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But nothing about our positioning—with him at my back so our lips never meet and my pose completely subservient—speaks of an impersonal nature. No, on the contrary, as Gavin and I stare at each other in the mirror, our breath quickening even though he’s moving oh so slowly within me… I can feel a connection to him at this very moment that buries deep into my soul and sinks its claws permanently into me.
19
Savannah has been my personal assistant for a week and, unfortunately, she’s doing too damned good of a job. With her taking off my plate every little annoyance and administrative task I always had to handle on my own, I’m freed up to do nothing but write. My productivity skyrocketed, even with me taking breaks during the day to come downstairs and molest my Sweet. Those tend to be the best parts of my day.
At night… we spend hours exploring each other’s body, and after having known each other for just under two weeks, I’m finding it neither odd nor weird that I’m liking her available to me at all hours of the day and night.
I had asked her just yesterday, “Does Casey think it’s weird that you’re sleeping over here every night?”
Savannah laughed at me, full throated and husky. “No. She said she was just glad that I was finally getting some. ”
I laughed in return, kissed her hard, and then made love to her on my bathroom vanity, knocking one place I had promised she’d be f**ked off my list.
Yes, Savannah is the most efficient personal assistant ever. Hell, even her research is quick and spot-on, further speeding up the process of finishing my manuscript. At this rate, I will definitely be done within a week. I had vainly hoped to stretch it longer just to give myself some more time with her. At least I’m taking her to Chicago with me on Wednesday, and we’ll be gone a few days. Maybe I can extend my trip there, lengthening the time frame within which I can complete the manuscript, and thus prolonging my time with her.
Lindie called me again yesterday, reminding me that I had a deadline, and I told her to f**k off… that I’d take another month to write the damn thing if I felt that is what was needed. She responded with her ever-present question, “Are you drinking, Gavin?”
Deeply… from between Savannah’s thighs, I thought to myself. And oh, the intoxicating rush of it all.
I assured her I was fine, but that you could not rush creativity. That must be a standard response from her other authors because she got quiet and didn’t push at me anymore. I then gave her the power punch and reminded her that the book wasn’t set to be published until the following year, so we had plenty of time. I had the sneaking suspicion that my editor had set a deadline on me with plenty of cushion in case I couldn’t meet the original schedule.
My manuscript was changing in flavor, and those changes would often spill from laptop to real flesh. It happened on more than one occasion this week. I’d be writing an intensely erotic scene between Honey and Max—Max, by the way, having given up his philandering ways—and I would be so immersed in the scene that I’d get a massive erection.
I didn’t need Freud to point out to me that the sex scenes between Honey and Max were nothing more than my own subconscious desires for the depraved things I wanted to do to Savannah being played out across my laptop screen.
I’d come out of my writing haze, read back over the intense eroticism I had just written, and would be struck with a massive yearning and a raging hard-on for Savannah. I’d merely push back from my desk, stalk around my house until I found her, and then I’d play out that scene for real.
Once I took her out on the back deck, with the frigid, late January wind blowing around us, and the beach thankfully deserted. Pulled her pants off, left the rest of our clothes on, and set her ass on the deck rail. I did nothing more than free my c**k from my zipper and f**ked her fast and furiously. I immediately carried her inside afterward, her ni**les erect from the cold, and put us in a hot shower, where I went down on her with the warm water pelting my body.
Another time, I found her sitting at my kitchen table, her nose practically plastered to her own laptop while she did research for me on Jack the Ripper. I had a sub-plot where one of the demons in my fantasy universe was actually a reincarnation of Jack, who liked to shred his victims from the inside out. I merely walked up to her, grabbed her by the ponytail she had ensnared her beautiful hair in, and tilted her head back to look at me.
“I want you,” I told her simply, and her eyes burned like the setting sun.
I pulled her up from the chair, sat myself on the warmed seat, and ordered her to strip. She didn’t hesitate. When she was completely naked, I told her to ride me. My c**k was already hard, but I let her do the rest of the work. Her hands were slightly shaking and her breath was already shallow by the time she freed me from my jeans and climbed onto my lap. Just before she lowered herself to me, I told her to wait, and I brought my hand between her legs. She was already damp—I’m sure she started to glisten the moment I pulled on her ponytail—but I worked her with my fingers for a while until she came close to cl**ax. Then I dropped my hands and let her finish us both off while she rode me with abandon.
She had me groaning like a ravenous animal when I came, gripping her h*ps and grinding her down hard on me as I unloaded.
“Sweet,” I had growled.
When we both stopped shuddering, she nuzzled my neck and whispered, “I’m going to call you Filthy. ”
She leaned back and looked down at me with tenderness and humor wrapped up in a pretty bow, and I felt my heart turn over in my chest.
“I’m the filthy to your sweet?”
“You’re many things to me,” she murmured before kissing my lips. “But filthy is my favorite. ”
I took Savannah whenever I wanted, and she never once said no. On the contrary, her eyes always fired hot and she gave in to my every desire. And yes, I was playing out all my desires from laptop to flesh, but I’d be ten times the fool if I didn’t admit to myself that there was something more going on inside of my not-so-fictitious manuscript.
Honey and Max were transforming. His eyes no longer hungrily roamed over every piece of womanly flesh that came his way. No, they stayed glued to Honey the entire time, and hers to his. They developed a bond, which stretched, forged, and ultimately cemented through their darkest days together. In the worst of times, they were each other’s anchors. In the best of times, they became each other’s light.
My own sanity worried over this change, because it was an absolute divergence from the plot that I had promised my publisher. Max was a stud… most of his appeal centered in the loner, alpha tendencies he displayed throughout my first novel. Men wanted to be him because he f**ked his way across the United States. Women wanted just one crack at the pleasures he promised.
But now… now he was monogamous and entrusting his heart to just one woman, and it worried me to no end that perhaps my own heart was becoming too deeply immersed in the sweet beauty of Savannah Shepherd. For the first time, in a long time, I yearn to walk away from the bitterness and pain of my past life, and move into something that was good, sweet, and without tarnish. I crave the light that Savannah shines on me.
Her smile calms, her soft touch unmans. Her laugh fortifies, and her brazen look overwhelms me.
I’m falling in deep with her, and rather than trying to claw my way out, I find myself wanting to tie anchors to my feet so that I can submerge in just a little further.
This was something I promised myself I’d never do again, so brutal was the hurt I suffered from Amanda’s hands. Yet even as I repetitively warn myself that I’m treading on thin ice by laying my heart on the line, I can’t help but seek her out over and over again.
Standing up from my desk, I roll my neck from side to side, loosening the tension that took hold from my thoughts and worries. Glancing at my watch, I decide to go for a run. Savannah is out at the grocery store and picking up my mail from the post office. I have time to get a run in and a sh
ower before she returns, and then I think I’ll sit in the kitchen and ogle her while she cooks us dinner.
When I return from my run, Savannah is in the kitchen, a vision of domesticity as she mixes a red sauce on the stove. She lifts the lid of another pot and gives it a stir.
“Hey,” she says cheerfully. “You had a ton of mail at the post office, but I’ll sort if after dinner. I probably need to check it every day just to stay on top of it. ”
I walk up behind her and slip my arms around her waist. Nuzzling her neck, I tell her, “You’re not working after dinner. ”
Savannah tries to wriggle out of my grasp. “You’re all sweaty, Gavin. Gross. ”
“Come take a shower with me then,” I urge her.
“Can’t. Pasta will be done in about five minutes. Go take a quick shower and then come eat,” she tells me firmly, managing to slip free. I think briefly about pulling her to the floor and getting her sweaty with me but instead, I swat her on the ass and jog up the stairs.
After a quick shower where I ignore my aching cock, because just being pressed up against Savannah is enough to get me massively turned on, I return down to the kitchen in a pair of old sweatpants and a T-shirt. She’s straining the pasta and humming to herself.
“Want some wine with our dinner, Filthy-boy?”
I grin at her nickname and walk over to my wine rack. Pulling out a bottle of Cab, I open the drawer for the corkscrew. Savannah pulls two plates out of the cupboard and dishes up a heaping pile for me that she drizzles with a garlicky tomato sauce. She then serves up a much smaller plate for herself, and I pour two glasses of wine.
We sit beside each other, making small talk, our knees bumping companionably against each other. I find I like her in my kitchen, in my house, sitting next to me, slurping noodles. It’s so simple, yet so complex, because my meals have all been enjoyed in solitary fashion for so long. Yet I can’t deny the feeling of peace and fulfillment I get just by having her here.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Savannah says as she twirls pasta around her fork. “Who is that adorable little boy in the photo on your desk?”
My own hand freezes mid-twirl, and my head spins slightly. I wasn’t prepared for Savannah to ask me about Charlie, yet my beautiful little boy isn’t exactly a secret. While it’s true he sits in my office with me day in and day out, the only reason he’s secluded there is because that’s the only photo I have of him and I want him near me while I work. All the other photos of his smiling face are now sitting in dusty boxes at my dad’s house in London.
I remember Lindie once asked me about Charlie, and I snarled at her so viciously that she turned pale and immediately started yammering apologies. I told her to mind her own f**king business and stormed out of her office.
Charlie is to me what pain, regret, and misery are to a broken man, and sharing his story with Savannah could spiral me down a hole that has taken me months to climb out of. Yet, Charlie is also sunshine, toothless smiles, and warm baby kisses. He holds the largest chunk of my heart and that should be celebrated.
There’s no denying that Savannah has a piece of my heart as well. She squirmed her way in, set up residence, and has no chance of leaving any time soon. Maybe it’s time for both pieces of my heart to get to know one another.
Clearing my throat, I set my fork down and turn to face her. “That’s Charlie… my son. ”
Savannah’s face lights up in a smile, and she pushes at my shoulder with her hand. “You have a son? No way. I can’t believe you never told me. ” She turns all the way on her stool to face me and leans forward with excitement, her dinner completely forgotten. “Tell me all about him and spare me no detail. ”
Oh, Sweet… you don’t want these details, but I’m going to give them to you anyway.
And because I know what I’m getting ready to tell her is going to wipe that smile right off her face, I raise my hand and stroke her cheek, even as I say, “He’s dead, Sweet. ”