Savor Me

Savor Me by Aly Martinez




For Ash and Fall.

Without the hours upon hours of dirty iMessage chats, there would be no Mason and Hunter. Thank you for listening me bitch, whine, cry, and disappear. I have no idea what I would do without y'all. All I can do to thank you is dedicate this book to y'all. It has two hot guys. I figured y'all would like that best anyway.





I LOST MY VIRGINITY at age thirteen. I know what you're thinking, and the answer is no. I wasn't raped or molested. Nothing horrible happened to me. I didn’t have a daddy complex or a shit life I needed to be rescued from. I just happened to like boys...a lot. I like them all. Tall, short, skinny, buff, light hair, or dark—I don't discriminate. My favorite kind, though, are the ones who like other boys too. Hey! Don't judge. Have you ever seen two completely straight guys making out just because you asked them to? They are willing to do anything to be with you, even if includes sharing you with another man. That's all right in my book.

I realized early on that one man isn't enough for me. It's a simple mathematical fact. Why have one man when you can have two? Any more than two gets complicated. Hell, half the time even two gets complicated. But it’s worth it. Sometimes every woman has to make an exception though—two crappy losers or one f*ck-hot man.

The night I laid eyes on Hunter Coy, I made my choice. At least for a little while.

"Lacey!" my best friend, Lydia, screams from across the bar.

I'm chatting up two strong sevens when she catches my attention. I level her with an 'I'm busy!' glare, but her wide eyes have me abandoning my two mediocre sure things and heading her way.

"What the hell, Lydia?" I question her.

"Oh, you're going to want to see this," she says, tipping her beer bottle toward the front entrance of the bar.

Damn if she wasn't right. Walking in is the hottest country boy a drunken redneck sperm ever produced. I don't do cowboy. It's just not my thing. Their jeans are always too tight, and I can't get down with flannel. I purposely avoid county bars like the plague. This is backwoods Georgia, but there are still some places you can go to forget that you are surrounded by hicks. However, if this fine specimen of man is any indication of what I'm missing, I might have a few new hangouts soon.

"Fuck," I unintentionally breathe.

"Please tell me you are going ride that tonight," Lydia whispers, never taking her eyes off the man handing his ID to the bouncer.

"Like a rodeo queen." I continue to stare as he walks into the bar.

He has to be at least six foot one, black hair, and even in the dim light of the bar, I can tell his eyes are dark. I can only hope he is half as dark as the attitude he's giving off. It's been a while since I have taken a bad boy for a ride. His jeans are tight enough to outline his toned thighs, and he's rocking black cowboy boots like it's his f*cking job. Oh, he knows every woman in the room is watching him right now, the same way I know there isn't a man here who can peel his eyes away from me.

"I'll be right back." I hand Lydia my beer and make my way over to tonight’s main attraction.

Just as I get within steps from him, he lifts his head and makes direct eye contact. His dark glare levels me and renders me completely unable to move. Damn it, I've never frozen for a man before. He does a quick head-to-toe assessment over my body before turning back to the bar, completely ignoring me.

My sevens catch back up to me and begin pushing me toward the bar. I just need to escape for a minute and figure out what the hell just went down. Cowboy openly judged me and apparently found me lacking. With any other man, I would have marched over, grabbed him by the balls, and made sure he never made that mistake again. However, this guy, well… He has me tucking my tail and walking away. I'm trying to shake off the guys who are urging me back to their table when I hear a deep rasping bark from behind me.

"How old are you?"

"What?" I ask, confused and slightly irritated by his tone. I have no idea who this guy thinks he is, but it’s obvious he thinks pretty highly of himself.

"How old are you?" he repeats very slowly, implying that I'm stupid.

"Who the f*ck do you think you are?"

"Hunter Coy, and you are, sugar?"

"Did you just call me sugar?" I snap.

"Do you have a problem with that?"

"Not if you're my ninety-year-old paw paw, but judging by the arrogance that is currently dry humping your overly inflated ego, I'm going to say yes, I very much have a problem with you calling me sugar."

"Is sweetheart any better for you?" he asks, amused by my rant.

"You're getting younger, but you still sound like a sixty-year-old bartender with a bad comb over named Sunny. You may have nice hair now, but with a vocabulary like that, you are only a few years away from asking him for his barber’s name."

He doesn't even try to fight back the laughter. Wouldn't you know his flipping laughing is sexy too?

"Okay, let’s try this again. You know, before I start going gray like your paw paw or start balding like Sunny the bartender. What's your name?" he asks while sporting a crooked grin.

Still annoyed from earlier, I roll my eyes and walk away. I don't make it very far because just a few steps away I come face to face with my worst enemy—my sister, Abby.