49. Savio
CHAPTER 49
Savio
FIVE YEARS LATER
All of Me - John Legend
“ I ’m telling you, Claude is beating her.”
My brow puckers at her vehemence. “What would you have me do?”
When she awkwardly scratches her shoulder where her inked wings sit, my attention is well and truly pricked.
She never does that. “I don’t know,” she mutters, breaking into my thoughts. “I don’t know what I want to do either.”
Ever since she started a book club, I’ve known it would bring trouble to our doors.
I didn’t approve of it, but with her folks dying in that freak RV crash five years ago, and what with her missing Diana, who died last year, and my mother, who passed this spring, she needed something . All three of them were always discussing books, and even though I loved my maman , it was Andrea who plotted and planned new novels with her while Diana edited them.
When mon ange came to me with the idea of holding a monthly book club, I knew she missed the meeting of like minds, and I wasn’t going to stop her. She didn’t have to ask, for God’s sake, this place being as much hers as it is mine, but she knows I don’t like strangers on the property.
I protect what’s mine. This is my home and I make damn sure it’s secure.
I just wish the kids lived with us. I don’t care that they have careers of their own and Roman and Lola are married and are starting a family. That they aren’t under my roof—vulnerable somewhere that isn’t here—nearly kills me. But I won’t taint them with my fears. I want them to lead their own lives.
When the gaggling hens arrive, I always tuck myself away in one of the sheds. The farm operation here has grown bigger ever since we moved, and we’re producing organic lavender at a manufacturing rate.
I’ll admit to being proud of the standard of our flowers and prouder still that they’re being used to make cosmetic-grade essential oils.
Though I’ve reached the venerable age of 65, it’s my job and I love it.
I adore being in the fields with the sky overhead, the dirt under my boots, my face blasted by the wind, and the sun making me sweat wholesome sweat.
It’s my freedom.
And I want Andrea to have whatever she needs too—that’s my second job in this world.
The first being to protect us, the second to give her everything she desires, and for some damn reason, she wants a horde of cackling women to rain down on us every third Thursday to discuss some book or other.
Because she prepares snacks for the get-together, she washes her hands after outright scratching her wings before piping cream cheese into freshly baked vol-au-vent pastries.
With one complete, I pop it in my mouth and hum at the heat. “Jalape?o?”
Mon ange nods and peers at me under her lashes with a look that still hits me in the balls all these years later. “You like it?”
My jaw clenches because the desire to grab her hair, fist it, and draw our mouths together is a fierce one.
Like she knows, her breathing softens, her eyes spark, and her body changes—she moves slightly, subtly. Twisting toward me rather than the kitchen counter.
A soft yelp escapes her when she places her hand down on the counter, though, and like a siren song I can never ignore, I swoop in and snag her wrist. Raising it to my lips, I track the small cut on her finger, press the digit’s tip to my tongue, and begin the process of licking it clean.
Both of us shudder.
Both of us sigh as her blood hits the soft tissues of my mouth.
When I hear squeaking brakes outside, the desire to draw her to her knees and to pull out my cock is heavy, but I don’t.
This is her Thursday.
“Later,” she purrs, making my dick twitch.
How she still has this power over me, I don’t know, but I’ll never tire of it.
“Later,” I growl back at her, fire in my soul as I release her finger with a pop.
She shivers a touch, but I break our eye contact so she can carry on with what she’s doing, pausing only to go wash her hands again while I find a Band-Aid.
I can’t resent today, not when the gathering brings her so much pleasure, despite our fuck against the kitchen counter being impeded upon by it.
The house is back to being ours again, and though I hate that it’s empty as much as she does, that I can fuck her against the wall without worrying about anyone walking in on us, that I can eat her out on the sofa—the freedom is delicious. We never really had a slump in that regard, but now I feel like a horny teenager around her.
Just last night, I spanked her on the kitchen table. Bursts of nine, like always…
Nine is only fitting, after all.
Nine being the perfectly imperfect number.
Lacking of ten, it’s mortal and flawed.
But, there are nine choirs of angels… and that fits both of us.
She’s the angel and I’m imperfect.
When a knock sounds, I hand her the Band-Aid. She shivers as our fingers brush, and I grab my dick, adjusting it in front of her. I hide a smirk when her lips part again and her pupils turn to pinpricks.
Making my way to the door, I open it and smile at the woman hovering there like a frightened mouse.
I’ve been watching her as much as Andrea has, and I figure it’s fate that we both noticed the signs of abuse.
Nancy, a British expat, greets me with a small smile. There are shadows in her eyes, ones that only someone who has been mistreated will recognize.
It isn’t the first time I’ve noticed them, but it’s the first time I wonder if I should act.
It’s been decades since we felt the hand of God guide us, and I’m not sure if this is it or if it’s just a prompt to get her some help.
I should have known He’d never leave things to chance.
“Come in,” I greet, stepping back and making sure I’m not in her path.
I’m a big man, and she’s a little thing. I don’t want to scare her further.
She walks into the foyer, shoulders hunching as she tries to pass me, and I murmur, “Andrea’s in the kitchen. Would you like to take a seat or go to her?”
She blinks up at me like a frightened rabbit, and I’m unsure how to appease her fear.
“Nancy, come and help me with the vol-au-vents,” Andrea calls from the kitchen doorway, her eyes on us.
Thinking she’s doing as Andrea bid, Nancy moves toward my wife just as I reach for the front door, but for some reason, she sees me as a threat. She almost jumps at my approach then shifts back into the unit we have there for trinkets. It rattles so hard I’m surprised the antique dresser doesn’t crumble at the sudden weight, but she twists to avoid it, almost succeeds, then catches the corner.
One second, she’s standing.
The next, she’s on the floor, cradling her side.
Surprise and anxiety lining her face, Andrea rushes over, and I drop down to my knees just as she skids to a halt beside us.
“Nancy! What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Are you okay?” I demand, knowing she must be hiding bruises under the baggy dress she wears. I curse myself for having scared her, for making her jittery, and for causing her pain. “Can we help you?”
Her eyes brim with tears as she gasps through the discomfort of whatever’s hiding beneath her clothes, and then she utters six fateful words.
Six words that have Andrea and me sharing a look.
Yet again, I feel the pressure of His fingers digging into my shoulder as He steers us down the path He wants…
“Only God can help me now…”