Southern Gentleman (Charleston Heat 3)

“It was Jeni’s,” I stammer.

“So good, right?”

“The best.”

“I only get the best for you and Charlie.”

I’m still looking at him. He’s still looking at me.

I can smell the toothpaste on his breath.

My heart is beating loud and strong inside my chest.

I can’t.

Jesus, I can’t hold it in. My desire for him. The joy I feel just breathing the same air, being in the same room.

I can’t. Wasn’t I just giving a speech to Greyson about living bravely? About putting yourself out there, even when you’re scared?

Lord am I scared. But every bone in my body is screaming do it. Take the chance.

Find out if he tastes as delicious as he looks.

Tiny tremors erupt just inside my skin as I lean forward. Greyson watches me. Forehead not exactly furrowed, but I can just make out the two lines between his eyebrows.

My heart is beating so. Hard.

I curl my hand around his chin, pressing my thumb into the sweet little indent there.

And then, before I can chicken out, I close my eyes. He draws a breath.

I tilt my head and press my lips to his.

His mouth is warm and soft. Full. My nose brushes against the scruff on his cheek. I smell his bergamot aftershave. A hint of cigarette smoke.

Smoke I feel rising up inside my body as desire burns me alive. My pussy throbs. Lips tingle.

Please, I silently beg. Kiss me back. Kiss me with the need I saw in your eyes last night.

The need I felt in his touch.

Then again, maybe I imagined it.

Because he pulls back suddenly, breaking the kiss. His eyes dart between mine, wild and fiery.

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck. I pissed him off. I crossed a line.

I drop my hand, putting it on my stomach like I can catch it before it falls too fast, too far.

Oh, God, how stupid—

“Julia,” he growls. Brows curving upward, softening his expression.

“I’m sorry. That was completely—I don’t—I’m so embarra—”

But then Greyson is taking my face in his hands and bending his neck and capturing my mouth with his. His lips slant over mine, open and slick. He pulls at me, drawing me up to meet him as his tongue licks slowly into my mouth.

He growls again when my tongue meets his. This desperate animal sound that makes my nipples pebble. He deepens the kiss. Hard and hungry. Like he’s been starving for this.

For me.

My hands reach for him, fingers tangling in the soft fabric of his shirt. He feels impossibly solid here. Warm and big.

The desire between my legs becomes acute.

He turns his head, nose brushing mine. Never breaking the kiss, just moving knowledgeably and confidently through it. His scruff chafes my skin; I’m definitely going to have some beard burn going on after this.

Not that I mind. I don’t care if my skin turns to sandpaper. This kiss—

I just.

No words.

I surrender to the force of Greyson’s gravitational pull. He’s rising to his feet, he’s taking me with him, my body’s melting into his as I loop my arms around his neck and curl into his warmth.

What an idiot I was not to let this man kiss me. Because he can kiss. Maybe I’m just starved for sex or human contact or both. But fireworks are going off behind my closed eyelids in celebration of just how juicy and good his mouth feels against mine.

Who the fuck is this man? The asshole, the cook, the secret Satanist sweetheart?

I glide my fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck. His hands trail down my sides, thumbs dipping into the waistband of my pants.

Desire, sharp, slices through my core. I’m feeling weak in the knees again.

I roll my hips into his pelvis. He groans. He’s hard. As desperate for me as I am for him by the feel of it.

I give his hair a tug.

Plucking at my bottom lip, he says, “My bed. I’m enforcing the no-clothes policy this time.”

“Please,” I pant. “Please God yes.”

This man knows what he wants.

He wants me.

Following him up the stairs, I marvel in the feeling of knowing what I want, too.

For the first time in a long time, I feel certain.

I feel right.

I feel like myself. Caffeinated. Curious. Sexy.

And that’s kind of the best feeling of all, isn’t it?

The second we enter his bedroom, Greyson is tugging his shirt over his head. For a whole heartbeat, I get a marvelous view of his bare back. Broad shoulders that narrow to a slender waist. Muscles bunching under smooth skin that’s smattered with freckles.

I decide that backs are a criminally underrated part of the male physique.

Reaching out, I trail my finger down the furrow of his spine. Lingering one beat, then another, just above the curve of his ass.

He’s got such a nice ass.

Not like I ever had much chance to explore his body. Our encounters were always quick and to the point. Dirty, yes. Creative? Sometimes. But we never lingered. Now that I’m thinking about it, I wonder if I’ve ever been fully naked with Greyson before. One—or both—of us usually left some clothing on in the interest of expediency.