Sugar on the Edge (8 page)

I don’t know how to respond, and I’m slightly offended he would think that. Sure, I’m quiet and a bit withdrawn, and yeah… I’ve put up with all kinds of shit from Eric, but I’m not without mettle. As evidenced by the fact I just called him an asshole, which admittedly, is a bit of a surprise even to myself that I did it.

“Tell me, sweet Savannah.” His voice pours out of his mouth smooth as melted chocolate. “Did I piss you off the other night… at that bar?”

“No,” I immediately deny.

“Little liar,” he whispers and grazes his thumb across my chin again and, this time, my body shivers in reaction. He sees that and chuckles deep in his chest, clearly delighted to have that power over me. “You’re not just interesting. I find you positively fascinating.”

Gavin releases his hold on my face and turns away from me, heading back to the staircase. “Use a broom,” he orders. “And I’ll be ready to eat dinner around seven.”

“But… you don’t have anything in your refrigerator or cupboards other than ravioli and molded cheese,” I lament.

“Then I suggest a trip to the grocer to buy something. I have money in my wallet beside my bed,” he says, leaping up the staircase two steps at a time. In just a few seconds, I hear his office door open and slam shut, and I’m left behind with my heart still pounding and my hands shaking.

Giving a last toss to the shrimp stir-fry, I turn the gas off and place a cover over the wok. Reaching into the refrigerator, I grab a bottle of water, taking a small measure of pride in the contents. In addition to buying stuff for his dinner, I took the liberty of buying more lunchmeats along with some vegetables I cut up and put in Ziploc bags for him to munch on. I also made a quick tuna casserole that he can pop in the oven tomorrow night and a Mexican casserole for the following night. At least he wouldn’t starve to death before I got back on Friday, and it makes me feel better because he’s overpaying me.

His footsteps on the staircase alert me to his impending presence and suddenly, I’m nervous. What seemed like a nice gesture to prepare a few meals for him seems to now be stepping across a line that maybe I should steer clear of. But it’s too late now to worry about it.

I hastily turn to the cabinets and pull out a plate, then rummage in a drawer for a knife and fork. Pulling a paper towel off the rack, I have it folded and sitting under the cutlery by the time he walks into the kitchen.

“Something smells delicious,” he says, and every bit of anger and animosity, as well as intimate danger he showed me earlier, is gone. He’s dressed same as he was, in a pair of faded jeans and an olive green T-shirt that fits his upper body well. His feet are bare and his hair dark hair is slightly disheveled. I’m not sure if it’s the five o’clock shadow he’s sporting, or his smoky gray eyes, but he looks dark, dangerous, and utterly freakin’ gorgeous. Add on that silky, smooth British accent, and he’s what you’d call a classic panty-melter. That is, if he kept his condescending, cranky mouth shut, which would then obviate the sexy accent. Still, his looks alone would make a woman twitchy and damp.

I walk over to my purse on the kitchen counter and grab it, rustling around inside for my keys. Keeping my eyes averted from his, I say, “That’s a shrimp stir-fry in the wok and there’s some rice in the pot next to it. I um… left you a few other things in the fridge.”

Heading for the front door, I hear him open the refrigerator. “What’s all this?”

Turning around, I bring my gaze to his and he looks confused. So I elucidate. “I made you a few casseroles. Instructions are taped to the top on how to cook it. That will hold you over until Friday.”

I reach for the doorknob, but he stops me. “Why don’t you stay… eat dinner with me?”

My jaw sags a little, completely caught off guard. This was the guy that was manhandling and cursing at me a few hours ago, and now he’s inviting me to eat with him?

“Um… I really should get home,” I hedge, because it just feels totally awkward to share a meal with this man.

Gavin walks over to the stove and lifts the lid off the wok. He takes a sniff and his lips curve upward. Turning to me, he says, “Stay. This is way too much food for just me.”

My eyes dart around the room, my brain frantically trying to come up with an excuse to decline his invitation. He doesn’t wait for me though, reaching into the cabinet and grabbing another plate. “Come on. I don’t bite,” he cajoles.

“No, you just threaten and intimidate,” I mutter softly.

“I heard that,” he says with a grin.

I can’t help the smile I give in return and with a sigh, I drop my purse to the floor by the front door. Walking back into the kitchen, I take a seat at the kitchen island and watch as Gavin fills my plate up. He grabs a fork and knife from the drawer, handing it across the counter to me.

“What’s with the nice act all of a sudden?” I can’t help but ask. I figured if I could call him an asshole earlier and retain my job, he wouldn’t be too perturbed over that question.

Shrugging his shoulders, Gavin fills his plate up and walks around the counter to sit beside me. “I guess I had a great day writing, despite the caterwauling noises you were making earlier.”

My cheeks heat, but he’s opened the door to my own curiosity. I had Googled Gavin a few days ago, and was surprised to find he was a New York Times best-selling author. His first book,
Killing the Tides
, was a huge, international success and sounded so intriguing, I one-clicked that bad boy for my Kindle.

“I bought
Killing the Tides
a few days ago and started reading it in my spare time,” I say before popping a shrimp in my mouth.

“Really?” he asks with amusement. “So what do you think of it?”

“It’s really great,” I say after swallowing my food. I spear a sugar snap pea and open my mouth again.

“No… what do you
really
think about it?” he asks, his gaze probing, his meal neglected.

Setting my fork down, I turn slightly in my chair to face him. “I think it’s raw, disturbing, and overwhelming. It reminds me of you.”

Picking up his own fork, he stabs a shrimp and gives me a dark smile that sends shivers up my spine. “Good answer.”

Savannah doesn’t know me well at all, but she understands that
Killing the Tides
was borne of a pervasive darkness that’s within me. While she’ll never know the hell I was mired in while I wrote that manuscript, she understands fully that every word in that book was inked in the blood of my wounds.

But I don’t want to talk about that.

“So tell me, sweet Savannah,” I drawl. “What did you think of the erotica component?”

I take immense pleasure in the redness that stains her cheeks from my question, and I know without a doubt that she’s read enough of the book to get to the first sex scene. While the plot line is simple… a hero with magical powers tries to save modern-day Earth from a demon uprising, I wove some hardcore erotica into the story that was nothing more than my baser desires being revealed. During the time I was writing the book, I experimented in some twitchy kink, visiting various sex clubs throughout London and the surrounding areas. I’ve pretty much tried it all—BDSM, fetish, swingers clubs, voyeurism, orgies—you name it, I’ve sampled. I used those experiences to spice up what, I thought, was an otherwise unoriginal story. In fact, but for those erotic elements,
Killing the Tides
would have gone nowhere fast.

In that first sex scene, my hero ends up saving a woman who was on the verge of being devoured by a particularly nasty demon—one that had the spirit of an incubus and who had made the woman so consumed with lust that she was in pain.

I mean… what was the hero to do at that point? Fuck her, right?

And so he did… in a dark alley in the middle of New York City. He pushed her skirt up, ripped her panties off because she was begging with tears in her eyes, and fucked her hard. Her cries of pleasure and relief filtered out onto the streets, and a few miscreants stopped to watch while my hero nailed her over and over again.

Savannah doesn’t answer my question, chewing on her bottom lip with her eyes pinned to her plate. I feel the need to make her uncomfortable for some reason, so I push at her.

“Come on, sweet girl,” I murmur. “What did you think when Max fucked that woman against the wall?”

I watch as she swallows hard, her hand gripping her fork so tightly that her knuckles are white. I think she’s going to ignore me, or maybe even throw her plate at me, but instead, she raises her eyes and her voice is steady. “I think your hero was trying to fuck his own pain away,” she says. “After his parents were killed at the beginning of the story, I think he stopped caring about propriety. Yes, he was fueled by an almost unquenchable need to help others, almost as if he was trying to make up for not saving his parents, but he also took stupid risks, allowing himself to lose control.”

I blink at her hard, because that wasn’t the answer I was expecting. I figured she’d fumble over her words, cheeks flaring hotter, and try to find a way to deny she was turned on. Instead, she saw straight through to the subtle hint of truth in my words and exposed it brightly before me.

“You see a lot,” I tell her, turning back to my food.

“It was also pretty damn hot, too,” she says as an afterthought, and I can hear the smile in her voice, although I don’t look back at her.

We eat in silence for a bit, and that’s no chore because fuck… the woman can cook. I can’t remember the last time I had a home-cooked meal, and Asian cuisine is my favorite.

“What are you working on now?” Savannah asks and because it’s no secret, I tell her.

“New York loved the book so much that they want to turn it into a trilogy.”

“So, you’re going to leave me with a major cliffhanger at the end of
Killing the Tides
?”

“Actually, no. When I wrote it, I made it a stand-alone. I had no intention of ever writing another book after that… ever again.”

“Why?” she exclaims. “You’re really gifted… I can’t imagine you not continuing on.”

I shrug my shoulders again and damn… I would like to claim indifference to her praise. I’ve had hundreds of people compliment my work, but none of those accolades seemed to cause a warm feeling in the center of my chest like Savannah’s simple words do now.

“Well, I’m continuing on now, aren’t I? Besides, they waved too much money for me to ignore,” I tell her simply.

“I call bullshit on you. I think you would have written another book with or without them offering you a dime,” she says before she takes another bite of her dinner.