There may not be a corner for her at this bar, but there’s always a spot just for her. I have to stop and look at her. For a long time, I wasn’t sure I was up for the ‘more,’ business, but as long as that ‘more’ is coming from Savannah it doesn’t seem too bad.
“What’ll it be?” I ask, grabbing a glass and tossing a bottle behind my back, only to catch it and flip it upside down to pour her some whiskey.
“My boyfriend. He’s about six foot two, blond, maybe you’ve seen him around? Sometimes goes by the name Mr. Fuckable. I’d like him dirty with a twist,” she says.
I laugh. “I’ll see what I can do.”
She downs her whiskey in a gulp and gets up. “Don’t keep me waiting.” She threads her way back through the crowd, her red dress sticking out against the darkness of the club.
The guys and Cassie, Ruby, and Avery have gathered in one of our private spaces. The champagne is flowing and bottle service is continual. Savannah talks with Tasha. I was worried the complications with my parents would split Tasha and me again, but we’ve hung out plenty since I parted ways with Emmett and Martha. My father still professes no wrong, and I still send checks to the people he hurt.
Spotting me, Savannah leaves Tasha to the other girls. If there’s one thing that makes my stomach drop, it’s the thought that Tasha’s learning anything from these girls. I don’t want to have to pull anyone unsavory out of her bed.
“Well, look what I found,” Savannah says, standing toe to toe with me.
Wrapping her arms around me, Savannah pulls me in for a kiss. I plant a hand on her ass and pull her tight against me, trapping her roving hand. No matter how many times I take her, I can’t get enough. I didn’t think I’d ever be the one to find a single person, but Savannah makes my mind blister with possibility.
“Welcome to the club,” Ryder says, clapping a hand on my back.
“What club?” I shoot back.
“The off the market club.”
Savannah bites my ear–if this what it means to be in this club, very well. I accept.
“To the last three amigos,” Parker says from across the room, raising his beer. Jackson joins him in the toast, with a silent toast to Knox. “May we never forget the value of a good time and a fast woman.”
Shelby chooses that moment to come in, tugging her normally perfect ponytail back into place.
“Where have you been?” Jackson asks.
“Brother dear, that is none of your damn business,” she says, before looking Savannah and I up and down. “We’re not here to watch you maul each other. Between you two and those two, who needs porn?”
“Spare me, Shelbs. I don’t want to think about my sister watching porn.”
“Then might I suggest you find a new sister?” Their bickering’s only gotten worse over the last few weeks, especially now that Shelby’s made it plain that she’s going to be dating pretty regularly. The guys may be keeping their single cards, but the girls are lining up to lose them. Fast.
“Getting a little crowded in here,” Savannah purrs in my ear.
“Too bad I don’t live above this bar.”
“Dark corners aren’t a bad place.”
She arches an eyebrow at me, picking up on exactly what I’m thinking about. I smile, because I’ve never been this happy.
“Get a room, you two,” Cassie says.
I lean down to kiss Savannah. I’m ready to flip off my friends, but Savannah beats me to it.
We’re together. Screw the world.
THE END
Another Sexy Bastard is on his way! Look for Knox’s story December 2015
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Discover the Sexy Bastard series: five friends, one bar, and a whole lot of trouble. From Eve Jagger – out now!
HARD
RYDER
CH. 1
There are two smells in the world I love more than any others: a woman right before sex and this warehouse right before a fight. They’re different, of course. There’s nothing like a naked, wet, waiting woman, the scent of her skin salty with sweat but sweet at the same time, like swimming through an ocean of roses. The warehouse’s odor is far less pleasurable, phantoms of last round’s knocked-out teeth, bruised faces, and aching bones making the air heavy, grimy, stifling, like the smell of fresh dirt. But both are thrilling and unpredictable and make me want to explode.
Even when it was me in the ring a few years ago, my ribs about to get punched, my knuckles about to crash into someone’s cheekbone, the smell of this place would intoxicate me. Facing off with a guy whose sole intention for the next several minutes is to pummel you into submission is as terrifying as it sounds. And as exhilarating. The policy of bare-knuckles brawls is no shirt, no shoes, big problem standing right across from you. But all I had to do to calm myself was take a big inhale of this warehouse air, let the molecules seep into my lungs, into my bloodstream, and I won every match.