Southern Player (Charleston Heat 2)

I roll back. Seeking.

He ducks his head. Scruff tickling my cheek as he murmurs in my ear.

“Tell me,” he says, pressing his lips to the hollow on the underside of my jaw. “Tell me everything, baby girl.”

I do.

I pull back, turning my head so our mouths are a tenth of an inch from meeting. My eyes flick to his.

I want you to kiss me.

A beat of heated silence. Then another.

His eyes search mine. So blue and so hot.

I feel my heart beat its way out of my body. Loud and obnoxious and very much alive.

Then, letting out a small breath, Luke nudges forward. Our noses brushing just before he tilts his head and his lips capture mine.

Because that’s what his kiss is. A capture, a claiming, a pull that has my whole body rising to meet him. His lips are soft. Mouth hot.

I get my first hit of his saliva. His taste is clean and masculine. Toothpaste and beer.

And the feeling of that taste—it’s like the heady buzz of cigarettes and brown liquor and late night gay porn, all rolled into one.

It sends me spinning out in the blackness behind my closed eyelids. I pulse and I plead and I let him guide my mouth open with his slow, hot tongue.

I make a sound. Something between a moan and a groan.

Luke’s hands glide up my sides, nice and slow, his thumbs lazily grazing my nipples—oh—before he takes my face in his hands.

He’s deepening the kiss, tilting my head so he can slant his mouth over mine.

His tongue is like velvet in my mouth and on my lips. He’s biting the bottom one now, this slow, soft nibble that makes the heaviness between my legs pulse brighter.

Aaaaand now he’s rolling his hips again, cocking them so his erection rubs lengthwise up and down my pussy as he kisses me senseless.

I fist his shirt tighter. Goddamn you.

How dare you.

More. Please. Now.

I’m wild. But he’s still moving slow. Taking his time.

He is going slow with me, and I want to fucking kill him for it. Hug him, too.

Because it makes me feel treasured. As silly as that stupid word sounds. It makes me feel like I can do no wrong. That whatever I want, whatever I do or whatever I say, it’s the right thing.

It makes me feel free.

The exhilaration of this sensation—so foreign I hardly recognize it at first—makes me smile against Luke’s mouth.

“I want you to keep tellin’,” he murmurs, feathering his lips across mine one last time before pulling back. Eyes on mine. “But I just want you to do it in my bed. C’mon, baby girl. We goin’ upstairs.”

I notice both his voice and his accent have thickened.

“Luke,” I breathe. “You okay?”

The look in his eyes darkens, like banked embers on the verge of flaring to sudden life.

“I’ll be better when I got you naked. You gonna spread those long legs for me, honey? You gonna let me see your cunt? See how pretty it is before I fuck it with my tongue?”

Jesusssssssss.

Other guys have talked dirty to me. I wasn’t into it. Came off as cheesy and forced.

But this—this turns me on so bad it makes me panic.

“I’m dying,” I say.

“I’m here,” he says.

And then he laces his fingers through mine and leads me to his bedroom.Chapter NineLukeAdore. Worship. Conquer.

Pretty much sums up my approach to Gracie and her bucket list.

Adore her so she feels comfortable enough to be herself with me.

Worship her so her body is satisfied and her doubts are put to bed.

Conquer her list, one line item at a time, so I might conquer this misbelief of hers that satisfaction in bed and satisfaction in a relationship are mutually exclusive concepts.

Above all else, I want to encourage her to share herself. The real parts. The hurt ones.

All her parts—I want ’em.

If I can do that—if I can make her feel safe enough and adored enough to make that happen—I think the rest will fall into place. Gracie is a smart, down to earth girl. She values authenticity, same as I do. If we can be our authentic selves together, who knows how far we can take this thing?

Because damn do I want this girl. In a way I haven’t wanted someone in a long, long time.

And I’m gonna try my best to get her to want me that way, too. The thought of her wanting another guy—of her being with another douchebag who will no doubt undo all the careful work I’m about to undertake—

“Luke. Luke, hey—”

I blink. My thoughts scatter. We’re in my bedroom. Gracie is standing beside me. The apples of her cheeks bright pink. Eyes sharp, lids heavy.

My heart thuds inside my chest. I may not know any foreign languages. I may not have a degree.

But I did this. I’m the one who’s got her so worked up she’s fucking bewildered by it.