Southern Charmer (Charleston Heat 1)

I feel the heat of Eli’s body on the step behind me. Smell the woodsy smoke of his aftershave.

My hand shakes as I try to unlock the front door. I can’t get the key into the lock. The enormous gas lamp above the door bathes everything in flickering shades of pink and orange.

Then Eli’s arm appears above mine, and he’s covering my hand with his, steadying my grip. Together we guide the key to where it needs to go. It slides easily into the lock. The muscles in his forearm pop against the skin as we turn the key, the deadbolt sliding back with a small click.

My breath catches at the same moment.

Neither of us moves. The feel of his skin on mine sends shockwaves of lust through my entire being. He’s warm and smooth and big.

I’m wet in every possible meaning of the word.

I lean back, just the tiniest bit. Just enough so that my back meets with his front. We touched a lot dancing. But that was playful touching. Heat-of-the-moment touching.

This is different.

Shutting my eyes, I revel in the feel of him. The knowledge that he’s right fucking there. That he’s strong and solid.

That he could be mine.

Leaving my keys hanging in the lock, Eli slowly turns my hand palm side up. Then he presses the meat of his thumb into my wrist.

“Your heart is racing, Yankee girl.” The softness of his voice is cut with an edge of gravel. Gravel I can feel vibrating in his chest. “And you’re burnin’ up.”

I turn my head to meet his eyes. They are dark with unapologetic lust.

He wants to come in, too.

My heart pounds. One hard, decisive beat.

Yes.

This could be the dumbest decision I’ve ever made.

Or it could be the best.

Either way, I’m making it.

Right here. Right now. Everything changes.

Maybe I want it to. Maybe I’m actually ready and deserving and allowed to experience whatever’s about to unfold.

Oh, but I’m shaking. So hard.

My voice does, too, when I finally gather the courage to speak.

“W-would you like to c-come in?” I ask.

It’s really pouring now, the rain coming down in opaque sheets.

His eyes are dark. Hair soaked and wild.

“I would like that,” he says, his voice an octave lower than usual. “Very, very much. But I need you to know something. I fucking adore you, Olivia. I been wantin’ to touch you since that first morning you walked into my kitchen. I want you bad, sweetheart. So bad it’s eating me up inside. But you asked for time, and I intend to respect that. Unless you tell me right now that you’re ready. You gotta say the words.”

For a minute I just stand there, letting the weight of his confession—his concern and his respect—wash over me.

Letting my skin and my heart and my thoughts absorb it. Revel in it.

“I’m ready,” I say.

Then I reach out. Grab him by the front of his shirt and yank him against me.

Eli curls his arms and slides his hands onto my face in one smooth, swift motion. He’s tilting his head, bending his neck in the most masculine, most delicious way possible. He guides my mouth up to his.

And then he kisses me. Or I kiss him. It’s hard to tell.

All I know, a mere three seconds in, is that it’s the kiss. The one I’ll write about for years to come.

The one there will be no going back from.Chapter TwentyOliviaEli’s mouth is soft and hungry against mine. I smell a hint of cinnamon on his breath from the Fireball shots. Taste it, too, on his lips.

Lips that move over mine slowly.

Erotically. Patient and knowledgeable and plump. He sucks gently on my bottom lip. Does it again before the tip of his tongue licks into my mouth. His thumb strokes over my cheek, the now familiar ridge of his scar lighting up my skin.

I’m melting against him, fisting his wet shirt in my fingers.

I can feel his heart throbbing. Alive and strong and beating for me.

Me. The real me. Not the perfectly put together Ivy League professor. But the messy, complicated, breakfast-loving romance writer.

Eli tilts my head a little and deepens his angle. He uses his tongue to open my mouth a little bit more. Then his tongue finds mine, lapping at me with intention. He drinks me in. Takes his time. Kisses me with light. Hunger.

Passion. The pent up kind.

The kind that literally makes my toes curl.

His scruff scrapes against my chin. I bring a hand up to touch his cheek, feeling the prickle of hair there. Blown away by the fact that I get to touch him like this.

That I’m being kissed like this. Like the world is ending.

I’ve never been kissed so…thoroughly before. This kiss—it’s juicy and hot and the least practical thing I can think of.

To think I almost passed this up.