Sugar on the Edge (Last Call #3)(26)

Brody’s eyebrows rise high, and he gives me a smirk. “That’s a mouthful. Got anything else?”

“I’m done,” I mutter quietly, feeling dejected over the lameness of my life. We both walk out of the cats’ housing and head to the large supply shed so we can load up on restocking supplies in the kennel room.

As we reach the door, Brody reaches out and touches my shoulder to stop me. “Savannah… you have more fortitude and spine than most people I know. Don’t forget what you did… one of the bravest things I’ve ever heard of in my life,” he murmurs.

My skin prickles at his pointed reminder to me of a past that is filled with fear, pain, humiliation, and oddly… achievement.

“That was so long ago,” I protest as I turn to step inside the supply shed.

“Not so long ago,” he argues softly. “It speaks of who you are at the fundamental core of things.”

His words press in upon me. Really? Is he right? Do I have more resolve and moxie than even I give myself credit for?

He’s talking about a secret I once shared with him and Alyssa… that’s really not a secret, because it was splashed all through the newspapers back in Indiana. I went through hell during my senior year of high school, taking on a predatory monster and his super wealthy, socially connected family. I was bullied, berated, and mocked for my actions. I lost my closest friends and caused my parents’ untold anguish what with the eggs being thrown at our house and the late night, threatening phone calls. I was called a whore, a liar, and made into a public spectacle.

But in the end, I stuck to my guns and I won. I was vindicated, and I went through untold torture to get to the finish line. I stuck my chin out, stiffened my spine, and I never gave up.

Yeah, Brody is right… that was definitely my shining moment in life. I had something within me to battle against evil, and I never gave up. I never waited for someone to save me. I saved myself.

Gavin Cooke doesn’t know what he’s talking about.

Anti-heroine my ass.





I hear something… a creak maybe… down on the first floor, and my ears perk up. Glancing at the time on my laptop, I see it’s getting close to ten o’clock and I’m on f*cking pins and needles waiting for Savannah to get here. I even left my office door open this morning so I could hear when she arrived. So I could, by chance as far as she knew, go down into the kitchen to get something—a bottle of water maybe—and see her.

Fuck, I need to see her, because I’ve spent the last three days obsessing about the woman. Ever since I pushed her off my raging erection and right out the door last Friday night, said raging erection has become positively monstrous. Jacking off doesn’t seem to help, because all I can think about is how her skin felt when I slid my fingers up her leg, or how her eyes darkened when she told me to touch her between the legs, or how frustrated she looked when I wouldn’t.

I’m frustrated as hell that she wouldn’t go that extra step and give in to me. I’m frustrated at myself that I let a golden opportunity get away, because had I just given up a minutia of control, I could have had her. I could have f*cked my brains out and then been done with her.

I had to stop myself probably five times on Saturday from going to help her at that animal shelter, just so I could get another whiff of her scent, maybe brush up against that warm skin. I feel like a boy with an insane crush or something. Frankly, it’s buggering me.

Leaning forward in my chair, I read the last few lines of my manuscript and sigh. It’s not flowing the way I want it to. I started a scene this weekend, writing it almost word for word exactly how my Friday night turned out on the couch with Savannah. My hero, Max, demanded she give him the words he wanted to hear. He wanted to hear her beg, I want you to touch my *, Max.

And just as it happened in real life, my little anti-heroine, who I named Honey—because, yeah… honey is sweet—pushed away from him in embarrassment and shyness, refusing him.

I wrote it that way because I have no intention of changing the plot line regarding this character. Max is ultimately going to have her, but he’ll discard her as well. And he won’t be able to save her from evil, and she sure as hell won’t save herself.

Yup… needs to stay that way… true to my muse.

Staring at the screen, I wait for further inspiration to hit, but it never comes. I read my last paragraphs over and over again, now doubting whether Honey should really deny my hero.

My fingers twitch.

What the f*ck… the scene definitely needs tweaked.

Max inched her skirt up her leg, letting his fingers glide along her skin. “You know what I want to do to you? I want you to let me touch you… see if your panties are as wet as I suspect they’d be. Then I want to finger f*ck you… let you ride my hand a bit. Just to start…”

Honey’s breath turned ragged, but she remained absolutely still other than her fingers, which dug into his shoulders.

“Tell me, sweet girl,” Max crooned at her in a velvety voice. “Tell me you want it too… tell me what you want me to do to you.”

Honey’s eyelids drooped, and she licked at her lips. Max’s fingers stroked along the edge of her panties, causing her to jerk slightly in his arms. He was so f*cking hard at that moment he could probably jackhammer a sidewalk with his cock.