“I met two girls in the parking lot,” I say. “They looked nice, so I took a chance.” I glance back at him. “Actually, they said they know you. Bella and Bri.”
His body relaxes immediately. “Yeah. I’m friends with their husbands.”
“They gave me a ride.”
We’re quiet for a minute before he finally asks. “Why did you leave?” “What happened? I thought we were having a good time.”
I hesitate to answer. In the daylight, everything feels raw and stupid and exposed. “I just… I had to go.”
“Uh uh,” he says softly. “Something happened last night. What was it?”
I close my eyes tightly and breathe out a heavy sigh already hating that I’m about to tell him this. “There were these women in the bathroom,” I admit. “They were talking about me, and you.” My voice wobbles despite myself. “Saying that you’re with a different woman every night. I was probably a bet, or you just wanted to see if you could bang a fat chick. And once we fucked, you’d be gone and I’d never hear from you again.” The words feel uglier spoken out loud. I wait for him to pull away, or worse, act like it’s all a lie, even though Bella and Bri told me part of it’s true.
He goes still in the way a predator goes quiet before it moves. His arm tightens around me, not crushing me, but firm enough that I feel him everywhere. “They said that?” he asks, his voice low.
I nod, staring at the wall. “Yeah.”
I feel him shift, propping himself up on one elbow so he can look down at me properly. “Those fucking women,” he mutters. “They had no right to say those things to you.” I flinch at the anger in his voice and he notices instantly. “Hey,” he says, softer for half a second, thumb brushing my side. “Not at you. Never at you.” Then the anger comes back, hotter. “A bet?” he repeats, incredulous. “They really said that?”
I nod again. “They said you bang a different woman every night at Perdition. That I was just… something for you to try.”
His hand fists in the sheets. “It’s bullshit,” he snaps. “I don’t give a fuck what my reputation looks like to women who don’t know me.” He sits up fully now, careful not to jostle me, but there’s tension rolling off him in waves. “I don’t make bets about women,” he says. “I don’t joke about them. And I sure as hell don’t talk about their bodies like that.”
I swallow and look into his eyes. “But you do have a reputation.”
His mouth twists, but he doesn’t deny it. “Yes, I’ve made mistakes,” he says. “I’ve hooked up with women, a lot of women. I’ve been careless with my own shit. But I don’t use people. And I don’t humiliate them.” He looks down at me then, really looks, and the anger shifts direction. Turns protective. Feral. “And anyone who looked at you and said that,” he continues, voice shaking now, “is projecting their own ugliness. Not speaking the truth.”
My chest tightens. “Lucky…”
“No,” he cuts in gently. “You listen to me.” His hands slide down, catching mine, holding them tight between us. “You think I don’t want you?” he asks, voice low, barely containing everything underneath it. “You think I don’t see you?” He looks at me like I’m something he’s been starving for. “You’re so goddamn gorgeous, Savannah,” he says. “Yeah, you’re thick. You’ve got curves for days. And I can’t stop thinking about every single one of them.” His jaw tightens. “I adore every inch of you.” He pulls my hand down his chest to the front of his jeans, where his very hard, very big cock is now pressing against my hand. “Does that feel like a man who’s just curious?” he murmurs. “Or one who can’t get you out of his head?”
My breath stutters, but he doesn’t push. He just holds me there, steady and unyielding, like he wants the truth to sink all the way in before anything else happens. “I’ve wanted you for weeks,” he says quietly. “Ever since the first night I saw you at trivia.” His arm tightens around me. “The way you laugh and argue and don’t back down when you know you’re right.”
His mouth brushes my temple, voice lowering. “Your fire. Your mouth. That loud, stubborn heart you pretend isn’t soft.”
His hand shifts at my waist, firm now, claiming without asking. “I wanted you last night. I want you now and I don’t see that changing.” His breath warms my ear. “And I won’t let anyone make you feel like any part of you is shameful. Not your body, your voice, or the way you exist in a room.”
Then he pulls me back against his chest and breathes me in, slow and deep, like he’s marking the moment as much as he’s claiming me.
“I need coffee,” I say, my voice rough but steadier now. Then, because I apparently have no filter this early, I add, “And pancakes.”
Lucky huffs a quiet laugh against my hair. The tension doesn’t disappear, but it loosens, like he’s finally letting himself breathe again. “Pancakes,” he repeats. “Banana or blueberry?”
I turn in his arms, squinting at the morning light slipping through the blinds. “Blueberry,” I say. “And a lot of coffee. If I don’t get caffeine soon, I might cry again, and I think we’ve had enough of that for one morning.”
He smiles then. Not sharp. Not teasing. Just soft, like the moment deserves. “Alright,” he says. “Coffee and blueberry pancakes it is.”
I exhale, letting my forehead rest against his chest for just a second longer. “You can have some too,” I say, then turn and scoot toward the edge of the bed, “but only if you help.”
“I can be a very good boy when there’s something I want.”
I glance back at him over my shoulder. “Is that so?”
His mouth curves, lazy and dangerous, eyes warm now instead of stormy. “Absolutely. Especially when pancakes are involved.”
I shake my head, rolling my eyes, but I’m smiling as I stand. “Then get up,” I tell him. “Coffee doesn’t make itself.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says easily, already swinging his legs out of bed.
