Southern Bombshell (North Carolina Highlands 5)

“You’re old,” she shoots back, lips twitching.

I let her help me to my feet. “Hey. I’m not much older than you.”

“I amend my statement.” She looks up at me, still smiling. “You’re an old soul.”

“Something wrong with that?”

She reaches down to the waistband of my jeans, fingering the button on my fly. “I happen to have a thing for old souls.”

“I happen to have a thing for you.” When she tugs down my zipper, my erection bulges through the opening. I hiss. “Clearly.”

Her eyes get that hazy look again, and before I know what she’s doing, she’s licking her hand—fuck, that’s hot—and reaching inside my boxers.

I plant my palms on the wall just above her shoulders, bracing myself. She grips my length easily, mouth falling open as she finds a slick bead of precum with her thumb. She swirls the moisture over my crown, paying special attention to the crease on the underside of my head.

Need, electric and loud, bolts through me, and I hang my other head, gritting my teeth to keep from coming.

“Milly,” I growl, hardly recognizing my own voice.

“Relax. I’ve got you.”

I shouldn’t let her have me. I’ve seen this play before, and I know how it ends.

But then she’s nudging my chin up with her free hand. She’s closing her eyes, and she’s kissing me with soft lips. She’s curling her hand around my length and giving me just the kind of solid, almost painful tug I like, stopping to play with my balls on the downstroke.

“I don’t hate you,” she repeats. “I’ve tried, but I can’t.”

With a groan, I kiss her back.

Chapter Nineteen

Milly

Nate jerks his hips, thrusting into my hand. He’s breathing hard, chest barreling in and out as he struggles to hold on.

That’s the thing, though. I don’t want him to hold on. I want him to lose his mind.

I want to know if he’s already in as deep as I am.

Sucking on his neck, I pump my hand in time with my tongue.

“Fuuuuuuck you’re good,” he pants. “You remember. What I like.”

“Of course I do.”

I’m playing with fire here. I know I am. But I’ve been in the cold for so long, I can’t help myself. A flood of sensation and ideas knocks me over as I revel in the feel of being in Nate Kingsley’s arms again.

The softness in my knees and between my ribs.

The parsing of my thoughts, the ones about work or worry falling away until there’s only a handful left, thoughts that are colorful and clear.

Right now, that’s all there is. I want him. I love his touch. I’m warm and safe and so turned on I can’t stop smiling.

That’s all that matters. The simplicity of it is seductive in a way I’m not sure I trust yet. But I go with it anyway, too swept up in the moment to let reality ruin the art we’re making together.

If hand jobs count as art, that is. Why not? Art is all about making you feel something.

Art is whatever moves you.

And we’re moving together, Nate circling his hips as I pump my hand and kiss his mouth, our bodies finding an effortless rhythm. This is a dance we know the steps to. He kisses me back like we’re running out of time, drinking deeply, tilting his head so he can try one angle, then another, keeping the kiss athletic and eager and so fucking right.

Stars explode behind my closed eyes, pulsing in time to the strong, insistent beat of my heart. I’m wearing a jacket, but Nate still stays close, surrounding me in the heat of his body.

Does he know how good it feels to be taken care of this way? I want to show him. I try to show him. Because if I can make him see how good this is, how special—

Be careful, a voice in my head tells me.

This encounter is not a promise. It’s a hand job in a freezing warehouse a few hours after Nate called off his engagement. But it feels like so much more.

I want it to be so much more even though this man shattered my heart once.

“Milly,” Nate gasps, jerking out of my hand so he can wrap his own around his cock. “I’m—”

I reach for him again. “No. Let me. Let’s do it together.”

He lets me wrap my hand over his, and together we bring him to orgasm, his stomach caving as he covers his head with his palm and curses over and over again. His forehead falls against mine, and my chest swells as his breath gusts over my nose and cheeks.

I try to catch my breath, but I can’t. My pulse is thudding in my ears, and my skin is a live wire, goose bumps trailing in the wake of Nate’s touch as he guides a hand up my neck to cup my face. I nudge my cheek against his palm, turning my head so I can press my lips to the callus I know I’ll find on the underside of his thumb.