Southern Hotshot (North Carolina Highlands 2)

LadyV76: Somehow I doubt that. Good night, Jon Snow.

MyBoyBlue4: Sweet dreams, Khalessi. I hope tomorrow gets better.

Chapter Seven

Emma

I don’t want to smile at Blue’s endearment. But I do.

As I close my laptop, a weird feeling settles in the pit of my stomach.

I’m not tired. I feel equal parts full and empty. Nourished and starving.

Nourished: great wine, better orgasm, even better win over Samuel. I have a lot to celebrate.

Starving: I wish I had someone to celebrate with. Maybe the glaring dissonance between how full some parts of my life are, and how utterly empty the others can be, is what’s keeping me awake.

I have the acute, unshakeable sense that I’m missing something. Because for the first time in forever, I’m wishing the sex I just had with Blue was real.

I wish he was really here, body wrapped around mine as we had that conversation in person. I’ve never felt this way about someone I’ve chatted online with. I’ve never connected like that with any of the guys I’ve met virtually.

I’ve also never been told what makes me different is also what makes me awesome. A girl could get used to that kind of praise.

I startle at the distant sound of a splash, glancing over my shoulder at the windows beside the bed.

My stomach dips. I remember what Hank said about my cabin practically being in Samuel’s backyard. From what I understand, each of the five Beauregard siblings has their own private residence here on the mountain.

Does Samuel have a pool?

Is he in it?

And why does the starving side of me crave the answer to that question?

Darting into the bathroom, I grab one of the fluffy robes hanging on the chrome hooks beside the shower. I shove my feet into my fur-lined boots and duck outside. It’s even darker than before. The air is cold but my skin is hot, and it takes several beats for my mind to catch up to my body.

Am I really doing this?

I guess my chat with Blue has emboldened me. So I follow the sounds of splashes a little way up the hill. I dart through a thicket of pine trees, praying the predatory animals in the area are still hibernating.

A hulking building comes into view. It may be close to midnight, but the windows are lit up. The closer I get, the clearer I can make out just how massive the house is. It must be eight, hell, ten thousand square feet spread out over three floors. The roofline swoops elegantly into a stone terrace that I imagine has amazing views of the mountains beyond.

Below the terrace, there’s a pool set into the hillside. It’s also lit up with the kind of pool lights that change colors from green to pink to red to blue. I creep closer, hiding behind a tree twenty or so feet from the pool’s edge. Steam rises off the surface of the water.

It’s heated.

So is my blood when my eyes catch on the figure that suddenly pops up in the middle of the pool. His naked shoulders gleam, muscles rippling against the skin as he raises his arms to wipe the hair out of his eyes.

Those arms. They would make Wolverine weep. I swear to God the guy’s bicep is the size of my thigh.

Heart pumping inside my chest, I watch him sink back into the water up to his chin. He turns, allowing me a perfect view of his profile. Sharp nose, full lips, scruffy jawline.

Oh, it’s Samuel all right. Only this Samuel looks different. Could be the slicked-back hair or the way it gives him a Davidoff-model vibe.

Or it could be the lost, almost vulnerable look in his eyes. He swims to the edge of the pool with long, sure strokes, and rests his forearms on the stone ledge. He looks out into the blackness—guess the staff was right to tell me he likes the night sky.

He sighs. Shoulders slumping.

With me, he’s got his dukes up. But here, he’s pensive and sad.

I don’t want to be curious about what that sadness is about or where it comes from. He’s my coworker.

I never ever cross that line. I’ve seen workplace romances end badly at every single restaurant and bar I’ve worked at.

Those romances end especially badly for women. I can’t tell you how many times my male colleagues stopped taking a woman seriously after discovering an indiscretion. Many of those women wound up leaving or getting fired, their reputations irreparably damaged.

But dammit, I am curious. The world knows Samuel as this flashy ex-athlete with a big smile and bigger bank account. You look at his Instagram, and that’s what you’ll see. He surrounds himself with wealth and beauty and success.

That sigh tells a different story.

Those eyes tell a really different story.

I can’t stop staring at his back. An image materializes inside my head: the bunching of those back muscles as he works over me. Gliding his lubed-up cock up and down between my breasts. Lips parted, eyes vulnerable, he loses himself to me. I dig my fingernails into his shoulder blades and drag them down the length of his spine. He hisses. I smile. He half grunts, half speaks.