Page 7 of Sabre’s Guard

I finally stop fighting the inevitable and my mind fills with images of her. I think of Linsey’s big brown eyes, the expression on her face when she held my knife. Unlike my large, scarred hands, hers are smaller and much more delicate. Her skin was soft when we touched. I can’t help but imagine how those hands would feel on my body.

Heat rolls through me when I think of her stroking my cock. My hand moves to mirror the image in my mind. I stroke myself to thoughts of her smiling at me, maybe encouraging me to touch her, to bury my face between her legs and not come up until she’s coming all over the place and screaming my name in ecstasy.

Hearing her voice in my head fuels my dirty thoughts. I’m a bad man, stroking my cock to this innocent woman. I imagine her begging for my cock to fill her instead of talking about my knife and chef’s rules. In my dirty fantasy, she arches her body against mine while I fuck her, wanting more of what only I can give.

I brace a hand on the wall of my shower and come so hard my balls hurt. Standing there, watching the shower wash away my shame, I know that I should feel disgusted with myself. But for some reason I don’t. Stepping out of the shower, I realize that my need for her has not diminished at all. That’s never happened to me before.

I towel off, and climb into bed, the need still riding me hard, as I think about her correcting my grip, teaching me. I suddenly remember as a teen I had a bit of a teacher fetish. Although I never acted on it, I wonder if that’s coming back to haunt me. She is a teacher of sorts. Raking my hand through my hair, I grab my phone off the nightstand. Her class page loads with her smiling face in a little box off to the side. She named her class Coastal Knife Work: Filleting, Skinning, and Pan-Searing. Two weeks out. The class is full. So, I sign myself up for her waiting list, typing my name in the little box. It’d be a shame not to go.

Not expecting an answer anytime soon, I start to put my phone down. Then a confirmation email comes through, followed by a text message.

Thanks for signing up for my class, Sabre. I went ahead and squeezed you in, like I said I would.

Fuck, it’s a text from Linsey herself, rather than her app. There are a bunch of emojis, including an eggplant and a peach. I know enough to know that for some people these would be considered flirting, but with Linsey, I think they are just food related. I quickly type out a text.

Thanks for squeezing me in. I can’t wait to see you again.

I hit send before I realize how that sounded. I’m not good at keeping my feelings locked down around this woman. Just one more class, I tell myself. It’s the seafood one and she made room for me. I can’t back out now. Lies. All lies. I know deep down inside that I want to keep going to her classes, no matter what else happens. That’s the one truth that will stand when all the lies come tumbling down.

Chapter 3

Linsey

Ipull into my driveway, grab the container of leftovers off the passenger seat, and let myself in through the kitchen door. The television is going in the living room. I immediately recognize the program. It’s the narrator from one of Noah’s military documentaries. Being a history buff, he loves those things.

Aunt Carol is on the couch curled up with a mystery novel. The recliner where Noah usually sits is empty.

“Noah made it to nine fifteen, before he started falling asleep in his chair,” she says without looking up from her book. “He wanted me to tell you that the documentary was educational and therefore should not count as screen time.”

“My son is going to be a lawyer when he grows up,” I tell her.

“Or a great orator of some kind. Sit down, girl. Tell me about how the class went.”

I put the leftover ribeye in the fridge and pull out a can of soda before sitting on the other end of the sofa.

“I’m excited because this was the class that was sold out. Every single person showed up. What do you think about that?”

“Well, look at you, honey.” She beams at me. “In addition to being a Michelin chef, you’re now an entrepreneur.”

She mutes the television and turns sideways so she can look at me while we talk. When her expression turns serious, I sit up and pay attention. This woman has been able to see right through me, ever since I was nineteen years old and showed up pregnant on her porch with a black eye and a suitcase. She’s the one who watched Noah while I went to college. After building a successful life in LA I realized I needed my family more than I needed accolades. Aunt Carol was the reason I decided to make the move to Las Salinas. She’s the only family I have left now.

“Something’s changed. You look happier than usual,” she says.

“I have reason to be happy. It was a good class, and I finally feel like I’m building something of my own.”

“That’s true, but you’re practically glowing,” she says, closing her book. “What has changed?”

“My class was full of all kinds of new and interesting faces. I even had a biker in this class.”

“What kind of biker?” she asks, frowning.

I don’t mention the one-percent patch. Instead I keep it vague. “I don’t know. He was wearing a cut with his name on a patch. The back said Savage Legion MC.”

Her eyebrows crease. “One of those bikers from the Legion came to your steak class?”

I’m surprised Aunt Carol knows them. She must see my raised eyebrows because she says, “Everyone here knows the Legion. They’re good men.”

I’m pleasantly surprised by that. I continue, “He signed up like everybody else. He’s even signed up for another class I’m taking. He brought his own knives and apron. Strange, I know.”