Southern Hotshot (North Carolina Highlands 2)

Having Emma over is not a good idea. But for starters, I wasn’t gonna leave her struggling on the side of the road in a snowstorm. And it’s a distraction from the disappointment of having to cancel my date with V.

By the time Emma and I pull into my driveway, the snow is coming down so hard and so fast I can barely see three feet in front of the truck. I park in the garage. The wind howls above the sound of the door closing behind us.

Blizzard conditions are minutes away.

“Phew,” I say, grabbing Emma’s bag from her lap. “That was lucky timing. I haven’t seen a storm this bad up here in years.”

Emma nods, unbuckling her seat belt with fingers that tremble. “As much as I didn’t want you to rescue me, I’m glad you did.” Her eyes meet mine. “Thanks.”

The space between us thrums.

Must. Get. Her. Inside.

“Right,” I say, climbing out of the truck. “How about a shower?”

Her eyes go wide, and I don’t miss the flicker of heat in them.

I open her door for her and hold out my hand, laughing. “Not together. Unless—”

“Don’t go there.”

I was joking, but clearly she’s not.

We kick off our boots when we’re inside, and I lead her to the nearest shower. Which just so happens to be the one in my bathroom.

Emma stares at the expanse of glass and tile. Then she looks at the sink nearby, my toiletries neatly arranged on the marble countertop. A beat of charged silence fills the room.

Yeah, my bathroom is legit. But that’s not what this silence is about.

She’s standing in the inner sanctum. Probably the most private room in the house. Now she knows I use Crest toothpaste and an electric razor. She knows I like Molton Brown soap. She knows I’m a secret neat freak.

These are intimate things. The stuff only a girlfriend or wife would know.

The stuff I’d only share with someone who means something to me.

Judging by the way her expression softens, that’s not lost on Emma.

But then she’s shivering again, and she’s trying to peel her clothes off, but she can’t because she’s shaking so hard.

“Help?”

She doesn’t need to ask twice. I gently unbutton her jacket and fold it, draping it over the edge of the nearby tub. Together, we guide her sweater over her head, revealing a black bra with delicate, transparent cups.

Christ Almighty. Her nipples poke against the fabric, tight, pink buds that are just begging to be sucked. A rush of warmth moves through my groin, gathering in the head of my dick.

Draping her sweater over my arm, I turn away. “I’ll let you finish.”

“But my jeans.” I glance over my shoulder to see her unzipping her fly. “I think I’m gonna need your help getting them off.”

I just stare at her, mouth going dry.

Lord Jesus, what am I supposed to do here?

I catch a glimpse of her panties through her fly. They match her bra: black, tiny, see-through.

“Uh,” I say.

Emma is trying to shimmy out of her jeans now, doing that little shake of her hips that’s playful and sexy, but they’re not moving. Her jeans, I mean. She really does need help.

And I’m gonna need to cut off my dick while I prep dinner because I’m hard as a goddamn tree.

Clearing my throat, I discreetly adjust my trousers and nod at the tub. “Sit.”

Emma sits. I squat in front of her, knees cracking. I pull her jeans down one leg at a time, going slowly so I don’t startle or hurt her.

The muscles in her legs convulse as she trembles.

I frown. Her legs are covered in goosebumps.

“But really,” I say. “Is it okay if I put my hands on you?”

She dips her head in a nod. I run my palm over her bare thigh and give it a good, warm squeeze. Emma goes still. Her skin is cold to the touch, and the need to make this better fills me. Her belly rises on an inhale, and I imagine leaning in and kissing her there. Kissing my way down her hip, between her legs. Pushing those fucking panties aside and kissing her pussy.

Emma is (mostly) naked.

She’s in my house.

And she’s trusting me to do the right thing.

Groaning, I rise to my feet. I set her jeans beside her sweater on the tub. Then I strip off my socks and turn on the shower.

Immediately, it fills with steam. Holding the door open, I look at the ceiling.

“Take your time,” I manage. “It’s a good shower. Water pressure’s excellent.”

I glance down at Emma to see her peering inside. “Are those multiple showerheads?”

I bite the inside of my cheek. Yes. And yes, I put them in there for exactly the reason you’re thinking.

Shower sex—actual dick into pussy action—is not worth the hassle. But getting or giving head in the shower? Nothing hotter.