Southern Hotshot (North Carolina Highlands 2)

My eyes fly open, my hand going still.

What the fuck?

How did Emma end up there? And why does my dick throb urgently at the idea that it’s her fucking me?

I need a cold shower. Immediately. This is a dangerous road, one that leads nowhere.

But my cock is hard in my hand and my balls are screaming bloody murder, and something about the thought of leaving this unfinished is infinitely depressing.

I close my eyes. Working myself harder, faster, I imagine pulling the bobby pins out of her bun. Her hair cascades down her bare back, loose and wild, and when I wrap it around my fist and give it a tug, her pussy tightens around my cock.

No greater satisfaction than making a girl come on your dick.

She digs her fingernails into my thigh. “Harder,” she pants. I can just glimpse her nipples as she arches her back. Pink. Puffy. Perfect. “Deeper. I know you can go deeper, Samuel. Do it.”

I’m sweating now. Squeezing my cock so hard it hurts. I don’t know if I can keep going like this.

“Yes, you can,” she says, reading my thoughts. Her voice is breathy. Nothing held back. Nothing smoothed over. She rolls her hips, milking me and taking me deeper. “Follow me. Yes. Just like that.”

It takes me a beat to get it. But then we fall into a deep, punishing, soul-baring rhythm, speaking our own language without saying a word. I read her: bucking my hips, I spear her on the crest of her thrust, making her whole body jerk. She slaps my thigh in approval. She reads me: noticing how I like it when she plays with my balls, she reaches between her legs and cups them. I pull her hair, lost in pleasure.

“Come with me, Samuel. Right. Now.”

She clamps down on me, going still, and I come.

Hell, I fucking roar, sending the birds outside my window scattering. I jerk the sheets away, narrowly avoiding covering them in ropes of cum.

I climb out of bed on unsteady legs. I’m hollowed out.

I’m one sick bastard.

Hanging my head in the shower, I try to rationalize. Calm down. That weird fantasy—it was just my imagination going into overdrive. Doesn’t help that I’m stressed as hell at work.

I have to get rid of Emma. She’s fucking with my head, and now is not the time to lose my shit. I know what I’m doing. I don’t need her and her lofty ideas.

I can do this job well without help. Because once that help takes over, I’m a goner.

This morning’s fantasy is just me crushing on my new fuck buddy. I just—

Why can’t I find that brand of fearless authenticity before now? Why don’t I ever connect with anyone the way I connect with her?

Really, what the fuck am I doing wrong?

Bang.

Daddy’s cast-iron skillet makes a loud noise as I drop it onto the burner. I should be more careful, but I’m feeling off-kilter today. My hands are unsteady. My entire body is unsteady, as evidenced by the way I keep tripping over my own damn feet.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” a voice behind me says. “Samuel, are you rage cooking?”

I glance over my shoulder to see Hank standing beside my kitchen island. Beau is with him—they must’ve come in through the side door. My siblings and I stopped knocking on each other's doors years ago. It was a trend I started.

I regret that now.

“No,” I grunt, turning back to the onions and asparagus tips I got going. They pop, and I give the skillet a shove. “Maybe.”

“Definitely,” says another voice. “Whatcha makin’?”

“A frittata, asshole.” I cut Beau a glance. “Better question: what happened to you? You look like hell. Insomnia strike again? Or something happen with Annabel?”

“I saw y’all dancing at the bonfire the other night,” Hank says. “Looked awful cozy together.”

My older brother flips his hat off his head and tugs a hand through his hair. Beau was recently diagnosed with CTE, the same degenerative brain disease that Daddy suffered from. One of the unfortunate symptoms is trouble sleeping. He always looks tired. But now he looks strung out too.

It’s a feeling I know well.

“Nothing,” he says. “It’s nothing. So, this rage cooking—”

“I’ll save you the trouble.” I pour a bowl of whisked eggs into the skillet, along with a handful of freshly grated white cheddar cheese. I put the skillet in the oven, then I throw the whisk and wooden spoon I’ve been using into the sink. Hank jumps at the clatter. “Yes, I’m pissed, and yes, it has to do with Emma. She’s gotta go.”

Beau’s shoulders rise on an aggrieved inhale. Remorse arrows through my chest. The man’s got a lot on his plate. It’s one reason I’m so adamant about maintaining control over my little corner of the Blue Mountain universe. I want to help as much as I can.