Southern Gentleman (Charleston Heat 3)

“Hi,” I say.

He blinks, turning his head on the pillow. His face creases into a smile, and my heart does a back flip. Pussy pulses.

I’ve been awake for all of five seconds, and already I want him.

No time for bathroom or toothpaste. I need.

Now.

“Mornin’, baby,” he says, leaning over to press a scruffy kiss to my neck. My blood warms. “How’re you feeling?”

We look at each other for a beat. Then another. I’m feeling all squishy and happy inside, and I kind of can’t stand it.

I can’t stand him. His smile and that cute fucking cleft in his chin and the goodness, the intelligence, of his heart.

Wordlessly I roll on top of him. His smile broadens, his hands gliding up my thighs.

“That good, huh?”

I shimmy down a little and reach for him. Grin when I find him rock hard.

“Uh-huh,” I reply. I duck down, using my elbow to keep my face out of my hair.

I take his head in my mouth. Kiss it, tease it. Taste him. Just how he likes it.

His hands are in my hair. On my tits. I open my lips wider and take him deeper.

“Aw, baby,” he says, voice still gravely with sleep. “Aw, Jules, I like this, but I think I’d like to make love to you more. Up, sweetheart.”

He gently guides me up from his dick. Then he’s reaching for his nightstand.

“Make love to me? That’s new.”

“It’s what I want. That gonna be a problem?”

I’m grinning so hard my eyes start to water. “Not at all.”

Open wrapper. Quick hands.

He curls one hand around my hips and the other around his cock. I lift up onto my knees, helping him settle himself between my legs.

I sink down onto him slowly. Quietly. Both of us rocking into one another. I’m sore and I’m tired and I probably have terrible morning breath, but this feels so nice. No rush, no madness.

His hands trail up my sides to cup my breasts, and he rubs the pads of his thumbs over my nipples.

I moan at the bolts of sensation that move between there and my clit. Reaching down, I play with myself, and Greyson’s eyebrows come together. Like he’s in pain.

“You take what you want,” he says. “You know what you want. I love that about you. I can’t—I can’t fucking stand how much I want you, sweetheart. Let me—”

And then he’s flipping me onto my back. Guiding one of my legs over his shoulder as he rolls on top of me, the weight of his body delicious and warm.

His smell is all over me, that masculine, clean scent I can’t get enough of. I want to bite him. Devour him whole. Crawl inside his skin and live there for a week.

I reach between us and wrap my fingers around him. I guide him to my center and roll my hips a little. He sinks into me easily. This new angle with my leg over his shoulder allows me to take him deeper. He hits me right there, and my mouth falls open. Shit I’m sore.

Shit this feels lovely.

His eyes are locked on mine as he strokes into me. Slow, deep, muscular thrusts that I feel in every corner of my being. We watch each other, breathing softly. My hands marvel at the way the muscles along the sides of his torso ripple and bunch as he moves. I glide my fingers up his arms, catching on the nicotine patch on his shoulder. His brows curve upward, his gaze steady. Same as his thrusts.

He sees me.

I see him.

The soft, almost sticky sound of our bodies moving together fills the space between us. It smells like sex now. Sex and sheets and shared everything.

The wiry hair on his chest grazes my nipples. They’re sore, too, but when he leans into me a little more, the heat of his skin feels nice pressed against them.

He reaches between us and thumbs my clit. I gasp. He replies with a low rumble that echoes in the barrel-sized cavity of his chest.

The moment is quiet and unbearably sweet.

This feels so good. So real and so right. Like I’m at home. Welcome and comfortable just as I am. I can’t explain it. I just know there’s this feeling that fills me. This fullness inside my chest and throat.

He’s loving me.

This man is actually loving me. The one who was cold and cruel.

The one who was hurting. He’s healing now.

Healing both of us.

My eyes blur with tears. I feel them leak out of the corners of my eyes. It’s such a cliché, crying in the middle of sex. But I don’t care.

Neither does Grey. He just silently wipes away my tears with his free hand and brings me to orgasm with the other. The muscles in my legs pull taut as the wave hits me. Rushes through my skin, flooding me with more feeling.