She picks up the towel, raising it high above her head as the wind whips it around in her hand. Gulping and quenching an audible cry, Savannah opens her hand, the Terrible Towel tumbling away, somewhere in the streets of Savannah―staying painfully true to her column, symbolically taking out the trash.
The sun now setting, not that she would have noticed, what with the dreary wet day. Savannah pulls up in front of an uncommon house, surprised she remembered the way. Sitting in her idling Jeep momentarily, she wrestles with her internal compass, prompting herself to turn around and go home.
The garage door to gym boy Brody’s residence opens, startling her as she is caught in the act. Inside the dimly lit spacious shop, she identifies a familiar, attractive form. Brody, recognizing her ride, gives her a laid-back wave, an invitation to come inside. Turning the key, Savannah obliges her foremost impulse as her Jeep powers down.
Brody works, running a piece of wood through a planer, his latest creation. Savannah’s scent fills his lungs as she enters the garage, drawing his attention. “She lives,” Brody says, flashing her an audacious smile, jesting about her noticeable absence from the gym. The upturned grin disappearing with her drenched appearance, replaced with concern. “You make a habit of riding around with the top down in the rain?” He sizes her up, her tall, lean frame sporting a lightweight sweater over skinny jeans, a pair of brown leather riding boots nearly to her knee. Much like her hair, everything she wears is damp not wet, a mixture of the wind and the rain.
“Only when I’ve got too much on my mind to notice,” she says, smiling back at him, her body giving in to a shiver.
“Experienced a few of those nights myself,” Brody admits. Disrobing from his jacket, he wraps it chivalrously around her shoulders and rubs his large hands briskly down her arms, generating heat.
“Mmh,” Savannah emits a thankful approval, welcoming the warmth and essence of the jacket, carrying with it Brody’s pleasing aroma.
“You want to talk about it?” His kind eyes narrow with genuine compassion.
Savannah shakes her head. “No. What you’re doing seems much more interesting.” She motions to the wood project he’s working with, having had all the solemn conversation she can stand for one night.
“It’s a guitar,” Brody deftly takes her cue, distracting her mind from her current quandary. “Well, it’s going to be when I get done with it.”
Savannah runs her hands over the intricate grain of the wood. “It looks like flames.”
“Good eye,” Brody compliments. “It’s flaming cocobolo. This piece is from Costa Rica.”
Savannah looks at what appears to be a standard slab of wood. “And it’s going to be a guitar when you’re done?”
“Yep. One of my clients, he tours with a rock band. Wants something kinda unique.”
“That’s pretty amazing, you know.” Savannah scans him, standing there in a form-fitting, long-sleeved Henley top and a pair of Lucky jeans, a low profile gray beanie casting the same hue over his usual steel blues.
A drop of rain collecting at the top of her hair releases, landing on her full mouth. Her reaction mimics Brody’s, his tongue slowly lapping moisture from his own bottom lip, subconsciously yearning for contact with hers.
Pulling her attention from his rugged, tempting jaw, she further comments on the wood, “It’s so smooth.”
“Soft as polished stone,” Brody remarks, coming up behind her. He puts his hand over hers, guiding it to the sanding tool he uses to flush out any rough areas in the wood. Moving it in a slow, circular pattern along the grain, he presses his form more firmly against Savannah, his front tethered to her back. Finally asking the question he has pondered every day with her absence from the gym, “You avoiding me?” His mouth curled up at the ends, enjoying Savannah’s reaction, a faint purr at his closeness.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she spars playfully. “Just some family drama, that’s all.” Her hand works under his making silk out of wood. “Besides, you never called.”
His hunky frame nearly swallowing her from behind sends a delightful chill up her spine, Savannah arches her back further into him. Brody bends his head to her neck, his words deep and low, his lips teasing the flesh there as they talk. “You told me not to.”
“And it’s good that you didn’t,” she confirms, sucking in her breath with the growing pressure of his mouth at the side of her jugular.
“Now that I know it bothered you, next time I’ll call…even if you tell me not to.” He works his lips up to her ear, his voice at a palpable whisper.
“Never said it bothered me,” Savannah murmurs, his provoking lip service soliciting a fire down below. She nestles her bottom tighter against his front, assessing his appetite. Brody does not disappoint, meeting her curiosity with a strong arm wound around her middle, he solidifies their carnal contact, his member having fully risen to the occasion, quite uncomfortably confined in his jeans. “Best…to keep it…casual,” Savannah continues, her stream of consciousness delightfully broken up with each caress of Brody’s hands and lips.
“No strings attached,” he helps her out, finishing her thought, while untying the strings holding her sweater at the back of her neck. The lightweight material falls from her shoulders, gathering at her waist.
“Uh-huh,” she whispers. “No expectations. No disappointment.” Sucking in her breath at his absence, Brody keenly hits the button on the garage door opener, shutting them in, secure from the eyes and ears of the outside world. Savannah exhales, gratified with his return. His coarse, large hands rubbing her skin from back to front, settling over the button of her jeans, efficiently working away at the denim.
“Glad you came back for round two,” his voice grows salacious as he pushes her jeans down over her hips, letting them drop to the floor. Urgently relieving himself of his jeans and Calvins (they too, gather at his ankles), he tucks his engorged member around the under curve of Savannah’s ample derriere.
“I didn’t intend to,” she moans at the intimate contact, gently rocking herself against it. “But somehow I ended up here.”
Brody sinks his hands into her skin, one cupping and kneading her breast, the other teasing and arousing her middle, drenched in her libidinous moisture. “You want it, Sweet Savannah?” Brody probes, his lips getting their workout along her upper back and shoulders.
“Yes!” she exalts, sure to explode if he does not give it to her. Happy to have her back turned to him, the admission much easier while avoiding eye contact.
He grins, now completely playing with her, as he continues, “How do you want it?” His hands slow and massaging, transporting her near delirium.
She turns around, into him, her front now mashed against his. Relieving him of his cute gray beanie and shirt, she lobs them onto the floor. Rising to her tiptoes, Savannah’s fingers hungrily latch on to the mound of dark, wavy hair adorning his head. Coaxing his face down to hers, she sighs with the powerful contact of his lips. His intuition magic, he reads her, every part of her like his favorite book, knowing exactly how to touch her, taste her, enchant her.
“I want it slow…deep…thick…and powerful,” she purrs between kisses. “I want you to sink into me, Brody,” her words escape through her teeth as she tugs on his bottom lip.
Her motive more than simple desire, she needs this man to take her mind far away, freeing from its recesses pain, doubt, fear, failure―treating the psychological with the physical. Savannah turns back around, bowing her body over the exotic piece of perfectly flush wood, enjoying the masculine setting.
Brody’s senses are fully piqued by her wiles and at the model of her rousing frame, he molds his omnipotent body around hers. Turning her head to the side with a gentle hand, he speaks, his mouth only centimeters away from hers. “After having sex with you, I can’t imagine NOT having sex with you.” His eyes content, he meets her sheepish smile with a bold one.
Savannah presses her abdomen into the soft wood, the action causing her bottom
to eagerly present, proffering a direct shot for Brody, the key to her kingdom. He hesitates, thinking maybe he should warm her up appropriately with a little foreplay.
“Give it to me, gym boy,” Savannah petitions, her timid grin replaced with a challenging one, surprising even herself. Never one to back down from provocation, Brody gladly obliges, giving it to her, first just the tip, testing out the waters. “Mmh,” Savannah moans with his subtle entry.
Plunging further, deeper, her taut sheath engulfing him, the warm and abundant nectar of her inviting honeypot causes Brody to emit a valiant groan. He pauses momentarily, once fully consumed by her, his member throbbing and completely appeased. “Ah God…you feel so fucking good,” he whispers the foul word, attempting not to offend her, yet fully incapable of explaining the feeling in any other way.
Savannah slowly grinds against him, her hips rhythmic as a tame belly dancer. Brody keeps time with her, matching each proficient stroke. Her long hair cascading over her back, he grips the dirty blonde locks in one hand, close to her crown, tugging on it gently until her head extends back meeting his greedy mouth. She expels a submissive cry with the growing pressure of his lips and his stroke.
“Does it hurt?” he quickly inquires, loosening his grip on her hair, simultaneously curtailing the power and depth of his internal cadence.
Savannah grins, easing his worry. “Hurts so fucking good,” she rehearses, whispering the adjective the same as he did.
Her sentiment invokes a sensual, spirited chuckle from Brody, stringing his thoughts together, “Sweet, dirty little mouthed, Savannah.” He stands upright, his hands firmly gripping each side of her waist, his delivery now gentle, yet thorough―committing the full length of himself to her with each stroke. His pace hastens as he takes her in, looking down over her back, his eyes lascivious and settling on their union. The mixture of their cream glimmering in the dimly lit garage, a reminder of her biological desire coupled with his own.
“You haven’t even heard dirty yet,” Savannah chuckles, the sentiment celestial in its delivery. Swallowing her inhibition, she continues, rattling off about what she would like him to do to her, using verbiage sure to make a sailor blush.
Brody growls, her words quickly transporting his arrival. His eyes unwilling to close, fixated on her taut crevice as he sinks his member in then out, repetitively. The motion reminding him of a drilling rig, fully convinced he has struck the mother lode. Latching on to her waist more firmly, he stills himself inside her for fear he may erupt too soon. Exhaling slowly, his dark curly lashes pressing shut, he fights to contain the feeling, once again quickly conjuring up images of baseball.
“No,” Savannah moans. “Don’t stop. I’m right there with you. Brody, please,” she begs, breaking his grasp, her hips reestablishing a steady, abysmal rhythm. “Oh…God…Yes!” she cries.
“Ah…mmh…fuuuck,” he stammers at a captivated whisper, emitting yet another red-blooded growl, releasing himself to her.
Carnal pants and moans escape Savannah’s pouty mouth as her body shivers accepting his benevolent delivery. Brody cocoons his damp, spent form around her, meeting her lips with indebted kisses.
“Argh,” Savannah giggles, giving her best impersonation of his triumphant roar. “Victory,” she exhales through salivating caresses.
Brody gives in to a sleepy chuckle. Gently releasing their union, he scoops her up in his tenacious embrace, retreating inside his house. “You’re something else, Savannah Bondurant.”
Moments later, their complacent bodies entwined in the middle of his cozy bed, light rock music plays ambient, finds them engaged in conversation. “So…your ex-husband invited you to drinks…with him and his new girlfriend?” Brody confirms, attempting to wrap his mind around the concept.
“Yeah. You think I should go?” Savannah asks, genuinely interested in a male take on the proposition.
Brody sucks air in through his well-kempt pearly whites. “Sounds like a setup to me.”
“Maybe. I don’t know exactly what he aims to get out of it though.” Savannah props herself up on her elbow amidst their conversation.
“Well, there has to be a motive.” Brody remains on his back, looking up at her. “The only way I would actively pursue a relationship with an ex would be if I had to. If we shared children, you know. And we had to be friendly, healthy with one another, for their sake.”
“He said he wants to remain friends.” Savannah shrugs. “Maybe this is his olive branch.”
“Or his wrecking ball,” Brody postulates. She rolls her eyes disbelieving, yet remains quiet waiting for him to elaborate. “Maybe he wants to see your reaction. See if you can handle seeing him with another woman.” Brody joins her, propping himself up on his elbow, his warm eyes narrowing. “Can you?”
“Yeah,” she huffs. “You couldn’t? Handle seeing your ex with another guy?” Her curiosity grows at how he came to such a conclusion.
He raises his eyebrow thoughtfully. “If I ran into them…her and her new guy…somewhere. I’d be okay with that.” His thought accompanied by a nod of his head. “It’s just not a situation I would ever willingly put myself in. I wouldn’t invite it, you know.”
She eyes him acrimoniously, pulling her body away. “Maybe you simply have some unresolved feelings,” she replies, her words teetering between a statement and a question.
Brody smiles at her, pulling her body back flush with his. “I spent three years making sure I didn’t have any unresolved feelings. Coming to terms with everything.” His smile dissipates, his expression confident and assuring. “I’m quite content, right where I am.” Running his hand through the side of her hair coming to rest on her neck line, he pulls her lips to his, fully servicing them.
“Got it all figured out, don’t you.” She stares at him, wishing she could say the same for herself.
“Not quite,” he says, scanning her, his latest riddle. “What’d your sister say? Jac? She’s the oldest, right? About you meeting the ex and his new girlfriend for drinks.”
Savannah looks away from him. “I didn’t tell her. Not yet, anyway.”
“Afraid she’d tell you the same thing I did,” he concludes.
Savannah nods, lightly chewing on her bottom lip. “Y’all are a lot alike. You and Jac. The way you think.”
“Must be that oldest sibling thing.” He grins.
“How many brothers and sisters do you have?”
“One brother. Two sisters.” He lies back, tucking his hands underneath his head.
Savannah notices how the action compliments his frame, his thickset biceps and chest now fully accentuated.
“Half-siblings,” he elaborates. “My brother, from my dad and his second wife. My sisters, from my mom and her second husband. I’m the only one…from my mom and my dad. We’re blood. My brother and my sisters. None of that ‘half’ stuff matters, you know.”
Savannah catches the bruised inflection in his voice, never having considered how fortunate she was to grow up under the same roof with her mother and father and two sisters―a lifelong cohesive unit. Her mind quickly floods to Noah.
“Would’ve been cool you know, to grow up, all of us together. With the same mom and dad,” he contemplates. “I used to hold that against them. The divorce.” His eyes search his overhead ceiling. “Until I got my own,” he huffs.
Savannah joins him, laying her head on his chest, taking in the sights of the bland ceiling. “If it’s any consolation, sometimes marriages free of divorce aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.” She ponders her father’s infidelity.
Brody runs his hands through her dirty blonde mane. “You’ve got hair,” he says very matter-of-factly. Savannah chuckles, not quite sure where that came from. “It’s cool, being able to grab hold of it,” he smiles with the thought of their previous animalistic encounter. “My ex. She had those things. What are they called?”
“Extensions?” Savannah helps him out.
“Yeah. Extensions,” he repeats. “She
’d get mad as hell if I tried to touch her hair.” The thought still baffles him.
Savannah giggles. “Well, those things are expensive. I’d probably get mad as hell, too, if I spent all kinds of money on my hairdo and some silly boy pulled it out.”
Brody chuckles, enjoying the sound of her laughter, his hand continually indulging in her locks. “I guess it’s a metaphor, really. How relationships, a marriage, can be as weak as a strand of hair.” He runs his hand along a fiber of hers, letting it fall at the end.
“Hmm,” Savannah deliberates, enjoying the relaxing sensation.
“How long were y’all together? You and Jack,” Brody continues, pondering her stick-to-itiveness, number seven—loyalty making its way onto his checklist.
“Eight years. Dated for three. Married for five,” she says. “You?”
“You got me beat,” he prefaces. “Dated for two. Married for three. Did you know? When you got married…that it wasn’t right?” his voice slips into its lower thought-provoking register.
“Probably.” Savannah sighs. “The most likely reason we eloped to Vegas…just the two of us. I didn’t tell anyone…until after the fact.”
“Not even your family?” he asks disbelieving.
“Nope. Not even Jac. And I tell her everything.” She shakes her head as to why she wouldn’t feel the need to joyfully share their union. “It was as if I knew innately what I was doing wasn’t right. But I felt like I needed to give him that security.”
“Make him feel needed,” Brody deduces.
“Yep,” she exhausts. “Maybe believing in it myself, somehow,” the admission causing her some pause. “Looking back on it, all the underlying signs were there. Guess I just never admitted it to myself or saw it for what it was until we started having real issues.” She shrugs. “Maybe that’s why I never took his last name.”
“You know, my dad told me the day of my wedding,” Brody begins, still stroking his fingers through her hair. “He said, ‘You don’t have to do it. You can walk out of this church right now. She’s not right for you. She doesn’t love you, not the way you need to be loved, Son.’”
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