I stand on the sidewalk of Vipers, watching the taillights of a brand new gold-flecked Mercedes, shocked and speechless. I just saw Savannah Fontane for the first time in ten years.

Savannah Fontane.

The only girl I’ve ever lied to.

The only girl I let break my heart.

The only girl I’ve ever loved.

And what did I say? “Ryan. No one calls me Ry anymore.”

Wow. The douchebags of Ravenshoe have a new leader.

The past ten years have been testing, but I still expected a better response than anger. Anger is a quick, futile reaction a lesser man gives when they can't work through their emotions. I'm not a lesser man. I've grown a lot since I last saw Savannah. I attended counseling to work through the issues my parents’ volatile relationship caused. I speak at domestic violence support groups a minimum once a month. I even donated my share of my father's inheritance to a domestic violence shelter in Hopeton.

I'm not a lesser man.

There is just something about Savannah that causes my composure to slip. Time has been kind to Savannah—very, very kind. Her dimples are more defined since her cheeks are a little rounder. The dowdy, oversized hoodie she was wearing couldn't hide the generous swell of her breasts, and even the low hang of her head couldn't conceal her alluring green irises from my avid stare. She is more gorgeous now than she’s ever been—unfortunately.

Don’t get me wrong. I’d never wish an ugly, debilitating disease on anyone, but maybe, just maybe her absence wouldn’t sting as much if one glance at her beautiful face didn’t have my cock pressing against my trouser seam.

Ten years she’s been gone, yet my body still reacts as if she owns it.

Ten, long miserable motherfucking years, and I want to forget why I’m angry at her.

Maybe I’m not mad at her? Perhaps I’m angry at myself?

If ten years can’t work her out of my system, how many more do I have left to suffer? Murderers serve less time than I have. Can’t I catch a break?

Grumbling at the fucked-up world I live in, I make my way to my patrol car parked at the back of the dimly lit parking lot. I’m so stunned by the events of my night, my steps are slow and sluggish. The beginning of my night played out exactly as I expected: Damon wants money. The last part. . . fuck, I never saw that coming.

Savannah is back.

Finally.

Out of all the places I anticipated seeing her again, I never thought it would occur at a strip club. Don’t get me wrong, Vipers has had a dramatic facelift since the days my dad disgraced it with his presence, but it is still way below the standards a woman with qualities like Savannah’s.

Perhaps that is why I was shocked into rudeness? Savannah was only a girl the last time I saw her. Now, she is a woman—one hundred percent. My cock is still throbbing against my zipper from recalling her scent. Although it was a little muskier than usual, her familiar rose aroma was in abundance.

Shaking my head at my body’s ludicrous response to her closeness, I throw open my driver’s side door and slide inside the warm cab. Just like Savannah is no longer a girl, I’m not a teen either. My body should not have responded the way it did. I’m a grown man, for fuck’s sake; I don’t get raging boners at stripper establishments. I am a well-respected and dedicated member of law enforcement. I am not a teen praying to have his dick sucked. I don’t care how pillowy her lips looked with her vibrant red lipstick, I’m not interested in having Savannah Fontane suck my cock.

I sure as hell hope that sounded confident to you, as it was nothing but a string of lies to my ears.

Peeved, I jab my key into the ignition. I tell myself on repeat that Savannah and anyone associated with her are not my business. She is not my girl. She is not my worry. She is not even my friend.

Does my brain listen? No, it doesn’t.

I’m punching the Mercedes’ license plate into the dashboard of my patrol vehicle without a second thought. I’m not planning to track Savannah down. I just want to know where she’s been hiding the last few years.

The new equipment Isaac donated to the force six months ago brings up a match nearly instantaneously. The Mercedes’ owner has no prior convictions, and his registration and insurance is up to date—unfortunately. The address on his record is for a new estate on the south side of Ravenshoe—the pretty, more affluent side of town.

A whizz of air parts my nostrils. Now I know why I haven’t spotted Savannah. It’s not often I get called to those parts of town.

With my heart thudding against my chest, I hover my index finger over the address highlighted in blue. One hit, and I can see firsthand where Savannah has been “slumming it.”

It’s not stalking; it is my moral obligation to the public. If the Mercedes’ owner is a take-your-woman-to-a-strip-club type of guy, who’s to say he isn’t a menace to society? I’ll be doing the public a favor by taking a closer look at him.

Right?

Right.

Then why the fuck does this feel so wrong?

Shutting down my inner monologue for a more appropriate time, I leave the scarcely lit parking lot, scanning up and down the street. Traffic isn’t an issue. Since I’m on the outskirts of town, the usually densely packed roads are quiet. I’m just struggling to choose which road to take. The high one? Or the low one?

“Ah, fuck it,” I grumble to myself, taking a left.

I’m taking the high road. I don’t care that Savannah is back in town. It doesn’t bother me in the slightest. She has her life, and I have mine—no misconception whatsoever. My body reacted like every man’s body does when confronted by an old mate. Men are naturally promiscuous; we tend to think with our lower head before using the more controlled, smart one on our shoulders. My reaction was completely normal and wholly anticipated. If my cock hadn’t responded the way it did, I would be worried.

I’m normal.

I’m a grown man.

I’m not thinking about Savannah Fontane’s plump lips wrapped around my cock.

Growling at the amount of lies I’m pumping out tonight, I guide my car into the underground garage of my apartment building faster than usual. The grinding of the metal frame is barely heard over my tires skimming across the concrete from me slamming on my brakes.

While clambering out of my vehicle, I smirk to myself, wondering how many “hoon” calls the department will receive after my effort. Needing to rid myself of the adrenaline pumping through my veins, I throw open the emergency exit stairwell next to the slick new elevator to begin my fifty-eight-story ascent. I’ve got nowhere to be and no one to impress, so arriving at my apartment covered in sweat won’t affect anyone but me and my hot water bill.

By the time I’m walking into my recently purchased apartment, my muscles are aching and I’m sweating profusely. With my brain working overtime to command my lungs to breathe, you’d think it would be clear of thoughts. Unfortunately, that isn’t the case.

Even without much air in my lungs, there is enough for me to huff in annoyance. She doesn’t deserve my thoughts. She left of her own choice, then married some twat-waffle who thinks gold paintwork makes his already overpriced ride look more expensive. She isn’t my problem.

I doubt I’ve entered Savannah’s mind the past ten years, so why the fuck am I killing myself to wipe her from mine?

Grumbling, I make my way through my dark apartment, shredding my clothes on the way. This is one of the many good things about living alone: no one nags me when I leave my smelly socks on the kitchen counter. Not that I’ve done that. But I could, if I want to.

While waiting for the shower water to reach scalding, I toe off my shoes then tackle my belt. My heavy breaths switch to frustrated grunts when I slide my trousers down my aching thighs. I’m still hard enough to bounce a nickel off. If I weren’t conscious of keeping my drinks in my line of sight, I’d be suspicious Brax slipped Viagra into my whiskey. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s done that. He is the reason I rarely drink in public anymore.

I spent the entire night of New Year’s Eve last year sitting in a booth at the Dungeon Nightclub like a noob. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to accept the numerous offers to dance; I just didn’t want to explain why my pants were pitching a tent. If I had my gun, I would have shot Brax that night. I’d never been more humiliated in my life.

Well, except once.

But since I’m not thinking about her, I’ll leave that little nugget on the back burner.

Steam billows around me when I step into my upright shower. The scorching hot water is a godsend to my overworked muscles. I’ve just finished my seventeenth shift in a row. I am beyond exhausted. I had planned to spend my five-day weekend watching baseball in my sweats while consuming my weight in sugar. I never planned to exhaust my muscles to the point of Jell-O. I’m shocked I can stand with how much my thighs are shaking.

The painful situation between my legs becomes more apparent when I run a suds-loaded shower puff down my body. I stare down at my erect cock, impressed by its determination, but pissed by its lack of morals.

“She didn’t just walk out on me. She left you high and dry too, bud.”

After scrubbing my thighs clean, I return the shower puff to my midsection. My scrubs are a little harder than necessary, but so the fuck is my cock. It is extended well past the bumps in my midsection, announcing that this situation isn’t going to take care of itself. . .

Fuck it. I’m a man. I can take care of business if needed. I don’t need anyone or anything. I’ve got everything I need right here.

After curling my hand around my rock-hard shaft, I glance over my shoulder. I don’t know who I’m looking for? I’ve lived alone the past five years. But since it’s been even longer since I’ve fondled my cock, I want to ensure there are no witnesses.

Confident I am alone, I glide my hand down my shaft. A pleasing zap shoots through the vein feeding my throbbing member. This should feel wrong on so many levels, but it doesn’t. It’s too relieving to resemble anything less than pleasure.

I’m not stroking my cock because I can’t get Savannah out of my mind. I’m doing it to ease my confusion. Until I tackle the reason for the lack of blood to my brain, I’ll have no chance of working through my turmoil. This isn’t about pleasure; it is about wit.

Yeah, right.

While increasing the speed of my pumps, I close my eyes and part my lips. The suds from the shower gel have eased the friction, leaving nothing but a smooth, silky glide. My heavy pants add to the steamy conditions when I scan my memory bank, seeking inspiration for my relief. I have plenty to work with. Not only were the women at Vipers barely clothed, they were beautiful. Exotic. Intoxicating.

Blonde with entrancing green eyes.

I grip my cock harder, punishing it for my mind’s drift in focus. I will not think about her and her puffy lips, cock-thickening eyes, and body that could bring mere mortals to their knees.

She is not the cause for the rock sliding between my slippery hand.

She isn’t the reason I’m pumping my shaft at a rate faster than I’ve ever fucked.

She isn’t the trigger for my breathless state, tightening balls, and the glistening of precum on the crest of my shaft.

I’m not thinking about her.

I will not think about her.

She. Will. Not. Make. Me. Cum.

“Argh,” I grunt when a stream of hot, thick spawn rockets out of my cock.

The crystal clear memory of Savannah smiling in the seconds leading to her sucking down on my crown makes my climax one of the longest and most brutal I’ve ever had. I come like I’ve never come before, a climax that has my knees buckling more than my grueling late-night workout.

While resting my free hand on the tiles above my head, I slow the speed of my pumps. My breaths are even more ragged than they were when I climbed the stairwell of my apartment building, and my body is covered with sweat. That was intense—wrong—but oh-so-fucking-good.

Although pissed Savannah’s face was the first and last one to enter my mind during my pursuit for release, I’m not surprised. It didn’t matter how many times she sucked my cock when we were teens, she awarded me the same smile every single time. I used to think it was because she loved the effect she had on my body. Only now do I realize it wasn’t about that—not in the slightest. She wasn’t worshipping my cock because she loved the taste of my cum; she did it because she loved me.

I rarely had a moment of peace my entire life. . . except when Savannah’s lips were wrapped around my cock. That is the one time the focus was solely on me and my pleasure. I didn’t have to impress anyone or place anyone’s needs above my own. It was all about me.

She sucked my dick because she loved me. Then she broke my heart because I told her she wasn’t good enough.

I was a fucking idiot.

For years, I’ve blamed Savannah for every bad thing that happened in my life. Not all the blame belongs on her shoulders. What I did was dumb and naïve, but the steps Savannah took afterwards were just as stupid. I can forgive her for ignoring me; I can forgive her for breaking my heart. But I can’t forgive her for what she did to Chris.

She should have been there for him. She should have been there for me—but she wasn’t.

She has no excuse, either. I used money I didn’t have to place notices of Chris’s funeral in every newspaper in the country. It was plastered over social media and shared by the mutual friends we had amassed over the years. I didn’t do that because I wanted to see Savannah again; I did it so Chris would know he was loved.

He died thinking he was unloved. He killed himself because he couldn’t see what was directly in front of him. I wanted to prove him wrong. I wanted him to see that he was loved—is loved. I wanted to ease the burden weighing heavily on my shoulders since that day.

My best friend killed himself because I exposed secrets I never should have shared. I did that because I was hurting. I shifted my anger onto Chris to save myself the agony.

I killed my best friend because Savannah broke my heart.

I am a fucking idiot.