. I sink back into the seat and press my hands to the leather, my heart pitter-pattering as fast as the rain hits the window, my nerves keeping pace. What’s taking so long? The door opens and there he is, a big and devastating man standing there, holding my bag. He shoves it behind the seat and then rejoins me, offering me a coffee cup. “I had them remake it and,” he sets a bag down next to me, “they boxed up your cake. I got a slice for me, too.”

I blink. “You had them remake my coffee?”

“It was cold.” He shuts the door.

My body burns for this man, but the thoughtfulness in his actions warm me from the inside out. “Thank you.”

He cuts me a sideways glance that sparks with all kinds of sizzle. “You have to share.”

“I do believe you earned half the coffee.”

He smiles and faces the window, shifting us into reverse, pulling out of the space and driving us toward the exit.

I sip the delicious white mocha drink and then, once we’re on the road, and with a flutter of my stomach, I offer him a drink. “Share, right?”

“Exactly,” he agrees, accepting the cup. “It’ sweet,” I warn.

“The sweeter the better,” he assures me, taking the cup and giving me another wink. “Where are we going?” he asks, taking a sip.

“Alamo Heights,” I say, heat burning low in my belly with his lips on my cup, where my lips just were, too. “Lamont Avenue.”

“I know exactly where that is.”

“You do?” I ask, surprised.

“I don’t live far,” he explains. “My father owns a bunch of real estate from back in his days in private practice.”

“He was in private practice?”

“He was a plastic surgeon. He is a plastic surgeon. He made loads of money and then had a car accident that damaged his hand.” He takes another drink and the intimacy of sharing my coffee with Rick somehow feels more intimate than a one-night stand. So does the conversation.

“That’s horrible.”

He sips again. “Good stuff,” he says of the coffee, offering it back to me, and the minute I take the cup, he pulls me closer, aligning our legs. “Don’t feel sorry for my father. He’s an arrogant prick.”