Page 3 of Savage Devotion (Savage Reign #1)

ARABELLE

L aila pushes us through a throng of people at the entrance to the club that looks bursting at the seams. A steady stream of locals and tourists alike mingles among the bright pink and acid green neon lights.

No one seems worried about anything tonight. All I see on people’s faces is smiles and smeared lipstick. What draws my attention is the smell of spicy masculine cologne and sweet-smelling tequila. Sultry perfume and swaying bodies.

The streets of this town at night carry a certain energy. A cool, calm, and zesty vibe that speaks to a part of me I buried under grief, childhood nightmares and how deeply I miss my sister.

I briefly squeeze my eyes shut. But here, Jesus Christ. It all just melts away. It feels like I can breathe again and my heart pulses with a new excitement I haven't felt in a long time. My veins fill with heat, amplified by the sheer amount of people in such a small place.

“Look at you. Those hips can’t help themselves, can they? Let’s find you a hot papi to use that red lipstick on.”

I can’t believe I’m going to say this. “Umm, yeah. That sounds good to me.”

Laila throws me a saucy wink, and I follow behind.

The bar takes up nearly the entire left side of the club with its typical worn slab of polished wood, a wall of mirrors, and all the usual multi-colored bottles on display.

A few moments later I have a watered-down version of Don Julio shoved into my hands.

“Thanks, Bourbon.”

I raise my glass and offer the aging bartender a smile, earning one in return from an on-and-off colleague before he moves on.

“ Salud, amiga. ”

I smile at my friend’s accent when speaking my native language.

“ Salud y amor, amiga. ” Health and love, friend. I raise my shot glass and throw back the light gold liquid. Not exactly gasoline, but not the expensive stuff either.

Tables take up the far left and back walls. Bodies bump into mine and I hardly get a glance much less an apology from the dancers taking up the vast majority of the middle.

Laila raises her voice over the sultry music. “Okay, The Gilded Key Society can happen next time. There’s nothing there we can’t find here for a night of fun if we look hard enough.”

I didn’t agree. The Society is on a whole other level.

“And believe me,” Laila continues. “We are looking for a good time.” She jerks her head toward a darkened corner of the bar where a group of three men is speaking around a table.

“You better be careful. You’ll round up more lovesick puppies who will hound you with phone calls, wondering when you’re coming back to town.”

If there ever was a female version of Casanova, Laila would be her.

“What can I say? My love triangle is a place men just love to get lost in.” She throws a two-fingered V up and slides her tongue up the middle.

“Ew, someone needs to teach you manners,” I tease. But we both know it’s of no use. She’s as wild as a field of summer flowers.

“Oh, here we go.” She nudges me. “I think I found you a papi already. A little older. More brutish looking than the normal frat boys around campus. He probably has more sexual knowledge in one nut than all the boys I graduated college with. Could be fun.”

She angles her chin back to the table where a fourth has joined the trio she eyed moments ago.

Older, yes. But not by much. Well dressed. There’s an aura of danger about him that screams bad boy. So yeah, that is a no-go. If I’m going to go balls to the wall and do this whole one-night hook-up thing, I want someone I can easily walk away from before the sun comes up.

Laila must be reading my thoughts as they play out over my expression because she clicks her tongue and passes me another double.

“Here take this and loosen up. Did you see the tats? You saw the tats covering that man’s arms, right?

The ones all up his neck, and I think I just spotted some nipple piercings.

I thought you liked ’em dirtied up and rough? ”

I tilt my head. “I do and that is why it’s a hard pass. This is the new me.”

“One day I’m gonna get you to finally accept how you are.”

Nope. I saw what a bad boy did to my mother and sister and I’m the one living with the consequences. I love Laila like a sister, but I know what I want and in the same breath what I need to stay away from.

“Just give me a nice boy who knows how to dance. I’ll be good.”

I pound back the second shot of tequila and love the warm slide of spice and tang hitting the back of my throat. I instantly feel my muscles relax. The years-old knots between my shoulder blades release their death grip after a third.

Partying isn’t my style. I had a few friends who shared their moments synonymous with “fall down drunk, wake up the next morning with a tramp stamp, and wondering who the naked guy next to you is” kind of weekends.

But, ya know what? That’s not me. I want tonight to have no demands from me.

No crushing reality. Just a few hours of fantasy.

But I want to remember everything about it.

Ignoring my short list of demands, Laila continues. “You should totally go and ask him to dance. Get a little play time in and then we’re gone come morning.”

“You go. I know you’re trying to hook me up, but I got this.

You don’t need to watch over me and you’re definitely into his vibe.

” I playfully push at her after signaling the barkeep for another round.

“Go forth. You look ravish-able. Show him all your hidden tattoos.” I wiggle my brows at her as she moves away.

“You’re such an enabler. Okay. I’ll be back in ten.”

I know better than to believe that.

I raise my fresh drink as she saunters away in her cutoffs and kissable strawberry-scented lip gloss. I glance back and I flash her a smile showing her I can truly stand at a bar alone while she gets her flirt on.

“You’re a good friend.”

Vivid gold eyes, stark black hair, and rakishly handsome are all the things that instantly clicked in my mind when I turn at the sound of a deep voice over my shoulder.

And just like that, all my self-proclaimed must-nots dissolve. All with the power of a firm baritone.

I am such a freaking pushover.

“Excuse me?” My voice holds more than a hint of surprise.

My eyes travel up a board chest to find a delicious scruff covering a chiseled jawline.

I inwardly groan. Two of my weaknesses.

I inhale and get hit with a hint of his intoxicating masculine scent. A spicy Sandalwood mixed with a lingering hint of tobacco from a fine cigar, no doubt.

Intoxicating. Not overpowering. Erotic.

Shit.

His gaze grows centered, focused. Like I am the only one he’s interested in, and the weight of such intensity pins me to my stool.

When he opens his mouth, the way his full lips move traps my attention.

“I don’t know of many women who would willingly send their friends off to claim the best prize of the night. Prizes I should add.” He looks over my shoulder to the group of men my friend is currently working her charms on.

“That makes you a damn good friend in my book.”

His accent is a unique blend of the Big Apple and the Big Easy—a long draw on the vowels and relaxed pronunciations. Maybe a bit of a country boy in there too, but not in appearance.

I turn my body a little more his way. His long, black shirtsleeves are rolled up to reveal thick forearms bathed in colorful ink. The top three buttons close to his throat are popped open to reveal his forearms aren’t the only part of him with ink.

Diablos, Arabelle. Focus. Bad boy equals no bueno.

“Really? What makes them such a great catch?” I ask with genuine curiosity as I follow his line of sight.

My mystery man gestures to the stool beside me, and I nod in agreement.

Manners. Check mark. That has to counter a little bit of the dangerous aura he gives off. Right?

I take in the various arrangements of tattoos covering the back of his hand and tops of his fingers.

He slides the stool to my left out and glides his massive weight close.

I also catch the glint of light off the three rings on his left hand and a single silver one on the right—a skull with a ruby in its mouth and with what looks like chains rimming the raised edge.

Beautiful and elegant if not a little bulky.

But it seemed perfect for him.

Sitting barely a foot from me, the gorgeous man’s crackling body heat penetrates my senses in ways that have my brain slowing down and my core revving up.

He signals for a fresh round and slides a tequila shot in front of me. I take it and offer it up in a salute of gratitude before I sip the amber liquid. Real top-shelf stuff, not gasoline.

Another check mark.

“ Gracias. ”

I might not have a whole lot of experience doing the college party scene right as seen on TV, but I know how to appreciate free booze from a handsome admirer. Laila’s plan is working out already.

Speaking of handsome admirers, mine cants his head and those dark, glittering eyes study my face a moment before he picks up his drink.

The look in those dark eyes is as intense as the man.

I study him right back and all those tattoos are front and center as he hammers back his drink.

Some appear random, while others seem more thoughtful.

“For starters, they are part owners of this establishment. Friends of mine. Rich ones at that. There’s not a night that goes by that they’re not pushing women off ’em.”

“Really?” Worry for my friend crawls over me, but from the looks of it, the only thing I should worry about is how warm my admirer feels sitting so close. I can practically feel the power radiating off him.

“To know that I guess that means you come here often?” I’m surprised by how casual my voice sounds. Usually, this is about the time I pretend to answer my phone and find the nearest exit. Yet I can’t seem to pull myself away from this stranger.

Despite sounding calm and relaxed, shivers climb the length of my spine. And a rush of adrenaline refuels my out-of-control heart pounding its way out of my chest.

I hold his gaze. Maybe it’s his arresting eyes holding me captive. Or the way the dark stranger’s warm, protective hand brushes over my smaller one that has me spellbound.

“I like visiting friends. They are good men in their own way. Something I think your friend has picked up on.”

I glance over to see that sure enough, Laila is already sandwiched between three men who appear smitten with her.

“Do you—” my words are cut off when a new crowd of boys my age elbow their way to the bar and I’m forced to move my stool before I catch a blow to my spine.

Jerks. But really, the interruptions only save me from my boring chit-chat because really, I could not sound any more boring than a goldfish in a bowl.

Strong hands grip my arms and I’m effortlessly moved onto the stool my stranger occupied while he moves to mine. Only now, we are exceptionally closer. Like I can see the gold flecks in his eyes and smell the sweet scent of tequila on his breath kind of close. And fuck it turns me on big time.

“You were sayin’, baby?” Warm, callused fingers glide across the small patch of skin between the top of my skirt and halter top. Powerful. In control. Almost like he wants me to feel the emanating power of his arousing touch.

His dark eyes stare into mine and I shudder from the tingles of electricity. The move is so smooth, so gentle, it’s more of a faint caress than a firm touch.

And it electrifies my insides. I’ve been touched by a man before, but not like this. A whisper of skin on skin has never left me this breathless.

I shake my head. Booming shouts and laughter war with the loud music and it’s impossible to carry on a conversation.

“Reaper, yo man. You got a call. I’ll forward to the upstairs apartment, bro.

’k?” A man in his late forties I recognize as Boomer waves his arms in our direction and signals toward some doors I have never entered before.

He doesn’t pay attention to me so I don't make an effort to out myself.

The less I give away about myself, the better right now.

“Reaper? Is that your first or last name?” I tease, leaning in at the same time he does.

Big mistake. Both of us moving closer causes my breasts to brush up against his hard pecs and the sparks are freaking lethal to my nipples.

They pucker up into hard tips and there is no way he misses the effect they have on the thin material of my halter top.

I can practically chisel a block of ice for all these drinks with how hard they are.

Color me fifty shades of embarrassed.

“?Ay Dios!” I groan under my breath. It’s not nearly dark enough here to hide the red on my cheeks.

His hungry, intense gaze roams over my deep cleavage but in a way that makes me feel sexy and desired.

Maybe it’s the tequila talking, but I did not miss the protective way he shielded me with his body or the gentle caress of his hand over my lower back.

As if he needs to feel the connection as much as I do at this moment.

“Reaper is nothing more than an unwanted moniker I was saddled with a long time ago doing things I wish I could forget.” He caresses the pad of his thumb over the back of my hand. Each warm stroke reveals this man works a lot with his hands. Rough, yet controlled and gentle.

I sense a much deeper story behind the moving shadows darkening his handsome features.

I want to say I’m sorry, but how do I offer up those words for situations I have no understanding of?

So instead of uttering useless, placating words, I turn to the next obvious option. “What is your real name?” I bite the inside of my lips waiting for him to give me some made-up name, but I don't think he’s lying to me when he answers.

“Liam Black.” His voice is low, smooth, and drifts a little toward the end as if his words are weighed by memories. Using his thumb, he twirls the single ring on his right hand giving me the idea his words and that ring are somehow connected.

It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask, though it’s none of my business. Before I go against my better judgement and start moving my mouth with questions, he takes my hand in his and steadies me as I slide off the stool. A fast-paced salsa blends into a sultry rumba from the club’s live band.

Liam presses his mouth close to my ear. Standing like this his body heat molds to mine. I inhale and Jesus help me. His masculine scent nearly has me begging him to do his worst to me in bed.

And then he speaks and, hand to God, I cream all over the small slip of cloth between my legs. His voice is low, controlled, and dripping with lust. My five hundred and thirty-two-day dry spell is coming to an end, and tonight is going to be the kind of night memories are made of.

?Bailas conmigo?