Southern Heartbreaker (Charleston Heat 4)

She looks fucking amazing.

So damn amazing. Her strong legs, the sweet curve of her ass, the smooth lines of her belly. She has an athletic build, but she’s also curvy in all the right places.

Speaking of curves. My gaze lands on her breasts. They swell out the sides of her top, and I’m hit by the memory of her dark nipples. Perfectly round. Sensitive.

I remember she liked it when I took them between my teeth. I could almost make her come from that alone. Run the pads of my fingers over her clit a few times and she’d be writhing underneath me. Surrendering. Lost in the moment.

I wanna keep getting lost in the moment with her. It happens so effortlessly.

Eva straightens, and her gaze catches on my bare chest. A spark of lust ignites in her eyes.

“Like what you see?” I pat my stomach. “Better get your fill now, sweetheart, because I’m not gonna look this way much longer if I keep gorging on your comfort food.”

Her eyes go to my hand. She swallows audibly, her gaze trailing over my torso.

From the flicker of heat in her eyes, she likes what she sees. A lot.

My body goes up in flames. This thing—this pull—between us is effortless and intense. Dirty dancing with her, talking with her over the tacos she made by hand with her family—it’s like breathing the biggest breath of fresh air for me. I feel energized. Alive and present and plugged in.

I feel like myself for the first time in ages. And that’s powerful stuff.

Which is why I must. Get in. The water. Before I do something stupid. Like keep spilling my guts. Or tug the knot of her swimsuit top between her shoulder blades loose.

“There’s a ladder off the back,” I say, clearing my throat. “I can put it down.”

“I’d actually like to jump if that’s okay?” Eva asks. “Is it deep enough?”

I glance over my shoulder at the depth finder on the dash. “Yep. Says thirty feet, so you’ve got plenty of room.”

The next thing I know, the boat rocks, and I turn to see Eva leaping into the water. Arms above her head, knees bent. A huge smile on her face.

I don’t hesitate. I jump right in after her, careful to land a few feet away. The water is refreshingly—surprisingly—cool. It’s a welcome distraction from the needier sensations ricocheting inside my skin.

When I come up for air, something catches on my ear.

A string.

My eyes flying open, I grab at it. My fingers only find more strings. A patch of fabric.

Looking down, I see that it’s Eva’s bikini top.

Her bikini top is in my hand.

Which means it is not on Eva.

Desire slices through my core, gathering in the head of my dick.

Speaking of my dick—it presses against the front of my shorts, needy and huge despite the temperature of the water.

Looking up, I see Eva treading water two feet away, lips twitching into a mischievous smile.

“Promise I didn’t do that on purpose,” she says. “I forgot how easily the damn thing comes off.”

Jesus fuck.

Jesus fuck, y’all.

The idea that she’s ninety-seven percent naked underneath the water—

That she doesn’t seem to mind that she’s ninety-seven percent naked—

That she actually appears to be enjoying it—

“You’re not getting it back,” I say definitively, recklessly, balling the fabric up in my fist.

“Am I gonna have to fight you for it?”

I hold it up above my head, kicking to stay upright. Praying she takes the bait. “Yup.”

“Challenge accepted.”

She launches herself at me, but I’m prepared. I hold my fist high while she loops her arms around my neck, plastering her body against mine while she tries to reach for my hand.

One thing I’m not prepared for? The feel of her bare tits pressed against my chest. Her nipples are pebbled to fine points, and they glide over my skin with erotic ease. She’s slippery and soft and she’s climbing me like a goddamn tree.

Lordy. I’m sporting the biggest erection on earth. She’d have to be dead not to feel it.

“I’m sorry,” I say gruffly, letting my arm fall a bit.

“For stealing my bikini top?”

“Not for that. For—well—” I glance down.

“Oh.” She pauses. Rolls her hips against my pelvis. “Oh.”

“Look, I don’t mean—I’m not—we don’t—fuck.”

I growl in frustration at my inability to form a coherent thought or sentence.

I do not get flustered. Ever. Not while closing multi-million-dollar deals, and not while interacting with women. Yet here I am, sputtering for words. For breath.

“Ford.”

I can’t look at her. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“Ford—”

“I promise I can control myself. I just—”

“Ford.” She grabs my face in her hands. Forces me to meet her eyes. “I don’t need you to control yourself with me.”

I search her gaze. The thud of heartbeats and the taste of salt water between us. I see need in her eyes. Soft and fiery, all at once.