Page 27 of Savage Prince

“But?” she prompts after a beat, her palms sliding higher on my back as she presses closer. The feel of her breasts against my ribcage is enough to make me lose the fight with my dick.

“But everything is crazy,” I say, my jaw clenching as she rocks her hips forward, rubbing against my hard-on.

“Not everything,” she says. “I’m not crazy. You’re not crazy.” She shifts her hips again, making my cock twitch behind my fly. “And I bet we’d both feel better after a little co-ed naked fun time.”

“We can’t,” I grit out. “Not in the middle of the park.”

“Obviously not.” Her hands reverse their path, until her fingers are teasing at the top of my jeans. “But where there’s a will, there’s a way, and I know of a bed-and-breakfast with fifty-dollar rates and a vacancy. Meet me there in half an hour with the bags?”

She steps away and I reach for her, catching her elbow. “Where are you going?”

“To get fifty dollars. And tax. I bet they charge tax, too.”

“We’re not splitting up.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be careful,” she says, tipping her head back and leaning in once more. “And I’ll be less likely to attract attention without a giant man beast tailing my every move.”

I’m about to tell her that this man beast isn’t one she’s going to shake when she cuts me off with a kiss. It’s our first kiss since she rose from the ashes and it’s every bit as explosive as the ones before. Hunger burns hot through my core as her tongue spars with mine and her mischievous fingers tease along the ridge at the front of my pants.

“Ouch,” she whispers against my lips as she caresses my cock through the jean fabric. “That must hurt. You need some relief, my friend.”

“Juliet,” I say, her name a warning and a prayer for mercy.

“Follow me at a discreet distance if you want, but don’t get too close,” she says, kissing me harder. By the time she points a finger at my face as she backs toward the grocery store on the other side of the park, I’m breathless. “Unless I’m caught, then feel free to save me before the police arrive. Tell them I’m a kleptomaniac in recovery who backslid in the wake of her father’s impending death. Play up the tragedy and pathos. Don’t tell them I’m the one planning to kill him.”

“We shouldn’t do this,” I say, not sure if I’m talking about stealing or fucking or both.

Probably both.

Itshouldbe both, but that kiss has my head spinning.

I’m not thinking straight. It’s a fact that’s proven when I look up to find Juliet already halfway across the park. I snap out of my turned-on trance and hurry after her, only to turn and dash back to the playground a second later when I remember the bags.

I catch up with her as she’s slipping through the sliding glass doors into the grocery store about fifty feet ahead and force my steps to slow. People are already staring, likely wondering why I’m charging into the store like a firefighter into a burning building.

Or why I’m scowling while I do it.

I’m a scary man when I scowl. In the past two weeks at Lost Moon, surrounded by people who saw me as a friendly new student, I’d almost forgotten what it feels like to be watched like a pipe bomb about to explode.

It brings back memories of the pits, of the way the crowd would cheer when I stepped into the ring and roar even louder when my opponent lay bloodied at my feet. They loved that I looked like a monster and killed like a machine.

For a long time, that was the only love or approval in my life.

If I’d been a different man, a man who craved attention over real, honest connection, it would have been easy to start taking pride in my work and the adoration of those anonymous crowds.

But I wasn’t that man.

I hated that no one saw the person I was on the inside, the man who wanted nothing more than a peaceful life in a happy pack.

Sure, I wanted to rip Hammer apart first, but afterwards, I wanted to farm and fish and spend long days at the beach with my friends. I wanted to expand my secret poetry collection and practice woodworking and use my muscles to toss my kids into the air until they giggle-screamed, the way my dad used to toss me when I was small.

I wanted a wife and a family and a chance to build something beautiful enough to make me forget all the horrific things I’d done.

Maybe I can have that with this Juliet.

This Juliet isn’t interested in fighting our attraction. She isn’t traumatized and might actually have the strength to make love work with a damaged man like me. Surely, no matter what my emo heart has to say about it, it’s better to have at least one partner in a relationship who doesn’t wake up shaking from nightmares of their former life.

As I follow her through the market at a discreet distance, watching her lift the wallets of a woman screaming at the deli man for cutting her meat too thin and a man too busy leering at a girl half his age to notice the other young woman slipping up behind him, there’s no doubt in my mind that she’s a good person. Even when she’s getting her crime on, she does it with class and grace.

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