Southern Charmer (Charleston Heat 1)

“C’mon, Olivia, that’s not what I’m mad about. I’m mad I hurt you.” He puts his hand between my knees. Sits up. “Let me see, sweetheart.”

“I can handle it.”

“Olivia. Let me see.”

Swallowing, I let my knees fall apart. My entire being burns as he checks me out, hazel eyes cloudy with concern.

“Does this hurt? And be honest,” Eli says, gently—very gently—pressing his fingertip to my entrance. It stings.

“Yes,” I say.

“God damn it,” he bites out. “Stay put. I’m gonna go get some stuff to clean you up and make you feel better.”

“I can—”

“Olivia, stay put. Please. Let me take care of you, all right? I feel terrible enough as it is.”

I go still at the raw anguish in his voice. Eli’s upset. Which upsets me. I just had the best sex of my life with this man. I don’t want this to ruin all the exquisite things I felt in his arms.

My stomach clenches. I need to explain myself.

I need to tell him who I really am.

A minute or two later, he comes back from the bathroom with a warm washcloth and a bottle of ibuprofen.

“I am so sorry,” he says, pressing the washcloth between my legs. His touch is achingly tender. “I hate that I did this. Rough is not usually my style.”

It’s not usually mine either. But tonight, it just felt…right.

I just need to wring every drop of passion out of these nights with Elijah Jackson. I don’t know how many I’ll have. I’m not going back to Ted, but I still have to go back to my job. My students. My life.

I grab his wrist. Trail my thumb over the smooth skin inside it. “Don’t be sorry. This is what I wanted. I loved every minute of it.”

His eyes flicker with something I can’t place when he looks at me.

“Why’d you want me do that to you?” he asks softly.

I blink. Look away. Then I sit up and close my legs. Glancing at the sheets, I’m relieved to see I didn’t get any blood on them.

Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, it’s my turn to wince. I’m already sore. And still so wet I feel like I’m swimming in it.

Behind me, I hear the jangle of pills in a bottle.

“Take these.” Eli drops two pills into my palm.

I put them in my mouth and press up to my feet.

“Let me get cleaned up,” I say, swiping my dress off the floor. “Then we’ll talk.”Chapter Twenty-SixOliviaI’m sticky with sex and sweat, so after I get dressed, I head out to the deck. Eli follows me. The autumn air is cool against my skin. The night is very dark around us. The world is quiet. Even the crickets have gone silent; the water barely moves. The tall marsh grasses sigh in a small breeze, once.

Then it’s just Eli and me and the stars. The sky is so black I swear I can see the cosmic dust between them. Or maybe it’s just more tiny stars, too distant to even make a pinprick in the darkness.

I sit in one of the weathered Adirondack chairs that face the marsh. Eli comes up behind me, setting a glass of cold white wine on the flat of my armrest before collapsing into the chair beside mine.

“Thank you,” I say, reaching for the wine.

“Welcome.”

The word is muffled. I look to see him lighting a cigar. Palm curled around the end as he holds a stainless steel lighter to it. His cheeks hollow out as he sucks, encouraging the embers.

He’s barefoot. Wearing nothing but jeans. The skin on his bare shoulders glistens in the light from inside.

The bittersweet, earthy smell of the tobacco hits my nostrils.

Heat hits me squarely between the legs. I just had this man. And now I want him again.

Curling my legs into my chest, I take a long sip of wine. It’s Chardonnay. Buttery and delicious.

A little liquid courage never hurt anyone.

I’m not really sure how to start. So I just dive right in to the heart of it.

“I’m not a writer,” I say.

Eli leans back in his chair, looking at me from the corner of his eye. “Yes you are. You’ve written, what, half a book now? You sit down at your computer and you write. Therefore, you’re a writer. And a damn good one at that.”

A wave of emotion rises up in me. I don’t know what it is. But I do know it makes me feel tingly. Happy.

“I mean it’s not what I do for a living,” I reply. “I’m a professor of nineteenth century literature.”

“At the College of Charleston?” he asks, cocking a brow.

“I wish. I’d love to teach creative writing there. But no.” I take a deep breath. “I teach at a university in New York.”

Eli’s mouth goes still around his cigar. At last he plucks it from his lips.