Savages Series Boxed Set

by Jessica Gadziala

  Call me crazy, but I was leaning toward the latter of the two. Maybe it was for the sole reason that the Sawyer guy sounded intimidating and I had a tendency to feel nervous around men who reminded me of my father. So the Barrett guy seemed more approachable and, therefore, the more likely candidate for the job.

  I drove home feeling productive and hopeful. I needed to get some answers. I needed to know what was really going on. I couldn't just go on with my life and pretend that things weren't seriously messed up and my father and everyone around me was largely ignoring it.

  I pulled into my garage and parked, grabbing my purse, closing the garage door, and going up toward my front steps. It was a habit Roman picked on me about, telling me it was safer for me to enter my house from the door through the garage. I tended to call him a worrywart and blow it off. It was stupid to go through the garage when I needed to pick up my mail in the box by my front door.

  But when a shadow stepped out from beside my steps, sending my pulse into a frantic stammering and my heart up into my throat, I maybe finally understood his point.

  My mouth immediately opened to scream as I gripped my keys hard, trying to slip them between my fingers like I had heard some guy on the news tell women to do when they were walking home or something.

  "Don't scream," a somewhat familiar voice, a smooth and sexy voice, said as its owner stepped out of the shadows.

  "Jesus, Paine!" I hissed, my hand moving over my pounding heart. "Do you always hide in the shadows at women's houses?" I asked, then looked down the road where a black Challenger was parked. "How did you even get in here? This neighborhood is gated."

  "Yeah, it is," he agreed, tucking his hands into his pockets.

  "Care to explain?"

  "I know the night guard, babygirl. Just a bit of luck that when I showed up, planning to wait for you at the gate, he was on. Let me in."

  Well, that was seriously messed up. Friend or not, the guard had no idea if Paine's intentions were to rape and murder me in my own home.

  "How did you even know who I am, let alone where I lived?"

  "Babygirl," he said, giving me a charming smile.

  "That's not an answer."

  "Money like you, name like yours, name like your not-boyfriend's, all I had to do was ask around and I got a name. Elsie Bay, daughter of Edward Bay, the biggest schmuck this side of the city."

  I felt myself laugh, caught off guard. It was something me and my close friends might have said about my father in secret, in whispers, but no one else ever had the balls to say something like that in a loud, confident voice. "It's still really creepy, Paine. Why are you here?"

  "Invite me in for coffee," he suggested, his breath hanging in the cold air for a second.

  "No."

  "No?" he asked, head tilting, brows drawing together, like maybe he didn't understand the word.

  "No. It's a complete sentence," I clarified and his lips tipped up.

  "Smart."

  "Yes, I am. Now tell me why you're here before I call the owner of this complex and have you escorted off the premises and your friend fired."

  His smile spread, showing me his perfect white teeth again. He really was ridiculously good looking. I wasn't unaffected either. I was a bit of a workaholic since I started at my company, wanting to prove myself. And when I wasn't working, I was hanging with Rome or girlfriends and having my weekly Sunday dinners at my father's. I wasn't even sure the last time I had made time for a man. So, to put it perfectly frankly, I was horny. I was horny and Paine was attractive and charming and he had this tiny little hint of danger that made my lady bits clench in what I was convinced was a prehistoric, biological impulse to mate with an alpha male to pass on good genes to a new generation.

  Yeah, well. That wouldn't be happening. First, because I had an IUD. Second, because I had absolutely no intentions of giving in to some primal drive and having sex with Paine. No matter how much my belly fluttered when he called me babygirl or how nice of arms he had. So my body needed to chill the eff out.

  "Elsie, we need to talk about why you were being chased by drug dealing pimps last night."

  Well, that was blunt.

  I cringed inwardly at the words 'drug dealers' and 'pimps' even though I knew that was what they were. A part of me flinched away from those... professions on principle. But, more than that, there was more of a personal reason I didn't like to be reminded of that. A personal reason I was praying to all hell that the Barrett guy could help me with.

  "I don't see how it is any of your concern. You did a nice thing. If you do things solely because you want something out of it, even something as simple as an explanation, then maybe you shouldn't be doing nice things in the first place."

  "You'd rather I didn't help you?"

  "I'd rather you didn't ask around about me, find out where I lived, then hide in the dark waiting for me to get home so you could badger me. That is what I would rather."

  "Badger you?" he asked, taking slow steps toward me. "Is that what I'm doing?" he asked, his voice soft. It was soft in a way that was meant to be sexy. And, well, it was. It was sexy and I felt myself retreating, knowing it was only going to lead to somewhere not good (but, oh, so good) if he got too close to me. My back hit the railing to my staircase, stopping me. Paine closed the last step between us. "Babygirl, if I was badgering you, you would know it," he said, his hand raising and tucking my hair behind my ear. His fingers brushed down my bare neck in a way that made me do a small, involuntary shiver before they trailed over my shoulder and down my arm. His fingers brushed over the back of my hand as my eyes held his, my mouth parting slightly and even I knew it was an invitation. But a second later, it fell open wider when I felt his hand tug my keys out of my palm.

  "Hey!" I yelped as he jingled them and moved from me, jogging up my stairs and stopping in front of my door before I even fully realized what just happened. He stole my keys! He stole my keys and was using them to get into my house. "That's it, I'm calling the cops," I said, reaching for my phone as I looked up at him.

  "Jesus, you finance that Porsche working as a fucking janitor, baby?" he asked, smiling over at me as he sifted through my keys, apparently completely unconcerned about me calling the police. "Ah, here it is," he said and, sure enough, slipped the right key into the lock.

  What, was he some kind of burglar when he was younger? How did he know what key would work?

  "Better get up here and punch in this code, Elsie, or the cops will be here in under five minutes."

  "That was the plan," I said, waving my phone around where I had dialed in the nine and one, but hadn't added the last one or hit send.

  "We both know you're not calling the cops so get your pretty ass up here and punch the code."

  I looked down at my feet for a second, stuck inside clogs that made my lip curl anytime I looked at them, but were the only shoes I could wear that didn't have backs to rub on my cut heels.

  He was right; I wasn't going to call the cops.

  Why? I had no idea. But I wasn't.

  I hauled it up the staircase and gave him a pointed brow lift until he turned away as I punched in the code and the warning beeping finally stopped. When I looked back at Paine, he was casually looking around my house. I couldn't tell from his impassive expression if he was impressed or disgusted or simply unaffected.

  "How're your feet?" he asked, nodding down at my clogs that I was in the process of kicking out of.

  "Fine," I said, lifting my chin slightly. "Now, say what you want to say and get gone. I need to get dinner and make a few calls."

  "You cook?" he asked, craning his head into the doorway to the dining room.

  "No," I said and, for the first time, felt a little embarrassed by that fact. In my normal friend group, everyone grew up privileged like me and Rome, with maids and cooks on the payroll, so it wasn't weird that none of us knew a whisk from a monkey wrench.

  "So let's order in," he said, moving into my dining room, making his way toward
my kitchen, leaving me to follow behind like a little lost puppy, not the actual owner of the house.

  "Um, excuse me but I didn't invite you in, let alone invite you for dinner."

  "I know. Who taught you your manners? They should be ashamed of themselves."

  A strange snorting sound burst out of me, making my hand slap down over my mouth in embarrassment. I didn't... snort. That wasn't like me at all. Paine hauled himself up onto my island, giving me a warm smile as I struggled to get my composure back. "You do understand why I don't want a strange man in my house when I live alone, right?"

  "I do," he nodded.

  "And yet you're barging in here and inviting yourself to dinner."

  "Baby, we aren't strangers."

  "Ah, yeah we are."

  "Really? We are? How weird that I know your name, your best friend/not-boyfriend's name, that you like your coffee sweet but without actual sugar because, I'm assuming, you like to keep that tight body tight. I know you have good, but understated taste. And I know that you're into something. As in, way in. As in, over your head. In turn, you know where I live, what I do, that I have two sisters and that I have better manners than you. I'd say strangers don't know that much about each other."

  On a sigh, I dropped my purse down on the counter. "You're impossible."

  "And you're headstrong as fuck."

  "I'm not headstrong, I'm cautious."

  "Cautious about me, who saved you. And headstrong about not sharing why you're involved with a street gang."

  "Because it's none of your business! You're not my boyfriend. You're not my father. You're not even my friend. So why the hell do you care what I am involved in?"

  "Because," he said, his voice still as calm and soothing and, yes, sexy (damn it) as ever while mine kept getting increasingly frustrated, "babygirl, I don't think you have the slightest clue how dangerous those guys are."

  "Really? It wasn't me that they were chasing last night? Weird. It totally felt like me. And it felt pretty scary and dangerous. Huh. Guess that was all my imagination."

  "Cute," he said, hopping off the island and moving toward where I was leaned against the counter, planting his hands on either side of my body, his thumbs pressing into my hips, forcing me to crane my neck up to keep eye contact as my body urged me to wiggle my hips against his. Christ, I needed to have a serious session with my vibrator when he left. "Baby, they kill people. They kill people without thinking, without blinking."

  I swallowed hard, believing him. It certainly seemed like they were capable of that. I nodded tightly. "Okay. I got it. Thank you for your concern. You can go."

  The side of his lips tipped up as his head ducked down slightly, our foreheads almost touching as his hands left the counter and rested on my hips. "Is that what you really want?"

  At this point, my nether regions were seriously threatening to get up and detach themselves from my body if I didn't inform him that, no, that wasn't what I wanted. That, in fact, what I wanted was for him to grab me and give it to me hot and hard right there in my kitchen.

  I wet my lips and fought to clear my mind. "No."

  "No?" he asked, ducking his head lower and I could feel his warm breath on my neck, making my head tilt the other way slightly to invite more of the sensation.

  I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. "No."

  "What do you want then, babygirl?" he asked, his lips close to my ear, his words making my sex clench hard.

  God, I needed to pull it together.

  "I want you to order dinner while I go get out of my work clothes. Then I want you to tell me everything you know about the Third Street gang."

  Whoa. Where the hell did that come from? That was not, was absolutely not what I wanted. That was like the last thing I wanted. First, I wanted some good, hot sex. Then I wanted him to get the hell out of my business.

  Paine moved backward, brows furrowed slightly, like he was just as surprised as I was. God, was I that obvious about my sexual frustration? I felt like a dog in heat for chrissakes. "Chinese or Italian?"

  "What?" I asked, my brain somehow taking that dog in heat thought and turning it into a doggy style against the kitchen island thought.

  "For dinner," he clarified, smiling in a way that made me think that maybe, just maybe, he knew exactly what my dirty brain was thinking.

  "Oh, um... Italian," I decided, finding my common sense enough to plant my hands on his very solid, very nice chest and push him back a foot. Space, I needed it. A few feet, yards, miles. "There's, ah, a menu for Famiglia on top of the microwave. Order whatever you want. Everything is good. I'll, ah, be right back," I said, not chancing a look at him as I all but ran from the room and stormed up the stairs.

  Collapsing against the inside of my bedroom door, I took a couple deep breaths.

  "What is wrong with me?" I demanded in a whisper as I pushed off the door and pulled off my shirt.

  It wasn't that I was unused to arousal or even frustration. I was a grown woman who had a healthy sex life when I wasn't being a workaholic like I had been for the better part of the last six months. But this felt different, stronger, all consuming. I couldn't be within five feet of him without feeling like a puddle of need. And true, it had been a while. I had a reasonably high sex drive and my body was humming with a need I had denied it for a long time. That being said, I had gone a six month stretch before without my imagination making me picture all the ways some random hot guy could screw me on the surfaces of my kitchen.

  I finally understood all the nights when my girlfriends would tell me with a small amount of guilt about going home with a one-night stand because they just 'couldn't help themselves'. It didn't make sense to me then, control being an important part of my life. But it made sense then as I stripped out of my clothes that felt like they were chafing my over-sensitive skin, my breasts heavy, nipples half-hardened, my panties damp. And I wasn't even in the room with him anymore.

  I threw myself backward onto my bed in my underwear, running my hand down my belly and slipping it inside my panties. I wasn't that girl. I wasn't some kind of exhibitionist who got off on touching herself while a clueless man stood one floor below her ordered dinner for her. But that being said, if I didn't get some relief, ease some of the need, I was going to go back down in that kitchen and let him take me any way he wanted me. And that, well, that could not happen.

  I closed my eyes tight as I ran my fingers over my clit, already feeling halfway to an orgasm. I couldn't come without a story, without a fantasy playing out before my eyes. So, despite knowing it would only complicate things, an image of Paine popped into my brain, opening my bedroom door, seeing me touching myself and knowing it was about him. Then he would pull off his shirt in that sexy way that only men did, reaching behind their back and pulling it forward then off, discarding it to the floor as he reached for his button and zip as my eyes took in his strong chest, the deep indentations of his abdominal muscles. Then my eyes would dip lower as his pants fell to the floor, eyes roaming over every glorious inch of his hard dick. Then he would cross the room to me, his body vibrating with alpha male certainty, with primal promise of a pleasure I had never experienced before. He would kneel at the edge of the bed, knees on either side of my thighs, keeping me a willing captive.

  His hands would move upward, nothing tentative, nothing uncertain, as his hands grabbed the cups of my bra and yanked them down, covering my throbbing breasts with his large palms and squeezing hard. Then they would be off my breasts, ripping off my panties. Then as he pushed off the bed, grabbing my hips and turning me, throwing me face down on the bed, he would haul my ass in the air, and shove in hard and deep.

  I came on that thought, groaning out my release as my body shuddered hard.

  I got up, threw on jeans so tight they in no way invited the idea of someone trying to peel them off, and Roman's old baggy red and white Stanford sweatshirt that I stole when he visited the first time he came back home for winter break, marking the longest we had ever g
one without seeing each other since birth.

  "Pull it together," I murmured to myself, finding a hair band and tying my hair into a messy knot at the top of my head. For good measure, I walked into the bathroom, slipped out my contacts and put on my huge hipster glasses, nodding at my reflection. It had a certain nerdy appeal, but it was in no way a sexy look. I considered it another guard against ill-advised sex with with the hot guy in my kitchen. Nothing about how I looked right that minute screamed 'take me now'. If anything, it said 'hey can you hold my library books while I look for my retainer'.

  So then I flicked off my lights and went back downstairs, hoping for some answers.

  And not sex.

  Nope.

  Not at all.

  Totally didn't want that anymore.

  FOUR

  Paine

  One year.

  I hadn't even needed to so much as lay eyes on one of the Third Street guys in a full year. The last time I did, one of my best friend's girlfriend's lives was at risk. It was probably the only situation I would have dealt with them again. I had fought my way out of that life; I had done things that would wake me up in a cold sweat even now, years later.

  So having to so much as speak to a member of Third Street didn't exactly make my week.

  But having to do it to save another chick? Yeah, I guess that made it worth it.

  Unfortunately for me, she wasn't just some chick who got caught on the wrong side of town at night and caught some unwanted attention. No, she was up to something. She was up to something and she had no idea how much danger she was in. Things had changed in Third Street over the years under different leaders. Five years alone had three separate faces. As such, the men were wild, unpredictable, sometimes calling their own shots instead of following orders.