Southern Bombshell (North Carolina Highlands 5)

Milly is moaning now. She needs me. Needs to be held.

I don’t know how I do it, but I manage to slowly bring her leg down on top of the other, careful not to move too quickly in case her hip locked up. Then I plant my hands on either side of her torso—she’s still on her side—and lean my weight into them, stretching out my legs behind me.

I stay inside her all the while.

We’re closer like this, my body resting on hers, her legs bent beneath me so her body’s in a zigzag shape. I’m able to lean down and kiss her mouth. She’s breathing again, her kiss languorous.

“Your turn,” she murmurs. “I know you’re holding back. Let go.”

My chest tightens even more. Feels like a fist is around my heart, making it hard to breathe.

She knows what I need, and she’s giving me permission to take it.

I do. I begin to pump my hips hard and fast. Now that I’m allowing myself to let go, I’m fucking wild, my balls slapping against her ass as I charge to meet my rising orgasm. The echoes of hers milk me to a point of maddening abandon, and I press a messy kiss to her jaw, her lips, silently cursing myself for depriving us of this. How much have we missed out on?

How much will we miss out on?

I come, hard. Equal parts pleasure and pain. Heat shoots through my skin and gathers in the crown of my dick, and I empty myself pulse after scalding pulse into the condom.

I wish I could empty myself into her.

That’s a fucked up thought to have. I’d be promising her something I’m not sure I’m free to give.

Lord, would I love to make that promise, though.

I’d love to finally give her what she deserves—bravery, and the best of everything.

Chapter Twenty-One

Milly

I haven’t seen this side of four o’clock in the morning since I was in college.

I should get some sleep. I have a busy week coming up, and the more prep work I can do on Sunday, the less Monday will suck.

But I’m not tired. At all. I’m sore, sure. Nate and I have spent the past six hours alternating between deep conversation and deeper fucking, and I’m not sure how much more action my vagina can take without falling out and/or suffering permanent damage.

It’s the best problem I think I’ve ever had.

Nate and I huddle on our sides beneath the covers, catching up on everything we’ve missed over the past couple years. He shares how well the distillery is doing. He tells me he’s got a new whiskey he and Silas are excited about, one that needs a better name than “Sherry Sunset.”

Silas really is doing so much better, thank God.

I tell him about the weddings I’m working on. The enormous budgets, the glamorous clientele. My brothers and my mom and the new niece and nephew I have.

“You want babies of your own?” he asks in a near-whisper. It’s mostly dark under the covers, but I can still see the way his eyebrows curve upward, like asking the question hurts.

I nod, my hair catching on the pillowcase. “I think so, yeah. Having kids on the farm again has been such a fun thing. And seeing my brothers become dads? It’s been wild in the best way.”

“Do they all have kids?”

“Just Beau and Rhett. But I don’t think Samuel’s all that far behind.”

Nate stares at me. “Rhett’s a dad?”

I smile. “I can hardly believe it either. He has a little boy—Liam. The whole thing’s kind of a long story.”

“I have all night.”

I glance up at the darkness around us. “I think it’s actually morning.”

“It’s Sunday morning.”

“Meaning?”

He chuckles, a low, velvety sound that makes my blood jump. “Meaning I have all morning too.”

I tell him about Rhett’s complicated but ultimately joyous journey to parenthood. The secret baby—really, a two-year-old boy he didn’t know he had—and how he fell in love with the nanny he hired, Amelia.

“Wow,” Nate says.

“No kidding. Now tell me about this Sunday morning thing. I think I’ve forgotten how it’s done.”

“There is a proper way to do Sundays.” Nate runs a hand over the curve of my naked hip, his fingers brushing my pubic hair. A low frisson of heat flares to life between my legs. “The best ones start early with a good, slow fuck. But since my dick feels like it’s about to fall off, maybe we’d set up a little mutual masturbation situation instead.”

I bite my lip and reach between my legs. “I’m listening.”

“While we’d touch ourselves,” he says, giving his dick a slow, lazy tug, “I’d tell you what I’d make for breakfast. Bananas foster French toast with homemade whiskey-caramel sauce and a side of thick-cut bacon.”

“Is it weird that talking about food turns me on?” I ask, taking my breast in my other hand. Desire builds in my core, and I can already tell I’m in for yet another excellent orgasm.