Southern Bombshell (North Carolina Highlands 5)

Using condoms meant keeping things casual. Which worked until I fessed up to myself that those feelings were anything but.

I pry open an eye to see Nate rolling on the condom, tongue caught between his teeth.

“Nate.”

“Patience.”

“No, that’s not what I—” Shaking my head, I sit up and reach for his hand, stilling it. “We don’t have to—”

He looks up. Searching my eyes, he furrows his brow. My stomach dips.

“If it’s too soon,” I stammer, “I get it. I just—I passed my last test with flying colors, and I haven’t been with anyone since, so . . .”

He keeps searching. Heat floods my face. Shit. Shit, look at this rookie move, making confessions while naked. I plan weddings for a living. I’m an expert in romance. I know better.

But Nate Kingsley makes me stupid. Always has, since the day six months ago I showed up on his front step and demanded to know why he was such a prick all the time.

We were naked in his bed twenty minutes later.

“Aw, baby,” he says, voice raw again with what I now recognize as anguish. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“I’m just—” He looks away. “So fucking sorry.”

“Don’t stop,” I say, starting to panic. I glide my hand onto the nape of his neck. “It’s okay, keep it on. Just don’t stop.”

He lets me pull him down for a kiss. I lie back, bringing him with me, and tuck my bent knees against his sides. He’s kissing me like the world’s ending again—hard, hungry, but he doesn’t line himself up at my entrance, so I do.

“Fuck.” He sinks inside me slowly. Buries himself to the hilt and stays there, breath coming in hot pants through his nose.

I hold him. Hold still. His body is drawn tight as a bowstring, the muscles in his neck rock-hard beneath my palm.

His heart thumps against my breastbone.

He looks me in the eye and fucks me. Deep thrusts. A swivel of his hips at the apex of each one, our bodies slapping as they meet. I rise up to meet him, and he touches his forehead to mine, our noses brushing, breath mingling.

He grits his teeth—something he’s never done before—and it’s his turn to go still.

“Are you—”

“No,” he growls. “Trying to hold on.”

The world around us is quiet, but the riot inside my body is not.

I’m scared. Something is really wrong here, and I can’t focus until I know what it is. To my mortification, my eyes prickle with heat, but when I try to look away, Nate grabs my face.

“Look at me,” he says.

“Why?”

“So I can look at you.”

I blink hard, and the heat dissipates.

Only when Nate comes does he close his eyes. He groans through the release, teeth still clenched, but he doesn’t collapse on top of me. He’s too polite—too thoughtful—for that. Instead, he eases his warm weight onto me by degrees, tucking his head into my neck. I love this feeling, the breathlessness, the sensation of being surrounded by his heat. The clean smell of his skin.

I kiss his temple. He sighs, tenderly returning a kiss on my jaw.

For a split second, I feel okay again. Maybe I’m imagining things. Maybe Nate just had a run-of-the-mill shit day, and in true Nate fashion, he’s just not ready to talk about it yet.

It’s fine.

We’ll be fine.

“I can’t do this.”

I freeze at the murmured words, thinking I must’ve misheard him. “What?”

Nate lifts his head. His eyes are wet.

My gut prickles with ice. The burn in my eyes returns.

“I can’t be with you, Milly. I’m sorry.”

My vision blurs. My heart is somewhere in my throat now, choking off my air supply. I don’t know what to say, so I repeat, “What?”

“This,” he says with a sniff. “It’s over. I have to end it.”

He begins to ease out of me but I grab his ass, keeping him between my legs. I stare at him. Part of me wants him to look away. To be a coward. But again in true Nate fashion, he looks me in the eye.

He’s really good at that—looking me in the eye while fucking me.

That same part of me wants my anger to win out. The Milly Beauregard my brothers know and love would rip this shithead a new one. She’d call him out, call him names, and fight dirty because she’s learned to always have her dukes up.

Instead, I start to cry.

“I don’t understand,” I say. “Was it the condom thing?”

“We’re too different.”

“No we’re not.”

“It’s better this way. Trust me, baby, you want no part of my life.”

“That’s not fair,” I manage. “You don’t get to make decisions for me. I know what I want, and it’s you.”

Now is not the time to put myself out there. My gut’s screaming at me to retreat. But the ache inside my ribs is making me so damn stupid.

It’s making me desperate.