Savages Boxed Set

by Gadziala, Jessica

  "No," I sighed, tilting my head to give him better access.

  "Just for me," he said, his voice barely above a whisper as he sucked hard at the spot where my neck met my shoulder.

  "Yes," I agreed because it was true.

  Between my thighs, I could feel his erection pressing hard against me and my hips instinctively jerked forward, feeling him rub against my clit and ripping a strangled moan from me. Johnnie's head pulled backward, watching my face as he rocked against me, hitting the sweet spot again and making me gasp. Then I was gasping for an entirely different reason as I suddenly went flying backward, landing with a slight bounce against the mattress. Johnnie's hands moved up my calves, my thighs, across my hips. His fingers dipped into the waistline of my pants, pushing open the button and undoing the zip with a quickness that was almost unsettling. I felt his fingers slide into my panties. They had just barely brushed the triangle above my sex when my mind snapped back into place, making me jerk violently away from him.

  "Whoa," he said, pulling his hand out of my panties and holding them both up at me, palms out. "Okay." My hands went up, covering my face as I made a strange whimper. "Baby, hey," he said, taking my wrists and pulling my hands from my face. "It's alright. We'll stop."

  I pulled my wrists from him and pushed to sit up, turning and sitting off the end of the bed, my back to him. "Sorry," I mumbled, feeling a strange cocktail of want, of need, mixed with a strong dose of fear with a embarrassment chaser.

  "Don't be sorry," he said and his body slid behind me, his legs wrapping around the outsides of mine, his head coming to rest on my shoulder, his arms tight around my belly. God, why did he have to be so good? It made everything all the more confusing and complicated. Because it was easy to dislike a bad boy; it was simple to dismiss a shameless manwhore. But as much as Johnnie was those things, he was more. He had a depth I didn't let myself see before, afraid of liking the huge well of potential I would find there. "I'm not bleedin'," he said oddly.

  "What?"

  "Know you think you cut me. I ain't bleeding, angel. Shouldn't be sorry for saying no."

  "I don't want to lead you on."

  "Honey, I'll take whatever you are willing to give me and I won't be angry about not getting more."

  "I'm not a tease," I said moving away to stand, facing him.

  "I never said you were."

  "I'm..." Oh, god, was I really going to tell him?

  "Amelia, you don't need to..."

  "I'm a virgin." Okay, apparently I was going to tell him.

  His shoulders dropped, his mouth opening slightly, his eyes going a little wide like it was the last thing he was expecting to come out of my mouth. Which was warranted. Who the hell was a virgin in their mid-twenties besides religious freaks and really unfortunate looking people? His brows drew together as he reached out and snagged my wrist again, pulling me into the open space between his legs. "You're a virgin?" he asked, his voice an odd little whisper.

  "Yes," I said, swallowing hard as his finger moved across the pulse point in my wrist.

  "Aw honey," he said, giving me a sweet smile and pulling me to him as he laid back down, then rolled us onto our sides.

  "I know it's weird..." I started, uncomfortable with the silence.

  "Just 'cause it's not common doesn't mean it's weird," he countered, stroking my hair off my neck.

  "Says the slut," I said with a teasing smile, needing to lighten the mood which felt unnervingly weighted. "When did you lose it?"

  He snorted a little, giving me a grin. "Fifteen."

  "Seriously?" I yelped.

  "It was a Mrs. Robinson situation."

  "Do I even want to ask?"

  "Ms. Nafta."

  "Bobby's mother?" I screeched.

  "She was a babe back then. Just divorced; on the prowl."

  "You were fifteen!" I objected, grossed out.

  "And horny as a rabbit," he agreed with a wink.

  "Gross."

  His smile spread for a second as his hand landed on the side of my neck and rested there. "Angel," he started, his voice more serious than I was used to it being, but it was still almost unnervingly soft. "You've held onto this for a fuckuva long time. If you're keeping it for someone special, I understand and I respect that more than you'd know. That being said, honey, if you think you'd want to give that to me... I'd make sure it wasn't something you'd regret." He let that rest for a moment, let it settle in. "But don't mistake that for expectations. Okay?"

  I wet my lips, swallowing past the lump that was suddenly lodged in my throat. "Okay."

  "Okay. Now I think we should get outta bed, yeah?"

  "Yeah," I agreed, pretty sure I was seconds away from crying out 'take me, take me!'. Getting out of bed was definitely a good idea.

  He rolled up fast and I followed more slowly. In the living room, his phone started buzzing and he went in search of it. "Make yourself at home, darlin'," he said over his shoulder as he disappeared.

  Following instructions, I went into the bathroom, splashed some cool water on my face, tried to settle my nerves. What man handled news like that the way he did? I remembered the guys I tried to date in high school and college. I remembered their reaction being something like a country salivating at the idea of sticking their flag in new soil. They wanted to be the conquering party. They wanted to go where no man had gone before. To them, that was nothing. It was a different kind of notch to have in their bedpost; it was a story to tell their boys over beers: 'Oh yeah, took her V-card. Man, she was so fucking tight!'. Can't say that was exactly the kind of attitude that prompted leg-spreading.

  But the way Johnnie responded? Perfection. It didn't sound like some challenge to him. If anything, he made it sound like it was a gift, like it was something precious he would count himself lucky to receive.

  How the hell was I supposed to resist that?

  I sighed, turning off the light in the bathroom and walking through the apartment, Johnnie's voice a quiet, but not secretive sound coming from the living room so I felt safe enough to venture out. He gave me a small smile as he paced in front of the front windows that overlooked the street and I moved into the kitchen, finding a glass and filling it with water.

  "You hungry, baby?" he asked, coming into the kitchen and I hadn't even heard him end his call. "We'll order in."

  "No... I can... make something," I supplied, moving toward the fridge. It was the least I could do with him helping me with my problems. Besides, I wasn't used to take-out. There weren't many options for it back home so I always cooked my own dinner. But when I opened his fridge, all I found was a six pack of beer, a Chinese food carton, and a bottle of ketchup. "I'm guessing you don't cook," I said, closing the door and turning around to see him grinning.

  "Honey unless it's coming in a can or a take-away container, I'm not eating."

  "But... don't you miss home cooked meals?"

  "Been a long fuckin' time since I had one so I don't know. I mean Breaker can grill a steak, but that's about it."

  "Can I cook for you?" I asked, the words coming out bolder than I felt.

  "You wanna cook for me?" he asked, ducking his head, almost looking a little... sheepish.

  "I mean... I, um, like cooking and..."

  "You wanna cook for me," he said, this time with much more certainty and a hint of amusement. "Okay. You can cook for me. Gotta get some supplies so I need to go put on a shirt 'less I offend that stupid 'no shoes, no shirt' policy."

  "I think they'd make an exception for you." Oh. My. God. I did not just say that out loud! What the heck was wrong with me?

  "Like my body, huh?" he asked with a boyish grin I both wanted to slap off his face and take a picture of so I never forgot it.

  "It's just... you know... with all the tattoos... it's practically like a shirt," I fumbled dumbly, only succeeding in making the grin spread.

  "I like your body too," he said with a wink as he went toward his bedroom to, presumably, grab a shirt.

&nbs
p; "Don't look at me like that," I said at Millie who had jumped up on the counter somewhere in the middle of my rambling. I swear she was giving me a look that said, 'could you be any more awkward?'. Judgmental furbag. "You don't have to talk to him. You don't understand."

  "Talking to the cat?" Johnnie's voice asked, sounding amused as he walked back in with a plain black v-neck tee on.

  "She was silently judging me," I defended on a self-deprecating smile.

  "Hey, she was all for me sending you some chrysanthemums."

  "Chrysanthemums?" I asked as he led me out into the hallway.

  "Yeah I told her that roses were more likely to say 'sorry for being a dick'."

  I watched his back as I followed him down the stairs. "You weren't a ... you know."

  "Dick," he said, stopping at the bottom landing and watching me. "Come on, you can say it." I pressed my lips together for a minute. Of course I could say it; it just felt weird. He threw an arm around my shoulders, leading me out to the street. "Don't worry. Stick with me and you'll be a master of cuss words, darlin'."

  "Not sure that's something I aspire to," I said, stopping when he did beside a sleek black car that I knew enough about cars to know it cost about as much as my college tuition had. "This is yours?"

  "Keep your tongue in your mouth," he said, opening the door for me. "Don't want drool all over the seats."

  "Ha ha," I said, slipping in, worrying more than a little bit of the possibility of my shoes being dirty.

  "Relax," he said, getting in the driver's seat. "It's just a car."

  "It costs more than some people's homes."

  "Still just a car," he said dismissively and I got to sit and wonder how much one got paid for shooting someone. Apparently it was a lot judging by the apartment and the car.

  "Do you like it here?" I asked, watching the endless stores pass by.

  I felt his eyes on my profile. "It's home." I felt myself nodding at that, though I wasn't exactly familiar with the concept. "How about you? You like it in Alabama?"

  I felt my shoulder shrug. "It's nice there."

  "That's not an answer." I chewed the inside of my cheek, trying to find a way to explain it. "It's just not home," he said simply and it was exactly the right thing to say.

  "I guess. It wasn't bad when..." I trailed off, uncomfortable talking about my friendship with Ben when Johnnie had such bad blood there.

  "When my Pops was around. You know honey," he said, pulling us into the grocery store parking lot, "you need to have people. I know you have your walls up and you have reasons for that, but it's no way to live."

  "I guess you're more well adjusted than me, huh?" I asked, thinking of how much damage it must have done to him to be so abused by his father. But despite that, he managed to start over, build a new life, let people get close to him. We got out of the car in a silence that felt uncomfortable. Johnnie's hand went around my hips and stayed there, steady and familiar, like we walked like that all the time. "Hold on, I need to get a buggy," I said, trying to pull away as he led me toward the doors.

  "A... buggy?" he asked, his lips twitching.

  "To... put the food in..." I said, not understanding what was so funny.

  "Call 'um 'carts' up here, pumpkin," he informed me.

  "Cart, carriage, buggy... whatever you want to call it, we need one," I said with a wave of my hand. "What?" I asked when all he did was stand there and smile at me.

  "You're kinda cute." I shook my head at him, turning and going back to grab the darn cart. Johnnie walked beside me as we moved through the produce section. I was just putting a bag of green beans in the cart when he leaned in close and whispered in my ear like it was some big secret, "We look like a couple." I felt myself jolt at the words, not sure what he meant by that. Was that a good thing? Was it a bad thing? Was it just an observation? "You know, you could just ask," he told me, arms behind his back as we moved toward the meat department.

  "Ask what?"

  "Whatever it is you're thinking when those little lines go between your brows."

  "Some thoughts are private," I countered, bending over to look at the pork chops to avoid having to look him in the eye. He said nothing as I picked out my selection and placed it in the cart. When I started walking again, his hands were no longer clasped behind his back. I knew this because his hand was suddenly behind my back, as in tucked inside my back pocket, as in resting on my butt. I froze mid-stride, turning to look at him with wide eyes. "We can't walk through the store with your hand on my butt," I whisper-yelled at him.

  "Sure we can," he said on a shrug, squeezing my butt for emphasis.

  "It's inappropriate," I objected as he started pushing the cart with his free hand, making me walk forward with him.

  "Yep," he agreed.

  "People are looking at us," I tried, because they were and it was borderline mortifying.

  "Sure are," he agreed and I could see he was pressing his lips together to keep from laughing.

  "This isn't funny."

  "Honey," he said, suddenly turning me and pressing my back against the glass of a freezer, crushing my body against it with his, his hand still in my back pocket, "not like I got my hands in your panties. People want to look, let them look. They're probably just jealous 'cause they got no ass to grab or their husband hasn't grabbed theirs in a decade. Fuck what everyone else thinks." With that, he stepped away and resumed his casual cart pushing, firm hand on my behind as he smiled huge at anyone who dared looked our way.

  Fuck what everyone else thinks. I wondered if that was some motto of his. Judging by his tats and piercings and the unusual modern-day punk way he dressed, I figured that was probably the case. I was never that kind of person. I always worried, always wondered what people were thinking about me or saying about me. I always molded my behavior so that they didn't have much to work off of. And, quite honestly, it was exhausting. How nice it must be for him to not fret like that over every little thing. How much head space that must have cleared up.

  "Buttermilk?" I asked as he slipped it into the cart.

  "You're making me homemade biscuits," he informed me.

  "Oh I am, am I?" I asked, smiling a little.

  "Of course you are," he said, nudging my shoulder with his.

  And it was right then, right there in the cold aisle in an unfamiliar grocery store when a thought hit me that made me feel almost light-headed. And that thought was: I liked this. I liked shopping for food with him. I liked his familiar friendliness. I liked his boyish presumptuousness. Heck, I even liked his hand on my butt. I could do it, this exact thing, I could do it with him every week for the rest of my life and never get tired of it. That was freaking terrifying.

  "Uh oh," he said, tugging me out of my head. "There's those lines again," he said, reaching out and touching them.

  "I was just thinking. Stop watching me; it's creepy."

  "About damn time you got yourself a nice girl," a female voice called from behind me and Johnnie's face immediately lit up. "Parading around town with all those short skirts with nothing but air between their ears." Johnnie turned me, but did not remove his hand from my pocket to face the woman. She was middle aged (or just past) with dark hair and light, almost see-through green eyes that were unmistakably familiar. This tiny little slip of a woman was Paine's mother. "Manners," she said to Johnnie with a lifted brow and he had the good sense to look sheepish. "Mama Gina, this is Amelia. Amelia, this is Gina. She's..."

  "Paine's mother," I supplied, offering my hand which she accepted. "I met your son yesterday. He was nice enough to, um, walk me to... my door."

  "He's a good boy when he lifts himself from whatever stranger's bed he tumbled into," she said frankly, but with very little animosity and I was left wondering why it wasn't weird that she knew her son was a, well, whore. "Good to see Shoot here settling down," she said and Johnnie didn't move to correct her and I felt it wasn't my place to do so. "Maybe it will rub off on my son. Whoring around is cute and all in your tw
enties. Not so much in your thirties. You cooking for him?" she asked me, nodding toward the cart.

  "Yes, ma'am," I answered with a small smile.

  "Lose this one and I'm coming over and tearing you a new one," she said to Shooter, who smiled. "Don't let his reputation fool you, he's a good boy. Just needed a good woman to calm him down. You guys have a nice meal. Amelia," she added, stopping mid-turn, "have Shoot bring you to dinner at my place sometime."

  "Yes, ma'am," Johnnie answered immediately, leaving me almost sputtering at him as she walked away. "What?" he asked, looking innocent.

  "You shouldn't tell her you'll bring me when you know you won't."

  "Who says I won't?"

  "Johnnie..."

  "Look," he said, charming smile falling away, looking suddenly all-business. "I'm not the kinda man to pussyfoot around shit. I think it, I feel it, I say it. So I'm saying this and I don't care if it freaks you out. I don't care if it permanently etches those lines between your brows. I like you, honey."

  "You don't even know me," I countered automatically, a swirling feeling starting in my belly that was scary, but in an almost good way that I knew could only mean trouble.

  "I like the way you try to put me in my place. I like that you know how to cook and bake. I like that you're passionate about helping people you don't even know. I like the way you hate my fuckin' cat. I like the way you filled out those jean shorts the first day I met you and the way you fill out a sundress even better. I like the way some of your smiles can mean 'fuck you' and I like the way your voice dips low and shy when you're unsure of yourself. Babe, how the fuck much more do I need to simply declare that I like it?" He did sort of have a point. "And know what else, angel?"

  "What?" I asked, not given much of a choice.

  "I think you like me too."

  "I don't know..." I started.

  "Babe," he said, shaking his head at me like I was trying his patience. "You know I was beat as a kid. You know I ran away from home to escape that shit. You know my dad was a fuck and you know I never let that go. You know I was a spiteful little shit sending him scotch every month, hoping he was drowning himself in it. You know I have the mouth of a sailor. You know I kill people for a living. You know all that bad shit and you still like me."