Hi guys, so I've received quite a few messages about Savor You, and just wanted to let everyone know that it is definitely still going to be released. Because of a family emergency I had and because I've also been hard at work on CONSUMED, Savor You has been slightly delayed to June 10. It will be available on Amazon, Kobo, B&N, and Itunes, and I'll be posting on here, Twitter, and Facebook and sending out a newsletter to everyone subscribed to my updates the moment it goes live (if you're interested in subscribing to my newsletter, you can do so HERE). Thank you so much for your support--I have the most ass-kicking readers EVER.
A while back I posted the first chapter of Savor You, and I wanted to show you guys the edited version. I hope you enjoy! :)
“Good God, he’s looking at you again,” Heidi says in a hushed voice. Gyrating her curvy hips to the technoed-up Adele song that’s blasting through the nightclub, she sneaks a glance over my shoulder toward the booths lining the far wall. When I refuse to follow her eyes to the guy who’s been eyeballing us for the better part of an hour, choosing to toss back my drink and lift my shoulders indifferently, my closest friend gives me a dark look. “Kylie, he’s looking at you. Like he wants to peel your jeans off with his teeth. Like he—”
“Like he’s some stranger who’ll probably strangle me to death when we get back to his hotel room.” I lift my hand to my throat, which burns like Hades from the drink I just downed, and rub my thumb back and forth across the delicate bones in the center. “Sorry, babe. Not in the mood to get choked out tonight.”
Heidi frowns but I’m not sure if it’s because of what I’ve just said or the DJ’s newest choice of song, Bad Romance. She can’t stand that song almost as much as she loathes her ex-neighbor who played Gaga on repeat (and on maximum volume) every morning for months.
“You’re so morbid,” she finally moans, swinging her mane of loose chestnut curls over her shoulder. “You need to have fun and not think about him and his giant—”
“Don’t even touch that subject with a ten foot pole,” I say sharply. “And I’m not thinking of him.”
Heidi presses her lips into a fine line, but says nothing. Her gaze refocuses on something else, and this time, I twist my head slightly to take in a short, overly tan guy making his way through the crowd with two bottles of Shiner Bock held high over his head.
Even though I’m glad he’s distracted her from talking about Wyatt, I softly point out, “He’s not your type.” Heidi’s got a thing for ink and piercings—the more of both, the better—and Shiner Bock has neither. “And besides, more than one beer usually means they’re here with someone.” I give her a warning look, but Heidi lifts her eyebrow wickedly.
“Shiner Bock is here with those guys.” She jabs her finger at a group of men across the club. “So yeah . . .”
Heidi and I had made a deal before we came out to Bourbon Street tonight—we were going back to our hotel room together. But by the way Shiner Bock’s face lights up when his eyes connect with hers, I know there’s no chance in hell she’s coming home with me.
And that leaves me alone.
I dart my eyes from Shiner Bock to Heidi and then down to the empty glass in my hand. Being the third wheel in an innuendo-laced conversation that will ultimately lead to a broken headboard? Vodka-infused drink?
Being third wheel?
Vodka. Infused. Drink?
“I’m going to get a refill,” I announce, and Heidi offers me a jerky nod of her head. She’s already dancing with Shiner Bock, grinding her ass against his crotch, before I make it three steps in the opposite direction. Apparently, he’s forgotten about the intended recipient of the second beer.
Heidi generally has that effect on men.
I shove my way through the club, and by the time I reach the bar and sit down, I’ve had so many body parts brushing against me that I immediately ask the bartender for a triple shot in my Bloody Mary.
“You look bored,” a voice asks behind me, and when I look back, I’m not the least bit surprised to see the man who’s spent most of the night staring at me. He slips onto the barstool next to me just as the bartender pushes my drink across the countertop.
Granting him a little smile, I slowly stir the stalk of celery around in my Bloody Mary. “No, just tired,” I reply.
I lean over and take a long sip of my drink before answering him. “Very.”
It’s the honest truth. The vacation to New Orleans had been last minute; I’d barely managed to get the flight booked. But I’d take exhaustion any day over having to be around Your Toxic Sequel, my brother’s band, as they recorded their newest album—and being that I’m Lucas’s personal assistant, that would have been inevitable if I hadn’t reminded him he hadn’t given me a vacation in over a year.
“Ian,” the man beside me says, breaking my thoughts. He extends his hand out to me, and I glance down, not moving to take it.
“I’ve been wanting to say something to you, but I . . .” Ian’s deep voice trails off and he casts grey eyes down toward the bar counter.
I take a bite of my celery and wrinkle my nose. “You probably would’ve weirded me out less if you had,” I admit, but after I say it, I can’t resist grinning. He smiles, too, and I realize why Heidi was so insistent I check him out.
“Look, I don’t—” he starts, but I hold up my hand. It’s better to get this out of the way before I let him get too far into the conversation.
“I don’t do beads.” I nod my head at a couple of girls dancing with each other a few feet away from where Ian and I are sitting. There are several rows of purple, gold, and green beads dangling around their flushed necks. “So don’t ask how far I’ll go for some. And honestly, I think I’d better get back to my friend.”
I’m already scooting off my stool before Ian’s face falls, making a quick getaway before he has a chance to retort. When a hand touches the small of my back, I spin around to face him. “Look, I’m sure you—”
But then I look up. And it’s not Ian’s grey eyes I’m looking up into. These are eyes that I could pluck out of a crowd without even trying to find them, and right now, they make me forget how to breathe just right. The deep scowl on this face literally makes my pulse speed up. I tighten my grip around my drink so I won’t spill it all over my boots.
The blue eyes I’m staring into belong to Wyatt McCrae, the man I’d come to New Orleans to get the hell away from. The bass guitarist for Your Toxic Sequel, my big brother’s band.
I force myself to catch my breath. “What are you doing here?”
Wyatt leans down until his mouth is level with my ear. Despite the heat caused by all the sweaty bodies around us, I shiver when the piercing at the corner of his lower lip skims my skin. “Too fucking loud in here, Ky. Outside.”
Though I know I shouldn’t, I give him a jerky nod and follow behind him. He reaches back, wrapping his hand around my wrist to keep me close to him as we pick through the crowd. He doesn’t let me go until we’re in the alley. Out here, I can hear not only the upbeat pop anthem playing inside of the club, but music from a street festival too.
Wyatt’s the first to say something—well, do something. He slips his hand behind my back, drawing me close to him until our bodies rub together. Too bad for him I’m not having it. I break our contact, stuffing my hands deep into the pockets of my jeans.
“Why are you here?” I demand furiously, meeting his dark blue gaze.
“Why weren’t you in Nashville?”
I take a deep breath so I won’t tell him to go and shove the neck of his guitar up his cocky, perfect ass. “I’m entitled to a vacation.”
Wyatt lets out a dangerous chuckle. “Taken the exact moment we were supposed to see each other again? That shit won’t work with me, Kylie. You were trying to avoid me.”
Because he’s using my full name and not Ky or Blue, and since we once agreed to be honest with one another—even if that truthfulness aches like a fist to the heart—I give him the closest thing to a smile I can summon. “I’m entitled to a vacation that gets me away from you because seeing you always results in me losing my head for a few days.” A sensual grin begins to make its way across his face, and I quickly add, “And those few days always, always end with you letting me down for something or another and me wanting to knee you in the balls.
Grabbing his chest, he stumbles backwards and winces. “You’re scary when you’re pissed, Wolfe,” he says, and when I open my mouth to correct my last name, he presses his lips flat. “Don’t even fucking think about it.”
“Or you’ll what? Spank me?”
Running his gaze slowly up the length of my body, he says softly, deliberately, “That’s coming anyway, Ky.”
Choosing to ignore that particular comment, I pull my hands out of my pockets and grab one of the cigarettes tucked behind my ear, sliding it between my lips. Wyatt produces a lighter from his own pocket and holds it six inches from my mouth. As I lean forward, I stare up at him from beneath my lashes. “How’d you find me?” I demand, taking a long inhale of menthol. Straightening my back, I support my weight against the brick wall.
“Disable the Foursquare or I’ll do it for you,” he warns in that possessive voice that had me tripping all over myself a few years back. “Anyone can find you with that shit.”
“Funny, thought I took your ass off my friend’s list.”
“Didn’t take Cal’s ass off of it,” he says, referring to one of his and my brother’s band mates.
“Nice.” That single word sounds like poison rolling off my tongue. I take another drag of my cigarette before dropping it to the black asphalt and crushing it beneath the heel of my boot. “Guess I see where Cal’s loyalty lies. So why’d you come?”
“Didn’t want to think of anyone else’s hands digging in that hair.” He reaches out to slide a few strands of my short black and blue hair through his fingertips. When I clear my throat, he comes closer to me. “Couldn’t stand the thought of you getting drunk and wrapping those legs around someone else.”
As if to prove his point, he squeezes my thigh, flicking the tip of his thumb back and forth across the V between my legs. My snug black jeans absolutely suck as a barrier—heat speeds through my body, and I bite my bottom lip to make him think I’m still breathing like a normal person.
Damn you, Wyatt.
“Glad you have so much faith in me.” I clear my throat to get rid of the dryness in the back of my throat. “And now that you know my legs are safely locked at the knees?”
“I’m still not fucking leaving until you come with me,” he says.
I narrow my brown eyes into thin slits, and he swallows, making the tattoo that races across his throat appear as if it’s moving for a moment. I don’t need sunlight to know what it says because I’d been with him when he got it. All Does Not End Well.
And sadly, that’s exactly how things will go down if I go anywhere with Wyatt tonight or any other evening, for that matter.
So why the hell do I still want him?
“If I leave with you, you’ll have no reason to find me through your friends anymore. I mean, isn’t that your forte? A big jealous showdown followed by an even bigger letdown?”
The edges of his lips twitch up into an apologetic grin and he works the tip of his tongue over the labret at the left corner because he knows good and well that crap drives me to distraction. It always has. “You forgot what happens between that showdown and letdown, Ky,” he says.
“Nah. Just didn’t see a point to mention that.” And that is the angry, mind-fucking sex usually fueled by one of our more epic arguments. Shoving my palms up against his muscular chest, I push myself away and walk around him, but he grabs my wrist and spins me back around. “I don’t want you here. In fact, I’d rather be third wheel to Heidi and the guy she just met,” I say, but he shrugs my words off.
“You’ve got no fucking choice, sweetheart.”
“Of course I do.” But when I try to shake free of him again, he pushes my hands over my head, pausing when his gaze locks on my ring finger.
“Jesus, get that thing covered,” he snaps, his voice low but audible even over the sound of Cajun music pouring from the festival in the streets.
Instinctively, I skim the pad of my thumb over the tattoo of my ex’s last name. “If you hadn’t come, you wouldn’t have to look at it,” I respond calmly, despite the harsh, familiar flash of pain in my ribcage. I want to choke this man. I want to curl my fingers around his freaking neck or slap him.
But after the storm is over—because I’m a glutton for punishment—I want him to kiss me. I want those feelings from Wyatt McCrae that I’ve chased for years.
And that is the precise reason I’m here in the first place. I'm over chasing him.
Wyatt’s midnight blue eyes harden, and he backs me up against the brick wall, causing the air to leave my lungs for all the wrong reasons. “Do you really think I need to be with you to remember you let some fucker put his name on you?” He nudges my legs apart with his knee.
“Should’ve done it first,” I counter furiously.
“I’m doing it now.”
“That would require a little more commitment than you telling me you’re wanting to take me back to your room and—”
But then Wyatt’s mouth comes down on mine, shutting off my last few words. He lets go of my hands and I drop them to his shoulders, dig into his flesh because I don’t want to let go—because like so many times before, I’m so lost in him that it causes physical pain to every inch of my body.
I need to end this now.
I need to move on, just like I planned.
“Wyatt,” I start, but he rubs the pad of his thumb against the center of my lips.
“Just let go, Ky.” He replaces his fingers with his mouth, skimming the labret across mine. The sensation of the metal against my skin makes me shiver, and I feel him smile. He knows damn well that what he’s doing to me. He thinks he’s got me right where he wants me. “I couldn’t get you off my mind,” Wyatt murmurs.
It must come as a shock to him when I pull back and put my index finger over his lips. “Glad you finally started to think about me when I’m not in your bed.” I zero my attention in on a piece of lint on my t-shirt, taking my time to pick it off so I can catch my breath and gather my thoughts. Finally, I look back up into his eyes. “But I’m still not fucking you tonight, babe.”