Southern Gentleman (Charleston Heat 3)

Charlotte climaxed with a soft shout, her fingers curling into his bare chest. Her sex pulsed around him, making him shout, too.

Looking down at him, she bit her lip and rolled her hips. Milking him to his own completion despite being nearly boneless with hers.

He slid his hands up her sides. Caressed her skin, her breasts. Her back. Saying with his hands what he couldn’t with his words.

At last she collapsed on top of him, sweaty and warm, and he felt his heart thump soundly in his chest.

“How,” she panted, “does this keep getting better?”

He brushed the hair back from her face and met her eyes.

Because you’re unafraid, he wanted to say.

You’re not afraid to tell your truth.

Would she be afraid of his truth, he wondered?

“Have you not heard?” he said instead. “We Scots excel at many things. But we truly are the best at this.”

She shook with laughter, cuffing his shoulder. “What about me? Am I not the best at it, too?”

His wife was so unafraid in taking her pleasure.

In her curiosity.

She was brave where others—strong men, men of title and stature—had cowered.

She was open with him, and trusting with him, when he kept her shut out of his life. Except in here, in the comfort of her bed.

He owed her more than that.

“You are,” he said softly. And then, after a beat: “You should know I killed my brother in cold blood.”

Turns out Greyson’s townhouse is only a few blocks from my place. Go figure we had all that sex out on Wadmalaw at Luke’s barn or in parking lots around town when we lived less than a five minute walk from each other.

Bottle of bourbon tucked under one arm—along with cigarettes and condoms, I noticed he always had a bottle of brown liquor in his glove box—and the folder with Charlie Brown’s ultrasound pictures tucked under the other, I head his way a little after seven.

He lives on South Adger’s Wharf, a cobblestone street that runs alongside Charleston Harbor.

It takes a lot to charm a seasoned Charleston resident like myself. But this street?

This is about as charming and romantic as the city gets.

Slowing my steps, I almost twist an ankle on the uneven cobbles as I gawk at my surroundings. This part of town is old. I can tell by the weathered brick facades of the homes I pass, original iron earthquake bolts dotting their walls. It’s a little known fact that Charleston sits on a fault line. Homes on the peninsula were constructed with bolts running through the walls that could be loosened when an earthquake struck, allowing the walls to move rather than crumble.

The loamy smells of salt and marsh hang heavy in the air here. Weathered metal hitching posts, once used to tie up horses, stand attention just outside the front doors I pass.

The street curves. Glancing down at the address Greyson texted me, I look up to find it in front of me.

I take in the brick exterior of a two-story townhouse. It’s the largest on the block by far, facing the water. The uneven brickwork and creeping vines are juxtaposed by modern steel windows. Gas lamps flicker beside the black front door, which is tucked beneath a second story balcony.

For several heartbeats I just stand there and stare. Stray raindrops catching on my hair, my shoulders.

I don’t know what I was expecting Greyson’s home to look like. This place is sleek and sexy, yeah. Like any bachelor pad worth its salt would be. It’s in an exclusive—and expensive—part of town.

But it’s got this beauty—this romanticism—that takes me totally off guard. Huge pots of purple flowers sit on either side of the front door. They line the balcony above my head, too. There’s a sleek brass knocker on the door itself. Custom made, from what I can tell.

The place is immaculately maintained. Thoughtfully restored.

Daddy would love it. This is exactly his wheelhouse: a thoughtful restoration where history and modernity meet.

Grief, sharp and swift, slices through my chest.

I draw a quick breath, blinking hard. For a second I contemplate turning around. Shooting Greyson a text to say I’m not feeling up to dinner. I want to lick my wounds alone. Maybe take a bath and go to bed by eight like the winner I am. This weird mood just won’t quit.

But then the front door is opening, and Greyson appears, leaning one massive shoulder against the jamb. He must’ve been waiting for me. Watching.

His eyes lock on mine. They are an arresting shade of blue against the early evening gloom.

Literally arresting. My heart’s not beating anymore.

Greyson doesn’t smile, but those eyes of his do when they take in my outfit. I went with my nice yoga pants this time and C of C hoodie.

“I approve of your stretchy pants choice,” he says. He crosses his arms, making the muscles in his biceps bulge against his shirt.