Filthy Savage by Hayley Faiman

Author:Hayley Faiman [Faiman, Hayley]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Hayley Faiman Books, LLC
Published: 2024-07-17T00:00:00+00:00

Her response is almost immediate.

SPENCER: My night was good. But more importantly, how was yours?

???

She sends me a laughing face emoji. Then I see those three little dots appear as she types something else.

SPENCER: You were pretty drunk. But I appreciate you calling me.

Fuck.

What the fucking fuck did I say to her? I don’t remember calling her, let alone what I possibly said to her. I stare at my phone, at the messaging app, frozen and unable to move. The phone rings a moment later, her face bright and fucking gorgeous, filling my screen.

Sliding my thumb across the screen, I let out a heavy sigh and lift it to my ear. I open my mouth, but Spencer’s words come before I can say a single word.

“I figured you didn’t know what to say over text,” she murmurs.

She sounds sleepy and sexy, almost too sexy. Even though my head feels like a hammer is being pounded into the side, my cock twitches at the sound of her voice. I want to be inside of her, even though I feel like absolute dog shit.

“What did I say?” I finally ask.

My voice sounds rough as hell even to my own ears. Spencer doesn’t answer immediately. I don’t know if she’s trying to make me suffer or if she’s trying to put her thoughts together. Either way, I hold my breath for a moment.

“Nothing bad. Actually, you kept telling me how much you liked me. That you missed me, and if I ever left you, that you would bring me back home. Because Pineville was where I belonged, where I’ve always belonged.”

Massaging the back of my neck a bit harder in an effort to release some tension, I let out a snort. Honest to fuck, I’m surprised I didn’t confess my everlasting love. It seems like something I would have added to the end of that sappy speech.

“I thought it was sweet,” she continues softly. “I think I needed it.”

It’s at that moment I hear the doubt in her voice. “Spencer?” I ask, unsure of what questions to actually ask. Thankfully, she understands what I’m trying to say here because she answers me.

“Admitting this makes me feel stupid. But I wasn’t sure if you were somewhere with women.”

“And you weren’t sure if I would partake in what they have to offer?” I ask.

She lets out a shaky breath. “I know the way the club life works. The men do who and what they want. The old ladies stay home and raise babies. You know I don’t want that.”

Since this is not the first time I’ve had this conversation with her, I would typically be annoyed at having to reassure anyone a second time, but considering the topic and the woman, I’m not.

I want her to know that she can trust everything I tell her, even when I can’t go into detail. I want her to trust in the man I am. I’ve never wanted anything like that before. The feeling is foreign, but I’m trusting the process—our process.

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