The crew is filming. The crew is silent. The crew is doing their jobs. It’s funny how I don’t even really mind that fact right now.
Spence and Monty eventually return from Consequences with a pile of raw meat they plan on barbecuing. Even though Oz is helpless in the kitchen he’s something of a master cookout chef so he takes charge of the food preparations.
Sometime later, right on the cusp of evening, when the divine smell of sizzling meat hangs heavy and we are all just doing ordinary things, it occurs to me that it all seems completely normal. Not the Savage version of normal, which was always a bit bizarre, but the everyday variety. When my sisters and I drag a table into the yard and cover it with a checkered tablecloth so we can sit outside and dine together in the twilight, it seems like the sort of thing any typical family would do.
And we are a family. All of us. Even if most of the time we don’t seem like it.
At the table Monty relaxes and discovers a sense of humor. He talks about the grotesque trauma of prison food and about how when he was inside he learned how to knit. Who knew knitting was a popular prison pastime? I have some trouble picturing a bunch of lumbering, hardened men dressed in orange jumpsuits, frowning over their double pointed needles and asking the guy in the next cell, “Hey, is this row knit or purl?”
I am totally aware of the fact that Oz is beside me the entire time. As night crawls closer, Spence and Monty find some mesquite sticks and show Alden how to toast marshmallows. Bree and Ava laugh and fuss when the little boy manages to get marshmallow goo all over his face. Alden grins and smears some spare melted marshmallow in Monty’s hair for good measure. I laugh as Monty struggles with being both annoyed and charmed as he scrubs marshmallow out of his hair with a napkin. I can’t remember the last time I laughed so freely.
Oz and I are the only ones still seated at the table. When I lean back slightly on the wooden bench he closes in. His arms circle my waist, his chest presses against my back and his breath is in my ear.
Of course my heartbeat immediately accelerates by a factor of ten and my panties suffer an instant soaking.
“Come with me,” he whispers urgently.
“Where?” I whisper back. Actually, it sounds more like a moan.
Oz pushes my hair aside and seductively trails his lips along the hollow at the base of my neck.
“Everywhere.”
I’m dizzy. I might have to just stay right here because I’m not sure standing is possible.
“Right now?”
He tightens his hold around my waist. Somehow a confident finger finds its way under the hem of my shirt to stroke the skin beneath. It’s not totally dark but it’s getting there so we’re somewhat obscured. But even if we weren’t I probably wouldn’t stop him if he shoved his whole hand down my pants.
“Right now,” he says and stands up, pulling me with him.
That kind of catches everyone’s attention. It’s like when there’s music playing and it suddenly cuts off, leaving everyone to stare in the direction it was coming from. There’s some awkward throat clearing and Oz wraps his arm around me, looking everyone defiantly in the face one by one before tearing his microphone off and leading me into the big house.
When a crew member attempts to follow us, Oz stops, tosses back, “I wouldn’t try that tonight,” and then slams the door in his face.
I’m breathless and slightly puzzled. I’m not so dense that I don’t understand what he’s got in mind, but what I don’t get is why we’re headed into Casa de Savage. It’s a place of history, and of heartbreak.
Oz knows exactly what he’s doing. As soon as we’re inside he picks me up without even pausing and heads down the hall.
When I say his name he stops and brushes his lips across mine ever so briefly.
“Shh, we’ve wasted enough time. And Loren,” he frowns, “take off your fucking microphone.”
My arms hold fast to his neck as he smoothly carries me to the bedroom. His skin smells of smoke and soap, a combination that strikes me as supremely erotic.
As soon as we’re in the bedroom he kicks the door closed, locks it and sets me on my feet. When I get a good look at his face I shrink against the wall. Not out of fear. I could never be afraid of him. But Oz’s mild manners of the past weeks have all been exhausted, replaced by something far more primal.
Staring straight into that kind of commanding lust would make any woman weak.
I’ve seen what Oz is like when he’s tender.
And I’ve seen him when he’s rough.
I can’t tell which side of the coin I’m looking at.
But then he cups my face gently into his palms, stroking my cheeks with his thumbs.
“Loren,” he says with supreme tenderness. “I swore I’d never kiss you again. At the time, I meant it.”
I swallow hard. “I remember.”
How could I forget? That night in the desert I’d begged him to use me hard. We said things to hurt each other. That was what I wanted. I wanted the bad memory.
It didn’t turn out how I thought it would. But then, nothing has.
My voice is the thickest of whispers. “Oz. Oscar. Kiss me now. Please.”
He shuts his eyes briefly and lets out a small groan. He tips forward and presses his forehead lightly against mine. At the same time his body grinds against me with hard, urgent need. My hands travel eagerly down his strong back, craving to feel more skin.
I need more. I need it all.
If I don’t get all of him soon I don’t think I can hold onto sanity. I want him so bad I can’t see straight.
But I want this first.
When our lips touch, it’s soft, tentative, contradicting the frantic hunger ready to bust right through his pants and take me where I stand. I move my hand lower to cup the hard outline of him and he inhales sharply. Yet the kiss remains tender. His tongue slides against mine in a slow dance that’s sweet agony.
The very first time he kissed me I knew that kiss would be the gold standard forever. Until this moment it was. I’m lost in this kiss and I don’t ever want to be found.
But there’s a more primitive part of me that can’t take it anymore. My hips start rocking against him in rhythm, mad for relief. When his hands leave my face and travel between my legs I groan into his mouth. I’m grabbing at his shirt, pulling it up and running my fingers along hard, smooth muscle that never ends.
Oz breaks free and pulls back. His eyes are blazing and he yanks his shirt over his head with one fluid motion.
“Wait,” he growls when my trembling fingers begin to undo my own shirt. His hands cover mine and his deft fingers go right to work. “That’s my job.”
He’s quick and sure, sliding the fabric down as he runs his lips along my right shoulder.
“Oz,” I breathe, reaching for his pants.
The sight of his dick straining to be released is hypnotic. Every muscle between my legs twitches expectantly. I’ve never needed anything so much.
Oz is in charge right now though. He flashes a sexy, knowing grin and carries me the short distance to the bed. Once he’s got me on my back he gets between my legs, circles my waist with his big hands and rolls his thumbs over my belly.
“We’ll get there, Ren. But first you’re going to hear this.” His strong thumbs travel lower and lower until I gasp, then bite my lip, trying to compel my body to stop writhing in the most wanton manner.
He’s doing it on purpose, teasing the hell out of the most sensitive place I own and stopping short of letting me get too close. I raise my hips, straining wildly against his fingers. I’m so ready I swear I could come if he would just finish sliding my shorts down. He smiles at my struggle, content to tease until he decides I’m ready.