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Excerpt from SAVAGE ROAD by Christine Feehan
Seychelle turned her head toward Savage, her thick braid moving across the pillow as she looked over her shoulder at him. Light came through the open window. She refused to close the damn thing, no matter what he said about security. She liked it open, and he liked the way the moonlight managed to shine perfectly on her.
Laughter was in her eyes, that totally relaxed look she got on her face whenever they were here in her home—her little cottage by the sea she loved so much. He had tried to re-create a space on the bed in his master bedroom just like hers, but he’d failed. She still wasn’t as relaxed, all tension gone, ready to tease him and play like they had for months before they made their relationship official, not in his master bedroom.
In retaliation, he nipped her hip and then soothed the sting with his tongue. “I’ve been a fucking choirboy for an entire day.” That laughter was killing him. He loved the sound of it.
“You can’t say choirboy and fuck in the same sentence and be a choirboy.”
She sounded all prim and schoolmarmy, which made him smile. His first reaction was to roll over so she was sprawled over the top of him and he had access to her bottom. That was his usual response when she teased him like this, but he didn’t want any bruising, not when he’d made up his mind to ease up and give her a few days to adjust. He would always be a controlling bastard, wanting everything his way, and maybe taking one thing at a time was the best way to go.
“Babe, told you I was going to hell. Might as well do anything I want. And that’s mild in comparison to all the things I think about saying and doing.”
Her laughter was contagious. “You should have seen your face last night when the Red Hat ladies showed up at the bar to hear me sing. All those darling ladies, Zyah’s grandmother leading the way. She’s so cute, by the way. I adore her and she adores you. Obviously, the two of you have a past, and she made it clear last night that you, Destroyer, Maestro and Player are her little darlings.”
“You’re going to get yourself in trouble if you bring that up,” he growled against her pristine skin,
settling his teeth against her in warning.
She didn’t pay him heed in the least. “Who knew you were so popular, Savage? All those sparkly hats and all of them wanting to dance with you. I had more requests for songs. The other bikers in the bar last night were quite enthusiastic about making certain the right music was requested. Everyone had ideas. I even saw Jackson and Jonas slip in. They were grinning from ear to ear, and at first it looked as if they might have been there on official business.”
That did it. At the mention of the cops, there was no way he was going to be a saint. Savage rolled and took her with him, so that she sprawled over the top of him, her sore, bare ass in the air, legs on either side of his hips. Her amazing blue eyes laughed right down into his, causing his heart to perform some silly, weird melting sensation. He rubbed her bottom, hoping she would consider that a threat.
“You didn’t tell me I had so many rivals for your affection. I went into that blind. All those ladies giggling. They brought cookies, Savage. There were plates of cookies with your name on them.”
If a man like him had the ability to blush, he might actually have done it when the Red Hat ladies marched in with their crazy purple-and-red hats and their wild clothing, as if each had tried to outdo the others in outlandish skirts and layered dusters. Secretly, he applauded them for their carefree apparel and their insistence on living out their lives the way they chose. If they wanted to go to a biker bar dressed as a cross between fairy godmothers and something out of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, more power to them.
Ten of the Red Hat women had shown up, all bearing plates of cookies. And then Zyah, Player’s wife. She had come along to keep an eye on her grandmother. Anat Gamal, her grandmother, had unofficially adopted all of Torpedo Ink as her grandchildren. Savage wasn’t going to admit to his woman that he might really be one of the favorites, because she would give him no end of grief over it. She was already far too amused over how the evening had played out.
“I shared the cookies with you, you little monster,” he pointed out. He kissed the hollow of her neck. She always smelled so good—a wild strawberry fragrance that was just so subtle.
From SAVAGE ROAD published by arrangement with Berkley, an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC. Copyright © 2022 by Christine Feehan.