Saving Savannah by Sandra Hill Page B

garage, but once on the way, they soon discovered one of the advantages of these old cars. Bench seats. The engineers who invented bucket seats hadn’t taken into account the benefits to a guy of one-arm driving with his honey sitting close. Real close. He would bet his back pay that Tante Lulu knew the value of those bed-like seats from experience back in the day. And maybe even later in her outrageous life. The old bird had game.
    He was cruising down the one-lane road, driving with his left hand, his right arm around Savannah’s shoulders, hip to hip, Frank Sinatra crooning on the eight-track tape deck. With the rag top up, they were cocooned in their own private world, unseeing in the dusky light of early evening of the quaint countryside era passing by, redolent of another era. Crab shacks and one-pump gas stations. Neat cottages of pastel stucco. Homemade signs advertising, “Fresh Eggs. Sweet Butter. Okra.” An occasional derelict auto or kitchen sink sitting in someone’s front yard. A sofa on the front porch.
    When Savannah put a hand on his thigh, he almost ran off the road. He hadn’t engaged in foreplay in a car since he was a teenager.
    When his right hand happened to meander downward and touch her breast, she moaned. A sweet, poignant sound that acted as the most potent aphrodisiac. Not that his libido needed any jumpstart.
    When Savannah raised her head and kissed his neck, pleasure rippled over all the fine hairs of his body like a warm breeze on cool grass.
    When he kissed the top of her head and said in a voice husky with emotion, “I love you, Savannah. You are what kept me going in the hard days of captivity.”
    “Oh, Matt!” He felt her tears against his neck and hugged her tighter. “I never stopped loving you, even when I thought you were .  . . gone.” He could tell she didn’t want to say the word dead .
    “No sad times tonight,” he ordered with a mock growl.
    By the time they arrived at the garish Hubba Hubba Ding Ding Motel five minutes later, Matt was thankful that, key in hand, they didn’t have to face any people at a registration desk. Not just because he and Savannah were loopy with lust for each other, but because he doubted he could have put two coherent words together, not even, “Room! Now!”
    He had trouble unlocking the door with his shaking hands, but it finally opened, and he was vaguely aware of a dim light coming from a bedside lamp. They stumbled into the room, slamming the door behind them. Quicker than he could say “G.I. Joe With a Hard-on,” he had her backed up against the wall. At the same time, he was kissing her voraciously, even as he removed his jacket and stepped out of his shoes. Thank God for multi-tasking!
    She was no better, undoing his shirt so fast buttons were flying.
    He undid the back zipper on her dress.
    She undid the zipper on his pants.
    For a moment, Matt saw an explosion of stars behind his closed eyelids. G.I. Joe was going to end this game before it began if he didn’t get his act together. He inhaled sharply, then exhaled.
    When he opened his eyes, Savannah was staring at him with sex-hazy eyes. Her lips were parted, and she was breathing as heavily as he was. Even better, he saw that Savannah’s dress had fallen to her waist with the straps hanging from her arms. She was wearing no bra, and her breasts were perfect twin globes the size of half oranges. The nipples were erect against the backdrop of rose-hued aureoles.
    “So pretty!” he murmured, and couldn’t resist leaning down to lick one nipple, then the other.
    Savannah released a long keening wail of carnal pleasure. “Ooooooh!”
    That’s it! I can’t wait any longer. He picked her up by the waist, turned, and almost tripped over his unzipped trousers that were bagging about his knees. Tossing Savannah onto the bed, he crawled up over her. Instinctively, even as he was back to kissing her, deep kissing, a wet exchange of tongues and teeth and hungry lips, he raised