That said, the woman oozes sexuality, from those sultry come-to-bed-eyes that dart away every time I catch her staring at me, right down to her long, toned legs.
It’s just a shame they remain permanently crossed.
She acts like she hates the ground I walk on, but she was staring at my pecs like she wanted to devour them earlier. The scratches on my chest stemmed from helping my brother move some sharp-edged furniture in his apartment, but the heat flooding her cheeks as she imagined an entirely different scenario was almost adorable.
Does a woman like her really abstain from sex completely?
Her full, round breasts are too fucking perfect not to be touched.
The womanly contours of her ass were made to be grabbed and groped.
And those lips, rosy pink, are so fucking plump, it’s criminal not to make use of them.
It’s great that she’s a champion for women, and for single mothers, but not all men are bastards.
Not all of us need to be put back in our box.
Not that I’ll ever convince her of that.
Which is why I’m stuck in the first date/ faceless fuckcycle, hoping that one day, one of them will affect me the same way Savannah does.
She calls me a manwhore. Maybe I am. But it’s only because I can’t have what I really want – her.
Winding her up, watching her cringe, watching her cheeks flush crimson, is the highlight of my Saturday. She assumes my sexual innuendos are a joke, but there’s nothing funny about the way I silently will her to take me up on one of them.
My phone buzzes on the glass coffee table. I hate that coffee table. I’ve banged my shin on it more times than I can count, but it was a housewarming gift from my sister, Rachel, and I can’t bring myself to get rid of it. If she called in and it was gone, she’d be hurt, so I keep it and regularly hurt myself on it instead.
I rock up from the couch, praying it’s not the weather girl I fucked a few weeks ago. I told her it was a one-time thing, but she got my number from somewhere and has been stalking me ever since.
No, given it’s Saturday night. It’s probably my brother, Richard, wondering if I’m going out. He’s more than happy to act as my wingman, especially when it provides access to the VIP section of every exclusive nightclub in Dublin.
Unlike me, he’s showing no sign of tiring of the serial dates and faceless fucks.
My brow tugs upwards at the sight of Savannah Kingsley’s name flashing across my screen.
Hope sparks in my chest for a split second before spectacularly crashing and burning.
She’s probably calling to bollock me for flirting with her in front of the twins. They were out of earshot. I’m not that careless.
I reach for the remote and flick off the TV before swiping to answer her call.
‘If you’re calling to help me out in the shower, you’re half an hour too late.’ I force my tone into a lazy drawl to hide the giddiness at the unexpected chance to hear her velvety voice, even if she is calling to berate me.
‘You’re disgusting,’ she exclaims.
‘No, I’m a man with needs. Taking care of them is the most natural thing in the world. Tell me Savannah, do you take care of your needs? Or is the reason you’re so aggressive because you’re wound tight with sexual tension?’ I shouldn’t tease her. I’m not doing myself any favours, but I can’t help it.
The way her voice hitches sends my heart rate soaring higher.
She pauses for a long beat. Is she imagining the same sexy scenario as me?
‘As much as I’d love to discuss this further,’ sarcasm hangs on her every syllable, ‘there’s a reason I’m calling the most irritating man on the planet on a Saturday evening.’ The slightest flicker of vulnerability inflects her tone.
Worry flares in my chest. For all my teasing and bravado, and pent-up desire for Savannah, I’d do anything in the world for her. And I mean anything.
‘Is everything okay? Are the twins okay?’ Over the past couple of years, I’ve come to adore those little girls. At six years old, Eden has more sense than most grown women, and Isla has more balls than most grown men.
‘The twins are fine.’ Savannah hesitates. ‘I need a favour.’
