Southern Player (Charleston Heat 2)

Luke laughs, huge shoulders shaking as he shakes his head. “Perfect. And sorry about those two. They mean well, they’re just…completely inappropriate.”

“I hope that never changes. You know I adore your mamas,” I say. And then I stop myself from saying I adore you, too.

It’s up to me to draw the lines here. To let Luke know what’s okay and what isn’t. To delineate sex from serious. Blurring those lines won’t be doing either of us any favors.

But I do adore Luke. As a friend. And now as a sorta-kinda fuck buddy, too. Where is that line? Have I already blurred it without knowing?

I’m struck by the thought that I really couldn’t do this with a complete stranger. The level of trust it requires—there’s no way I’d feel comfortable sharing these parts of myself with someone I didn’t know.

So I guess in a way the lines were blurred before I even broached the subject with Luke.

That doesn’t mean I can’t keep other lines straight and clear. I have to. I want to. Because as much as this whole thing is about orgasms and anal and fruit-flavored safe words, at the end of the day, it’s about me being able to tell my truth.

It’s about making myself the star of my own story. The heroine. Whether or not I’m the star of someone else’s.

Truth, intensity, authenticity: those are the things I’m after. So those are the things I’ll focus on, rather than forever or for keeps or fervently perfect partner. I’ll keep reminding myself that it’s okay to be selfish. Because it is. As long as I’m not hurting anyone in my quest for light-filled cunnilingus, it’s okay.

I will be okay.

Luke tips back his beer. I watch the last of the suds slide up the neck of the bottle into his mouth. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. This assured, sensual dip I feel in my stomach. He looks so good sitting there, five sizes too big for the chair in his cozy white tee and jeans. Deeply tanned and freshly showered.

Oooof, looking at him makes me feel things. My life is push push push. Always pushing forward. Pushing through. Pushing myself to be someone or something.

But this? Sitting here and wanting Luke? This feels like a pull. One I have to make no effort for. I just have to allow myself to be pulled. To stop swimming upstream and let the current of his white-hot need take me instead.

Clearing my throat, I sit up. Making my thong slide up the length of my sex. I’m wet.

I tilt my hips, the seam of my jeans catching on my clit. Immediately my nipples harden.

I draw a sharp breath.

Luke glowers.

“You all right there, Gracie?”

I shake my head. “No.”

He’s smirking again. “Can I help?”

I need. Right now.

“Any—ah, anything else you want to talk about?” I manage.

One side of his mouth curls upward. “Nah. Naw, I’m done talkin’. You?”

“I’m done,” I bite out.

Luke stands. Slowly. Reaches for his bottle and mine, too. Slowly. Makes his way to the sink, and sets the bottles down inside it. Slowly.

Like this is just another Thursday night in his kitchen. Like the sexual tension in the air isn’t thick enough to cut off our oxygen supply.

He turns around. Slowly stalks toward me, hips and shoulders rolling. A predator with his gaze on my eyes, my mouth, my tits.

My nipples scream against the confines of my bra.

My eyes move to his erection. Poor guy doesn’t have a spare centimeter in those jeans.

I put my palm on the table to steady myself, and then I press up, standing.

I meet his gaze head on. Scared shitless and wet enough to fill an ocean.

But still looking him in the eye. Because by doing that, I’m looking myself in the eye, too.

No. More. Hiding.

He stands in front of me. Tall and broad. Twice my size. I reach out and run my palm up his ribs to his pec, gathering the material of his shirt in my fist. A shudder moves through me at the solid feel of him—the warmth of his smooth, hard muscles tightening beneath my grasp.

Holy shit I get to touch him like this.

Luke reaches around and puts his hands on my ass. Slowly presses me into him, into his body and his dick and his heat. My breasts melt into his chest.

It’s like pouring lighter fluid on a fire that’s already blazing. My body goes up in flames.

My mouth falls open. I stare at him, feeling my lids grow heavy.

He’s got me trapped. Big hands on me, eyes on my face. His body blocking any possible exit.

And in that sense of being trapped, being surrounded, there’s also this coil of energy. It winds tighter when he squeezes my ass, gently and possessively, rolling his hips just the tiniest bit. Creating delicious, frustrating friction between our bodies.