Page 31 of Savage in the Sweets
Now I just have to figure out what she wants. A quick fling I can get behind. I was made for loving and leaving, and with her aggression toward me, I’m sure that’s what this is. Her anger manifesting sexually. Rage fucking is a thing, so I hear.
But what if she wants more? Or, more importantly, what if I want more?
I take off my shirt and climb on the treadmill, pushing the speed up to ten, determined to push myself to peak physical conditioning, in case Friday night goes as I hope.
And with Lacy Savage, anything’s possible.
Lacy
“Savage Sweets,how may I help you?” I say into the phone for the eighth time since I’ve opened.
I take an order for two dozen donuts to be ready on Thursday, the caller assuring me there’ll be a sizable tip when they come in to pay.
That’s what’s so great about living in a small town like Wilson’s Grove. When you’re in trouble, people rally to help you.
Since word got around about the very public rebuke of my business, I’ve had fifty percent tips, double orders, and a flood of new customers.
The goodwill will inevitably die down in the next few weeks, but knowing how much people care makes me feel as though I belong here.
The last customer of the morning rush leaves, and I finally get to inhale a breath and relax, slumping my shoulders as the weight of my many problems is fully realized.
A few days ago, my main concern was being ousted from the school, which is admittedly terrifying, but the shit I stepped in last night…well, it’s sloppy, and so not like me.
It was the alcohol, I tell myself for the thousandth time.
But that’s only partially true. The wine definitely played a role, but only because I wanted it to.
Did I fantasize about salacious exchanges with Mr. Tracksuit via text?
Absolutely.
Did I go into my wine-fueled night imagining that I’d eventually be sending snatch shots?
No.
Then what the fuck happened?
For starters, I’m pretty sure that not getting laid in almost a year had something to do with it.
But I also can’t ignore the fact that Mr. Tracksuit gets under my skin in a way that makes my blood boil—literally racing through my veins…which affects a certain nether region that belongs in timeout.
A smart woman would take a step back and pray for discretion, but if this whole experience has taught me anything, it’s that I am in no way smart around this man, as proven by the gift I so tactlessly left on his door.
Why does it feel so good to be bad around this arrogant asshole?
I pull out my cell, my gut twisting in knots as I see that he’s left me a text. What if he was merely humoring me last night, and now he thinks I’m some kind of weirdo?
Girl—you are a weirdo!
The way my body comes alive in his presence should scare me. He’s Satan, with zero redeeming qualities outside of his hot body.
Well…that’s not entirely true. He’s a good father, which is important to me even if I have no children of my own. He’s also involved in the community, like myself. He’s actually the most desirable bachelor in Wilson’s Grove.
With bated breath, I open his text to see a picture of him sucking on the lollipop I taped to his door and a message that reads:Remember, you promised me a lifetime supply.
I guess last night tempted him because I’m not the only one who’s gone all-in on crazy. He’s right there with me.
Or at least I think he is. I guess I need to feel out what exactly he wants. If Mr. Tracksuit wants a quick and casual fling…I’m down. I’m usually not that kind of girl, but after spending a significant portion of my weekend searching for new and innovative vibrators, I need a change.
