Savage Collision: A Hawke Family Novel (Hawke Family #1)(31)

I scan her, checking to make sure she’s physically okay. After not seeing or hearing from her for a week, even after sending the note, I’ve been secretly terrified something happened to her.

She’s sporting her usual four-inch stilettos and a skirt so short it leaves very little to the imagination. Then again, I don’t need my imagination after what happened on my patio. Her skirt is paired with a shimmering tank top that exposes the tops of her breasts in a way that is practically begging me to touch them.

Holy. Hell.

Finally, her lip slips from between her teeth and she takes a tentative step toward me. “Hey.”

“Hey, what are you doing here? Are you okay?” She cringes and I regret my choice of words; she probably thinks I’m pissed and don’t want to see her.

“Um, Gabe said it was okay if I came up.”

I move around my desk and approach her slowly. “Of course it’s okay. I’ve been worried about you.”

She hangs her head and looks to the floor, shifting uncomfortably in her heels. “Yeah, I’m sorry. I just…needed some time.”

Needed some time? Time to figure out how to tell me to fuck off? Time to accept the situation and roll with it?

I stop in front of her and look up into her eyes. “But…you’re okay?”

She nods at me, her blue eyes flashing with emotion. What emotion? I don’t have a fucking clue, and isn’t that a fucking bitch?

“Then, what’s wrong?”

A single tear falls, sliding down her cheek and dropping from her chin. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, wiping at her eyes. “I didn’t mean to make you worry.”

I reach out and grab her hand, squeezing it in mine. “Don’t worry about me. Just tell me that you are okay.”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

Crying isn’t fine. A woman crying is absolutely never fine.

“Come, sit down.” She nods and I release her hand, letting her follow me over to the couch in the sitting area of my office. She drops down onto it and I settle in front of her. “You want a drink?”

Relief floods her face and she smiles. “Yeah, please.”

I grab the bottle of Blanton’s and my glass off my desk and stop at the bar to grab another glass for Danika. I give each of us a strong pour before setting the bottle down on the side table.

I have a feeling we’re both going to need this.

Handing her a glass, I lean in and catch her eyes. “Tell me what’s going on.”

She takes a sip of the bourbon and seems to relax instantly. After staring down at her glass for several agonizing moments, she finally clears her throat. “I needed to see you.”

That’s it.

My heart tightens in my chest, and my mind immediately jumps to the obvious conclusion—she’s here to tell me she’s done.

“Why did you need to see me?” I ask, setting my drink down on the end table so I can take her free hand in mine.

She looks up at me from under impossibly long black lashes and flashes a shy smile. “Because I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since I left your place.”

Her repetition of the almost exact words I spoke to her on our first date makes my heart flutter with hope.

Is she trying to tell me something? Why can’t she just say it?

I take a fortifying breath and steady myself. “What have you been thinking about?” I rub my thumb in circles over the palm of her hand, and she squeezes my hand gently.

“How badly I want you to do what you did to me on your patio again. How badly I want you…us.”



I pause, waiting for his reaction, searching his face as he hears the words I have been dying to say to him for days but kept denying.

His eyes glimmer with concern and then heated lust, the blue darkening as they flick from my eyes down to my mouth. I lick my lips and he groans.

“Shit, Danika, you have no idea how happy I am to hear you say that.” His words come out in a rush and I can see him visibly relax, his tense shoulders dropping slightly as he brings my hand up to his mouth and presses his lips to the center, letting them linger there, his warm breath spreading across my palm.

My clit throbs, remembering how that hand, those fingers, felt between my legs. I shift uncomfortably on the couch, trying to press my thighs together. He grins at me and takes my drink from my hand, placing it next to his on the end table.

Shit! I need that!

“What are you doing?”

“Get on the table,” he demands, pointing to the long conference table behind the couch. It takes me a second to process what he’s saying, but the heat in his eyes leaves no question about what he wants.

Moisture floods between my legs and I shakily stand and make my way around the couch to the table.

He follows closely behind me, stopping and watching intently as I turn and stare him down while I boost myself up onto the table and let my legs dangle over the edge.

A lecherous grin spreads across his face. He moves in, using his broad shoulders to press my thighs wide open.

Boy, am I fucking glad I wore this skirt, so much less fabric to deal with.

“Come here,” he commands, pulling on my arm so I bring my head down to him.

I’m so used to men just taking what they want; that one of a kind alpha-dog confidence is precisely what I have always craved. But, with Savage, his inability to be physically assertive makes him all that more demanding with his words, and having him tell me what he wants, what he needs, is getting me just as hot as any other man who has slammed me against a wall to fuck me.