Page 9 of The Savage

I’d rather not give her the satisfaction of seeing how sweaty and dirty I became chasing her up here, but without the benefit of a helmet, Sabrina is even worse. She’s halfway to a chimney sweep, her face streaked with dust and her button-up blouse the color of weak tea.

“Nobody turns me away at the door,” she says.

Conceited, but probably true. Sabrina Gallo is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. She has the kind of beauty that’s almost upsetting because it jolts you every single time. You keep waiting for something to humanize her—an unflattering angle or an ugly expression. It never comes.

Even the dirt only serves to highlight the brilliant whites of her eyes and the flash of her teeth as she grins. Her skin looks toasted, as if she’s been singed over a fire. She licks the dust off her lips, their dusky pink the color of Himalayan salt.

Sabrina crackles with energy, the tiny hairs all around her head glowing gold in the sunshine like filaments. If I touch her, she might electrocute me. And yet I’m aching to get my hands all on her.

I’ve never chased down a woman before.

I don’t give a fuck about dinner—I want her back on that bike. This time, I’m going to catch her.

Sabrina has other plans. She pores over the menu, declaring, “I’m fucking starving. They don’t feed us on the ship. What’s good here?”

“Everything,” I say, plucking the menu from her hands. “But we’re not sitting here.”

A tiny line forms between her eyebrows as she frowns. This only increases her attractiveness, like a vein of gold in kintsugi pottery.

“Why not?”

“Because my table is better,” I say, taking her arm and pulling her to her feet.

This is an excuse to touch her. Her flesh burns against my palm, warm from the sun and the exertion of operating the bike.

People who’ve never ridden a motorcycle have no idea how much strength it requires. I’m not surprised to feel hard muscle beneath the smooth skin of her forearm.

“Why don’t you clean up first?” I say. “The bathroom’s over there.”

“I will after I order. I told you, I’m starving,” she says, obstinate and perfectly satisfied with her current appearance.

She likes opposing me.

She’ll learn soon enough that I get what I want.

There are a hundred ways to bend a person to your will. Not only brute force, which is the crudest tool. I’m infinitely adaptable and fucking relentless.

So I smile at Sabrina and say, “I love a woman with an appetite.”

Her thick lashes flick up at me like a fan, exposing the direct stare of those smoky eyes. A smile tugs at the edge of her lips.

“I bet you do.”

Because she doesn’t know where my table is located and she really is hungry, I have the pleasure of watching her follow me upstairs, docile as a kitten—for the moment, at least.

I’ve reserved the entire rooftop patio. Sheltered from the heat by a thick pergola of lemon trees, the citrus-scented air is cool and fresh. The sun is just beginning to dip down into the water. The cloudless sky glows like a flaming brand, brief but brilliant.

Sabrina raises one soot-black eyebrow, impressed despite herself.

“Alright, it is a better table,” she admits.

Our server hurries over, a crisp white cloth folded over his forearm. His dark hair is pulled back in a bun at the base of his neck, and young as he is, he can’t help staring at Sabrina, even though he knows I’ll be the one paying the tip.

“Can I offer you a drink to start?” he stammers.

“Do you have Vietti?” Sabrina inquiries.

“White or red?”

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