Savage in the Sheets: A Friends-to-Lovers Romance (Savage in Love) Read online

  Almost every other woman would give their right ovary for a night with Weston Singer. And no, I am not exaggerating.

  Shaggy dark hair, piercing blue eyes, strong jaw, full lips, and a panty-dropping smile. And that’s only Weston’s appearance. His voice is deep and sensual, dripping with bedroom confidence—and his swagger—damn!

  During college, he got laid plenty, but he was always more focused on his studies. Now, every couple of weeks, there’s a new girl, but she never lasts longer than a week before he gets bored with her and moves on.

  I’m the one woman constant in his life, and that’s probably because I’ve never turned him on, and after last night’s conversation, I think I have a good idea why.

  My parents drilled a competitive drive in me that triggers during one-on-one conversation. When we first met, I must have seemed aggressive, and therefore, never a desirable option.

  But if that’s the case, what exactly is he offering?

  A knock sounds on the door, and I go to greet Weston.

  He’s brought with him two smoked-salmon bagels from The Bagelry, which are heavenly.

  Sitting across the table from him, I can’t help but feel self-conscious. We talk a lot less than normal, and if I’m not mistaken, he’s avoiding eye contact. I guess he regrets the direction our conversation took. Or maybe he thinks making me a savage in the sheets is aiming too high, far exceeding my potential.

  Attempting to act normal, I say, “Hey, I just wanted to thank you for telling me the truth last night. I know it must have made you uncomfortable. We don’t have to discuss it again.”

  Weston comes back with, “You think that’s going to get you off the hook?”

  I blink, gazing into his intense blue eyes. “Get me off the hook?”

  “Don’t act like you don’t remember our conversation.”

  “Obviously, I do remember—”

  “Then, you should know that I’m going to do everything in my power to help you. I’m gonna turn you into a new kind of savage.”

  “How thoughtful,” I reply, forcing myself to look away from his firm biceps that I always knew were there, but never really looked at before.

  He takes my hand into his and forces me to look him in the eyes. Lord help me.

  “Now, we’re going to take a look at Rosie’s programming.”

  Inwardly, I cringe. Of all the things he could have brought up.

  Part of me wants to be angry, but somehow, with a few careless words, he’s successfully put a smile on my face.

  I arc a brow. “Look at Rosie’s programming…how?”

  “We’re either going to have to reprogram you or figure out how to use it to your advantage. Some guys have a robot fetish, ya know. We just might have to look on Fetish-Forum-dot-com.”

  I burst out into laughter, though I want to slap him. No one has ever made me laugh as hard as Weston, though it’s often at my expense.

  “Let’s talk a little bit about your first dates,” he says. “How are your conversations?”

  “I tell them about my work, where I went to school, my ambitions. Of course, I pepper in questions I have for them.”

  “Let me guess, they’re all business-related.”

  “I mean, it makes sense. I ask them where they went to school, their—”

  “You don’t have to say anymore. I already know where this is going. The thing is, you impress them enough, so they go in for a second date, and even a third, because they’d be crazy not to. But you fail to ever ‘hook’ them.”

  “Hook them?”

  “You’re so well-measured. So safe. So secure. And those are all good attributes, but they’re not memorable qualities. Jim Franks not going to go home and fantasize all night about your client portfolio.”

  “Then what do you suggest I talk about?”

  “Your passions! Sure, tell them what you do for a living, then follow up with how much you like to travel. Don’t go into the boring history of Peru. Instead, discuss backpacking, nature, skinny dipping in Scandinavia.”

  “I got leeches—”

  “Don’t mention that—or rather, if you do, make it something to laugh about.”

  My shoulders slump. “Okay, talk about traveling.”

  “Not just traveling. Talk about your bucket list, what you would do if you won the lottery, what you’re afraid of—can’t be work-related, a weird skill you have that has nothing to do with lawyering or data analysis. Your favorite book—fiction. Heck, you can even talk about your guilty pleasure: reality television.”

  “So, doing that will help me to ‘hook’ a man.”

  “It’s a start, but not the finish. You also need to work on your body language.”

  “I have great posture, so I’m taken seriously—”

  “I know-I know about your posture, but when you’re on a date, you might want to lean in a little, spike your brow when he says something intriguing, smile more, look away bashfully. The truth is, you’re a shark in the courthouse, but that doesn’t translate well on a date. Oh, and don’t always sound so serious. Use a little slang. Inject some sensuality in your voice. Touch his arm. Sweep loose strands of hair from your face. Like this.”

  Weston tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, and my body is immediately set ablaze with want.

  “See, like that.”

  Calm down. This is Weston. He’s here to help. Don’t get your hopes up.

  Forcing all thoughts of Weston from my head, I confront the epic truth that has been there for years, ever evading my logical brain: I’m just not cut out for dating.

  “Savage, I know you got it in ya. You just need to act with them the way you act with me.”

  “With you?”

  “Yeah. We’ve been out at least a hundred times together, and you’re always so stiff out in public, but when we are kickin’ it at your place or mine, you relax. So I know you can do this.”

  “It’s because I know that I never have to be on guard with you.”

  Although we weren’t filthy rich growing up, my family did have considerable wealth. I was always taught not to trust people—that they wanted what we had.

  For the most part, that was true. But not with Weston.

  Weston’s hand covers mine. “I’ll never give you a reason to mistrust me.”

  “Thanks. I’m glad we had this conversation. I’m definitely going to go into my dates differently, with better talking points.”

  “Oh, you thought we were finished?”

  “There’s more?”

  “We need to go over second dates and places you should go: escape rooms, paintball, those art studios where you get drunk and recreate classics.”

  “Those are all good suggestions that I will consider.”

  “And then we need to talk about your sex life.”

  My cheeks flush with heat, and I have to turn away, so Weston doesn’t see the fear in my eyes.

  “It’s okay, Jenna. You don’t have to get nervous or embarrassed around me.”

  “That must be soooo easy for you to say. Women throw themselves at you. And…there were plenty of rumors going around the college campuses about your…considerable skill level.”

  “Do you think I was born with it? No, it took practice and a dedication to learning female anatomy.”

  Somehow I feel my cheeks burn two shades brighter.

  “And if you walked into any bar across America, there isn’t a red-blooded man that wouldn’t take you home, and that’s the God’s-honest truth. You have magazine-worthy good looks, and I’m not saying that because I’m your friend.”

  He’s not wrong. I was blessed with good looks, but they don’t seem to overcome my terrible social skills.

  Weston tugs at my hand playfully. “I have a gift for you.”

  “Oh?”

  He grabs a bag he placed on the counter and hands it over to me. I look inside and see a series of movies: There’s Something About Mary, 50 First Dates, Charlie’s Angels.

  “What are these
?”

  “Each of these movies have kick-ass women in them that are guaranteed to hook a man.”

  I hold up 50 First Dates. “Really, because this woman suffers from constant amnesia?”

  “But…she’s still cool.”

  “Wes, I appreciate you, I really do...but this is a lot to take in, and I don’t even know where to start.”

  Wes holds up a movie. “We start here.”

  Weston

  Monday comes too soon. I roll out of bed with a groan, stretching my limbs as I struggle to turn off my alarm.

  Is this what happens when I get too much sleep? I only wonder this because I had a rare weekend in, spent watching chick flicks with Jenna.

  Usually, we meet up a couple times during the week for coffee or lunch, watch a show Friday night, and I hit up a bar on Saturday and spend Sunday trying to figure out how to ditch whatever pretty lady I went home with the night before.

  My level of intoxication stayed pretty low over the course of our movie marathon, and I ended up getting to bed at a reasonable hour.

  As it turns out, waking up refreshed isn’t quite as refreshing as it might seem.

  I go through the motions of showering, dressing, and brushing my teeth, but I’m not truly awake until I have my first cup of coffee.

  It’s then that I fully process my weekend with Jenna.

  We binged watched the rom-coms, analyzing each of the main characters and why men found them desirable. It was fun, even when Jenna came to the conclusion that in order for men to want you, you must be crazy.

  Her logic wasn’t too far off-base.

  We talked more about hot topics in conversations and decided there was a need for on-the-job training, so tonight she’s going to go shopping for some fun and flirty clothes with a girlfriend, and tomorrow we’re hitting up a bar with my coworkers to ply her new skills.

  My phone buzzes, and I look to see a text from Meghan, a hookup from two weeks ago that is cousins with Dan, a guy from accounting.

  * * *

  Meghan: Hey, Stud! I’ll be going to happy hour with Dan tomorrow. I hope to see you there.

  * * *

  Tousled dark hair, amber brown eyes, tiny little waist and an ass that you could bounce a quarter off of. I should be happy that she’s coming along, but I find myself lacking enthusiasm.

  Thinking on it, however, I realize this will probably be necessary for the mission. There’s a good chance that when Jenna and I go to happy hour, we’re going to talk to each other more than anyone else. Having Meghan there will draw my attention away, and Jenna will be forced to interact with others at the table.

  I enter the text box to reply.

  * * *

  Weston: Great! Can’t wait to see you.

  Jenna

  “You have to wear green. It is absolutely your color,” Angela says as she holds up a tight, emerald-green dress against me.

  “It just feels too obvious. All redheads wear green.”

  “Because it totally works! Yellow is also a good color, but not as dramatic. Purple, however—”

  “Let’s just move on from color.”

  “We need to get you away from those pencil skirts as well. It gives off a ‘hot for teacher’ vibe, but that’s not really what you’re going for.”

  “That would require me to go home after work and change—which I am not doing. I just need something for happy hour.”

  “You will absolutely go home to change for happy hour because you are in training, and you always put maximum effort into everything you do.”

  She’s right. I’m absolutely going to get off of work, go home, apply fresh makeup, put on my new outfit, practice my lines, and hit up the bar.

  Angela’s tearing clothes off the rack, casually discarding them to the consternation of the retail attendant assisting us. We became friends after my firm took on a case against her family. We won, and one day she spotted me at a local cafe and read me the riot act. Then, something just clicked.

  A crazy glint shines in her eye. “I would absolutely die if I had Weston as a wingman.”

  I chuckle. “He’s actually really good at giving advice. A little bad with the delivery, but the advice is solid.”

  Angela shoots me a smirk. “No, silly. I mean he’s just so hot. I swear, I stayed away from him because I thought you were low-key hitting it, but now that I know it’s really just a friend thing and it’s not breaking the Girl Code—I’m on it.” She rolls her hips seductively to emphasize her intentions.

  The words are like a punch in the gut. Angela has been my friend for going on three years. I’ve known Weston for eight. I love them both dearly, but the thought of them together, even if only for a night, makes my stomach churn.

  I force a smile and grab the nearest garment off the rack. “What about this?”

  Angela’s face contorts in horror. “Light pink with palm trees? I have to say, you’re far worse at fashion than I thought.”

  I grimace once I get an eyeful of the dress. “I was just kidding.”

  “Uh-huh…”

  Then it strikes me. Weston can give me advice from a male perspective, but Angela is just as valuable as she has loads more experience than I do.

  “What’s sex like for you?” I ask.

  “A cyclone of chaos and tangled limbs,” she says without thinking.

  Of course, I can’t stop my mind from going to the biggest black hole I can find: would Weston prefer her or me in the sack?

  I survey Angela from toe to crown. She has two inches on me, narrower hips, lean muscles. Graceful with no awkwardness. Her breasts sit high on her chest, proud and ever-excited, as shown by her perpetually erect nipples.

  She’s a gym bunny, which very well might be what Weston prefers given his heavy workout regimen.

  It seems obvious that Weston would prefer her. It’s a no brainer.

  Don’t get jealous. Not for something so silly.

  After eight years of professionalism, the wall I’ve constructed between Weston and I is crumbling, all because of a slew of cryptic text messages.

  I had half expected him to show up at my apartment, rip my clothes off, and give me an education unlike any I’ve had before. And when his game plan was entirely strategizing, I felt bitter with disappointment. My logical brain knows with one-hundred-percent certainty that sleeping with Weston would be a huge mistake, and yet, I couldn’t stop picturing him naked with my legs wrapped around him the entire weekend.

  But it’s only because sex is on my brain, I reason. It’s not like I truly want Weston. That would be absurd.

  “So, what is it like for you?” Angela asks.

  “Huh?”

  “Sex, if you ask me, it’s fair game that I ask you. You’ve always been so uptight about talking about it before, but now it’s fair game.”

  God, how did I get myself into this. I don’t often talk about my sex life, mostly because my lovers are few and far between. Nothing memorable.

  She eyes me critically. “Do you turn off the lights?”

  “Yeah, sometimes. Not always, though.”

  “Missionary?”

  “Ninety-percent of the time.”

  “Blowjob?”

  “Ten-percent.”

  “Anal?”

  “Zero-percent.” I twitch my nose to the side. “There was an oopsie anal situation, once.”

  “God—those are the worst!”

  “He was drunk and going way too slow. I just wanted to get it over with, so I yelled at him to hurry up. It got sloppy.”

  The retail worker is glaring daggers at Angela, who pays her no mind. Of course, they’d never say anything directly to her. Not with her being the heiress to a hotel chain.

  Because I feel guilty by association, I pick up some of the casually discarded garments, and by some, I mean fifty. Angela really is a hurricane.

  It’s then that I notice Angela giving me an odd expression.

  “Do you even like sex?” she asks.

  I
blink, trying to think of what to say.

  “You don’t, do you?”

  “Of course, I like sex. What person doesn’t?”

  “Do you just not have a sex drive? Do you not want it at all? Are you asexual?”

  “No, to all of those things. I mean, I like it. I really do.”

  “Have you ever had an orgasm?”

  Again, I blink, stunned by the casual way she asks me these questions, in front of a retail attendant nonetheless.

  “You haven’t, have you?”

  “Of course, I have.”

  Her brow furrows. “But never with a man?”

  I see no point in lying to her. “Correct.”

  “Has any man cared to try?”

  I downcast my eyes. “I’m tired of talking about my subpar sex life.”

  “Do you think you intimidate them? Maybe you need to relax more. Then you might seem less intimidating.”

  “I’m one who values control. I mean, I present my cases in front of a courtroom. I have to be well-measured.”

  “Oh, honey, that is no way to go through life.”

  “Says you.”

  Her eyes light in elation. “Oh! What do you think of this?”

  Green. Shorter than anything I’ve ever worn. Neckline that promises to put the girls front and center on display.

  “I don’t know. It kind of screams, “Look at me.””

  “Exactly! Now go try it on.”

  Weston

  Tuesday happy hour is more packed than I had anticipated, leaving a shortage of seats at the table.

  This does nothing to deter Meghan, however, and as soon as she arrives, she seats herself on my lap.

  My coworkers eye me jealously. Half of them are married. The other half aren’t nearly as good-looking as I am. Each of them lives vicariously through me, though I rarely give up any details of my conquests. Still, they ask, probably filling in the blanks in their minds.

  “I can’t believe the vendor was late again!” Mitch from receiving is red-faced, spittle hanging from his lips. “This is the third time, and we’re still doing business with them.”