Southern Player (Charleston Heat 2)

She’s rolling against me, soft and ready, hot, so hot for me. My dick is hard and my heart is overflowing with admiration for this woman. I don’t want to stop.

But our first time isn’t going to be some quick and dirty fuck against the wall in my kitchen. She isn’t going to walk out of my house five minutes after I’m inside her. Not knowing if I’ll ever be able to have her like that again.

That’s not how I want this to go down.

Pulling away is a total dickpunch. But I do it. I grit my teeth and I break the kiss. Gracie makes this noise—it’s a question and a complaint.

“No,” I growl, squeezing my eyes shut because I don’t trust myself to look at her. Instead I touch my forehead to hers. Breathing hard.

“Too far?” she says.

“No. That’s—Gracie, I just don’t want it to happen like this is all. Our first time.”

Her breath catches.

“Oh. Oh, okay.” I can tell she doesn’t quite know what to make of this.

So I lift my head and look her in the eye, pressing a kiss to her lips.

“We got all the time in the world. I told you I ain’t rushin’.”

Gracie searches my eyes. Brow furrowed.

“I bet that Duke made Lady Jane wait,” I continue. “He did, didn’t he? ’Cause he knows that sometimes the anticipation is as sweet as the act itself. And he wants it to be sweet for her. The sweetest and most intense she’ll ever have.”

Gracie blinks. The grooves in her brow deepen. “He does. Yeah. How’d you know?”

“I told you I’m a romance fan,” I reply breezily. Even though I feel anything but. “Let me make it sweet for you, baby. It’s sweet right now, isn’t it? The tension. Excitement. Knowin’ we’re a real good fit and that we have so much left to explore.”

I wait an eternity for her to reply. I can’t read her expression. Can’t tell what she’s thinking.

Finally her brow smooths.

“Right. I should get going anyway.”

I set her down. Body still screaming. “When can I see you again?”

She swallows audibly. “Um. Well. I have a busy week. Okay if we play it by ear?”

I look at her. She looks back. Equal parts scared and hungry.

I want to keep pushing her. Make her nail down a date.

I just want to see her again is all. Sooner rather than later.

But I don’t want to push her too hard. We already covered a lot of ground tonight. No doubt she’ll be back for more.

“Okay,” I say.

I put Grace in her car. Close the door behind her and rap on the hood, once, before shoving my hands in my pockets and stepping away.

She rolls down the window.

“Text me when you get home?” I say.

“Okay.” Her eyes glimmer in the darkness. Shit I wish she were staying. “Goodnight, Luke.”

“’Night, sweet girl.”

I watch her drive away. Stand there long after her taillights disappear, the quiet around me ringing with her absence.Chapter ThirteenGracieI float into Holy City Roasters the next morning, high as a kite despite my five A.M. wake up call.

A persistent little ache nudges me just beneath my breastbone. I can’t tell if it’s a good ache or a bad one. Good because I just had the best hook up of my life with a hot, dirty talking farmer.

Bad because now I can’t stop thinking about said farmer, feeling all gooey and sticky every time I do, and somewhere in the swirl of my thoughts I recognize how dangerous that is. How that could lead to me losing myself all over again, to me getting my hopes up only to be crushed.

He’s a player, for God’s sake. Do I really believe he’s ready to hang up his proverbial cleats for good?

Do I really think I can have more with him and still be myself in bed? Still explore my fantasies without regret or reservation?

I need to stop thinking about him, I know. But I can’t.

My God, the way the man kisses—

My lips throb at the memory as I dump my bag onto the desk in my makeshift office at the back of the building. Today I’m working another shift behind the counter. When we first opened, I was working the register and pulling espresso shots right beside my baristas seven days a week. But as Holy City Roasters has grown, I’ve taken on a more managerial role. Now the bulk of my time is spent on the business side of things—paperwork, finances, meetings galore. I love most of that stuff. It utilizes a different part of my brain. But I also love keeping in touch with our regular customers and my employees, too. So I make it a point to be behind the counter at least once or twice a week.

Doesn’t mean I can neglect other business on those days. So I race through some emails and go through voicemails left overnight. Groan when my contractor tells me in a voicemail he left at eleven P.M. that the plumbers found lead pipes in the bathroom—yay for old buildings—that will have to be replaced at extra cost. Groan again when I read an email from the local roasting company we buy our beans from, detailing a price increase on my favorite Arabica blend. I’ll have to rework our budget. Which means arranging meetings with my store manager and my accountant.