Sugar on the Edge (Last Call #3)(71)

He’s merciless. Absolutely focused and determined to make me come again, and I have to wonder what his ultimate agenda is. He’s showed me pleasure over and over again since we first came together, but he is relentless in his pursuit to drive me mad with need for him.

I sob, I strain against the ropes, I tell him to stop, and I beg him. He keeps on and on, murmuring words against me in between licking and sucking, and my brain becomes overloaded with sensation.

When I finally come again… what was that—four or five times—I momentarily black out by the conquering force of convulsions ripping through me.

When I come to, Gavin is kneeling by my knees, holding a pocketknife in his hands. He cuts one leg and then another free, and I groan as the blood rushes back through my sore limbs.

Lying down beside me, fully dressed still, Gavin starts rubbing my legs to help increase the circulation. I grit my teeth through the pins and needle-like pain but silently think to myself… that little bit of discomfort was so worth it.

“That was all kinds of hot,” Gavin says as he massages my calf.

“That was amazing,” I murmur.

“Told you I was going to make you pass out,” he says with a confident smirk.

“You are amazing,” I tell him.





I’ve always known February in London is gray and cold, but it seems more so right now. I’m sure that has nothing to do with meteorology and everything to do with the fact that I don’t want to be here, and that I’m here without Savannah.

The last few weeks have been unbelievably good to me. Savannah read my manuscript and declared it a masterpiece. I read back through it two more times, making some revisions and tweaking a few plot points. During the day, I would work up in my office, and Savannah would work down in the kitchen, managing all of my author affairs. Sometimes she would take the day and drive throughout eastern North Carolina. She’d pack her camera bag, a sandwich, and her phone so I could text her occasionally. She would come home at night, upload her photos to the computer, and we’d go through them together while eating dinner.

At night… and I mean every f*cking night, and more often than not during the day too… I would be inside of her, stroking and pumping my way to an even deeper connection with her, poured forth in orgasms and sweet, whispered words. I couldn’t get enough of her… can’t get enough of her. I keep asking myself, when will it ever be enough? Something always screams back at me… never!

With my manuscript finally turned into my editor and a few weeks’ time before I needed to start on my next one, I decided to go ahead and knock out a quick trip back to the homeland. My main goal was to see my parents and go through all the stuff my dad had packed up from the Turnbridge house. I planned to donate most of it, but I knew there would be a few things I wanted to keep. That goofy, blue octopus of Charlie’s and, of course, all the photos I had ever taken of him. If I’m going to make my home back in Duck, North Carolina, said home should be filled with pictures of my son. I realize that thinking about photos of Charlie doesn’t pain me as much as it used to.

Savannah isn’t here with me only because my timid, little wallflower apparently has never traveled out of the States before and never had a passport. So I left her with a sweet kiss and an order to get to work on her passport, because she sure as f*ck was going to come with me on the next visit. With a direct flight from Raleigh to London, I figured we could make several trips a year to see my family and visit Charlie’s grave.

My flight leaves tomorrow at eleven in the morning and there’s nothing left to do but get a good night’s sleep. I declined my parents request to stay at their house in Turnbridge, preferring to get a hotel closer to the airport to save me some time in the morning.

I pull all the pillows from the bed and arrange them on one side propped against the headboard. Grabbing my laptop, I sit down with my back against the pillows and fire it up so I can start outlining my next novel.

All I can seem to think about is getting back to Savannah.

Savannah, Savannah, Savannah. So very sweet, Savannah.

God, I can’t believe how bad I f*cking miss her. I feel almost weak and powerless to admit it, yet there’s no denying that my life is beginning again because of her. It worries me to no end how much I seem to need her… how desperate I am to be in her presence.

I grab my phone and turn it on. Tapping on the favorites button, I hit Savannah’s name. She’s the only number listed in my favorites.

After three rings, her voice mail picks up and even though I’m not going to leave her a message, I listen to it all the same just so I can hear her voice. It makes a pang of hurt stab in my chest with longing.

Hanging up, I open up a new document on my laptop and flex my fingers. I’m ready to write. Except… my mind drifts.

I wonder what Savannah is doing right now. It’s close to noon in the States but time has no bearing. Her schedule doesn’t necessarily follow the tick of the clock. She may be out shooting some photos or picking up my mail. Hell, maybe that f*cking vacuum cleaner is running and that’s why she’s not answering the phone. There’s a good chance she may be over at The Haven right now, elbow deep in puppies and kittens.

I smile, because although I miss her terribly, I also love her devotion to the things that are important to her. She even has me going to The Haven with her to volunteer, and it’s not necessarily because of the altruistic blood running through my veins. It probably has everything to do with the fact that I want to be near her as much as possible.