The Vixen and the Vet (8 page)

“
Oh my,” she said, whimpering softly as she wetted her lips, trying to catch her breath unsuccessfully as the world continued swirling around them.

“Your skin’s like warm honey,” he whispered so close to her ear, she shivered, and she felt him readjust his hand, slipping
it under her flimsy camisole to flatten against the skin of her lower back. “So sweet. So damn sweet, Savannah.”

She murmured incoherently
, letting her hands slide up to his shoulders and loop around his neck. She buried her face in his shoulder, and he held her close as their hearts leaped and pounded against each other, and the strength of Savannah’s newfound feelings made her feel invincible and terrified and unsatisfied, and wanting so much more from this man who’d lived his life in the shadows for way too long.

He pulled back, his hot breath fanning her face, smelling slightly of Chardonnay and lust as he rested his forehead on hers.

“Jesus, Savannah,” he said in a rough, gravelly voice.

“Yeah,” she sighed, her eyes finally fluttering open to find
his looking, deep and drugged, into hers.

“That was
…” He licked his lips, leaning forward to catch her upper lip between his teeth and tug lightly. “I don’t even …”

“I know,” she murmured,
finally getting her bearings. She tilted her face and closed her eyes to kiss him again, softly, gently, a “see you later,” not a “farewell.”

“I don’t want to stop,” he
whispered hotly against her lips.

Savannah shivered, pulling on his neck even though there was nowhere else for him to go. She adjusted slightly so that her front was flush
with his, her breasts rising and falling into him, every cell in her body wanting more from him, more skin, less clothes, more heat, less of anything standing in the way of release and relief.

He kissed her, then pulled back
to find her eyes. “Where’d you come from, Savannah Carmichael? And why me?”

“
From across town,” she said softly, nestling her cheek against his shoulder and opening her eyes to the thousands of white lights roped over their heads. “Because you said yes.”

“Yes to you?”

“Yes to letting me interview you.”

“Maybe I was saying yes to your
mom’s brownies.”

“Hey,” she said, grabbing a
handful of his hair at the nape of his neck and tugging. “I made those.”

He
laughed, the vibrations of his chest against her stimulated breasts feeling like bliss and torture at the same time.

“Speaking of food, you hungry
, baby?”

Baby?
Her breath caught momentarily from the unexpected sound of the sexy endearment tumbling from his mouth.
Yes. For more of you. For you calling me baby again. For the weight of your body pressing down against mine. Preferably with no clothes. Just skin and heat and—

“Savannah?”

“Mmm,” she answered with a little whimper. “I’m starving.”

***

Asher watched her eyes sparkling across the table as she laughed between bites of cold fried chicken, telling him about her first assignment in New York: an exposé about dog owners who didn’t pick up after their dogs. She was a good storyteller, and the material was amusing, so he made himself smile in all the right places, but he was having trouble concentrating. His body was still wired and reeling from what had just happened between them.

It had taken a fair amount of courage to make a pass at her, but
his misgivings had been quickly overcome as he watched her eyes close when he reached up to touch her cheek. Her face was so beautiful in the soft light, so trusting and yielding, and when he leaned down to touch his lips to hers, something had given way within him, making space for something old and forgotten, that he’d lived without for too long, that he feared he’d never know again. But it wasn’t just about the physical connection to a beautiful woman, it was about Savannah herself, ambitious and driven, brave and jealous and faulted, who seemed to look beyond his injuries—with terrifying precision—and see his heart.

He was falling in love with her. He was certain now.

“… so you can imagine. I’m twenty-three, trying to confidently follow behind this older, balding man with a shih tzu, to pester him about why he was ignoring the ‘scoop it’ ordinance, and my photographer is following behind me, grumbling about not being paid enough for this kind of stupid-work.” She grinned, taking another sip of wine. “Education via humiliation.”

“Real
-world experience,” Asher agreed, raising his glass to cheer her.

“You know what I’ve been wondering?” she asked, cocking her head to the side in the gesture he was starting to love so much. “Why you deferred
Johns Hopkins. I mean, you graduate from U.Va. with honors and have a mostly free ride at med school waiting for you. Then, out of nowhere, you enlist. I admire the service, but I don’t understand the motive.”

There was the reporter again, and though he liked Re
porter Savannah, he liked Friend Savannah and Kisser Savannah a little more.

“
I was a senior in college when 9/11 happened. All I wanted to do was help,” he said simply, taking a sip of wine. “But, hey, I thought we did today’s interview at four.”

“Oh,” she said, sitting back, rebuffed. “I’m sorry, I
…”

He winced. He hadn’t meant
to embarrass her. “No. I’m sorry. It’s a fair question, interview or not.”

“I do that,” she said, frowning at her plate. “My sister hates it. I forget to be a person. I can’t stop chasing the story. Every story. Any story.”

“I like that about you,” he said, reaching his hand across the table, palm up. It took her a moment to place her hand in his, but he was relieved when she did. “I like how ambitious you are. How focused. I admire it.”

“It’s not always a plus.”

The pad of his thumb reflexively stroked the soft pillow of her palm. “What do you mean?”

“I have tunnel
vision. Not just about my job. When I’m into something,
passionate
about it, I can’t see the forest for the trees, you know?”

“Are you speaking generally or specifically here?”

She shrugged. “Both, I guess.”

“I know you lost your job, Savannah. At the
Sentinel
. And I know why.”

She raised her eyes from her plate,
a frown souring her expression as she searched his face. She must have decided to err on the side of caution because she pulled her hand away to pick up her glass and take a long sip.

“Like I said,” she
said ruefully, “I have a tendency to lose perspective.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“The hell it wasn’t.”

“
Patrick Monroe is a bastard,” growled Asher.

“You talk like you know him.”

“Would it surprise you if I did?”

“Very much,” she
said, confusion narrowing her brown eyes.

“We spent two summers together at Camp
Dooley in Upstate New York.”

He
r lips parted in surprise, but it was clear from her expression she knew of the upper-crust summer camp for privileged boys. “You’re kidding me!”

“I’m not. And he was as much of an ass
wipe then as now.”

Her eyes brightened again, he noticed
, with relief and pleasure.

“I smell a story
,” she said.

“Does it smell like duplicity and cheating?”

“Yes, in fact, it does. What was he like then? Pat?”

“Superior.
Charismatic. Spineless.”

“So you
really liked him,” she deadpanned.

“Yeah, lots,” said Asher.

“You rich boys and your summer camps.”

“Don’t lump me
in with him. I may live in a cave, but I’m not a snake.”

“Why only two years?
At Camp Dooley?”

“He got kicked out for fraternizing with a couple of the girls from Camp
Kristina next door.”

“At the same time?”

“You know Pat.”

“Unfortunately.” Her eyes went dull as she finished her wine in one long gulp. “He ruined my life.”

He winced at her tone—the defeat in it, the quiet surrender.

“Nah,
” he said. “The
Sentinel’s
not the only rag in the country.”

“But it’s the best.”

“That’s a matter of opinion. I hear the
Phoenix Times
has won a lot of awards in the past few years. Maddox McNabb seems to get a lot of hot scoops, from what I can gather.”

“Well, don’t you just have your finger on the pulse of my life.”

“Yes, baby,” he said, low and slow, remembering the feeling of her pulse beneath his lips. “I do.”

The way her cheeks flushed and her tongue darted out to lick her lips, he knew her mind had flown to the same airspace. He refilled her glass as she looked away shyly.

“You researched me,” she said, taking the glass and holding it without sipping.

“I had to know who
m I was dealing with, Savannah. I’ve protected my life from the outside world for almost a decade. I couldn’t let just anyone in.”

“You know I have a weakness for my
… sources.” Her eyes searched his, and he knew what she was asking:
Did you think I’d be an easy mark?

“In a million years, I never thought I’d have a chance with you, Savannah.” His voice was measured and low
, and when she looked up, her eyes were soft. He could tell she knew he was telling the truth.

He
watched her breasts move faster as her breathing grew more shallow. He glanced at her neck, where he saw her pulse pounding, and it did terrible, awful, miraculous, hopeful things to his body.

“How about dessert?”

***

As midnight approached,
Asher pulled the two easy chairs over to the love seat so they could both put their feet up. Savannah kicked off her shoes, resting her head on his chest in contentment as he held her close with his good arm. They’d barely taken a break from talking since dinner, and Savannah’s mother’s key lime tartlets had been consumed hours ago.

“What do you want out of life?” asked Asher
, his hand trailing up and down her back and making her shiver lightly. “Where do you want to be in five years?”

“I want to be the top investigative journalist at one of the top newspapers or magazines in the country
. But I want to report locally on city news, not nationally, because I also want to settle down. I know it’s a myth—perfect job, loving husband, 2.3 kids, a cocker spaniel, and a house within an hour of a symphony, stadium, and the sea—but I want it. The myth. Someday. Five years would be good.” She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, listening to the beating of his heart. “What about you?”

“Two weeks ago
, I would have said nothing.”

“
Asher, that’s terrible.”

“
But true.”

“
And now?”

“Now I’m getting grabby.”

“It feels good to want,” said Savannah.

“It feels terrible to want,” he
said softly, “when your chances of getting what you want are so slim.”

His words made anger surge within her
. She leaned away from him, catching his eyes in the firelight. “Stop doing that.”

“What?”

“Lowballing yourself.”

“I think I’m reality-balling myself.”

“No,” she insisted fiercely. “You’re not.”

She reached for his face with both hands for the first time, her palms landing
simultaneously on smooth skin and scarred skin. She held him still and deliberately looked into his eyes—his normal eye and the other eye, whose socket had been damaged by the detonation of that goddamned IED. She lingered on that eye until he closed them both and then she leaned forward to press her lips against the mangled skin beneath it. His breath was ragged as she placed a second kiss on the injured skin of his cheek, then on the corner of his lips.

He roared to life, his incredibly strong arm pulling her
onto his lap, his mouth opening to kiss her senseless, to kiss her like crazy, to drown her and consume her and make her forget all the kisses that came before.

She rolled her hips against him, lowering her hands to his neck
as his hand slid up the skin of her back then around to her front so he could cup her breast through the lace of her bra. He kneaded her skin gently as his growing erection pushed up against her thighs, and she rolled over it again to let him know he shouldn’t stop.

He sucked on her tongue as his thumb and forefinger found her nipple, rolling it, teasing it into a hard point before moving to the other. She ran her hands through his shaggy hair, grasping, clutching, arching against him as her insides ran hot and wet with the power of her arousal, her want, her need.