Southern Playboy (North Carolina Highlands 4)

When we’re like this, I feel invincible.

I feel cared for in a way I haven’t in years.

I feel like I know Rhett, I know his heart, and it’s a heart that would choose me.

Maybe if I show him my willingness to compromise, he’ll do the same. It’s a huge risk. But one of us has to make the first move. If not now, when?

His hands move to my pussy, making the heaviness there throb. Using his thumbs, he opens me wider and rewards me with an open-mouthed kiss, head moving, lips grazing. His tongue dips inside me, and then it’s on my clit, swirling, teasing. Licking.

No rush.

No sound.

Just us, taking time.

Goddamn, this man gives good head. Doesn’t take long for me to come, my head falling forward as the earthquake hits.

I’m Jell-O. Rhett puts on a condom. Guides me onto my side and wraps his body around mine, the big spoon to my little spoon, and lifts my top leg. I’m still coming when he slips inside me from behind. This angle makes me feel full to the point of pain, but I want the friction, I seek it out.

I love the feel of being surrounded by him. Our fingers tangle. He kisses my neck. Bites my shoulder. Cups my tits and thumbs my nipples.

He comes, heart pounding through his chest against my spine.

We clean up in his bathroom and climb back into bed, still naked. Holding up the covers, he curls an arm around my waist and tugs me against him. Back to front.

We wake up that way, too tired and too sore to fuck again.

But we do. We’re desperate.

We’re chasing the wild because neither of us knows if—when—the chase is going to end.

Chapter Thirty

Rhett

I stare at my phone.

The screen is lit up with Miguel Fuentes’s contact info. I just have to hit his number and make the call.

That’s it. Ripping the Band-Aid off will suck, but living the life of my dreams after it’s done won’t.

Why, then, can’t I make the damn call?

My knee bounces frantically, my jeans swishing as I move. I’m sitting behind the desk in my office, morning light streaming through the windows. The door is closed, but I can still hear muffled sounds: Liam sobbing for his water, Amelia opening and closing the fridge. It’s like the kid knows when we’re exhausted and/or strung out because he picks those days to wake up on the wrong side of the bed. He hasn’t stopped throwing a fit since he woke up an hour ago.

Amelia, being the sexually satisfied saint she is, offered to take him while I handled some business. She didn’t ask, and I didn’t elaborate, but I think we both know it’s good news for us.

I’m just conflicted. Guess that’ll happen once you decide you’re done climbing the mountain that’s been your whole life, whether or not you reached the peak.

What if?

Guess questions like that’ll happen too. I still have this season to win a championship, but what if we don’t? What if the season after this one is the lucky pick?

What if I hate being retired? What if I’m bored?

What if Daddy would’ve made a different decision?

Maybe these questions are a natural part of the grieving process. I’m making the call out of love, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t death involved. I love the game, even if my passion for it has faded. I love making big money. I love making the people I work for proud.

But turning down the extension is going to make my people—my own little family—proud. It’s time to climb a different mountain, one that’s all my own. It’s time. I went from being miserable and slamming six-packs like it was my job to this. Full heart, full house.

I’m not the selfish dickweed I was when I met Jennifer. But is it as simple as what Beau said yesterday? The bit about giving myself a shot at happiness and how Liam needs me, not a trust fund?

Seems like the right call.

Still, I can’t seem to hit Miguel’s number.

Chucking the phone across my desk, I run a hand through my hair. Stand up.

Guess I really did mean what I said when I told Amelia I needed time. That’s not a crime, right? I’m being intentional. Thoughtful. Turning down twelve million bucks is not a choice you make in four days.

Ignoring the weird stomachache I just got, I leave my phone in the office and head for the kitchen.

Amelia looks up from handing Liam his sippy cup. “How’d it go?”

She’s trying to play it cool. But her eyes are warm and hopeful, and I know she’d love to hear some news. Hey, honey, I actually don’t need any time at all. I choose you. You and Liam.

I’m chickenshit.

“Meh,” I say. I curl a hand around her nape and pull her in for a quick, hard kiss.