Southern Seducer (North Carolina Highlands 1)

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” I hear him mutter behind me. “Bel, stop.”

He grabs my arm, the feel of his fingers lighting me up, and I stop, spinning around to look at him.

His eyes are on my face, and he’s furrowing his brow. That barely restrained hunger is back, and it’s turning me inside out. It’s filling me with joy and hope and desire so sharp it hurts.

I’m hit by the sudden urge to cry.

“Did I miss somethin’?” I notice his accent has thickened. “I thought we had fun tonight.”

“Tonight was great.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

I look at him, begging with my eyes for him to understand. To let me be, to give me time so I don’t ruin the good thing we have going.

My heart is pounding. I look away toward the lake and run my tongue along the inside of my top lip as I search for the right words.

When I look back, Beau’s eyes are on my mouth. A muscle in his jaw jumps, and any doubt he’s not feeling this too goes up in smoke.

The pull his body has on mine becomes acute, and I’m dying.

I’m going to die if I don’t touch him.

So much has changed since we first met as eighteen-year-old kids. If now’s not the time to be honest, to be truly, terrifyingly up front about what we want, then when?

We fall into each other at the same time. It’s fast and it’s wild, and the next thing I know, he’s capturing my mouth with his, our heads tilted just so, his to my left, mine to the right, like we’ve done this a thousand, a million times before. My heart’s in my throat now, kicking and screaming, and I have to squeeze my eyes shut to keep tears from falling because it’s sweet.

The feeling of being kissed by Beau is so damn sweet.

The knowledge that he wants this, too—that he wants me—is the sweetest of all.

That answers one question. Only a million more to go.

I move my lips, asking for more. He groans, stepping into me and taking my face in his hands. His touch gentle, gentle, gentle, even as his lips sear my own. Even as he opens them with the hot demands of his tongue. I curl my arms around his neck and burrow into his body, pressing my breasts to his broad chest and my hips to his hips. I’ve always known that Beau is a big guy. But up close, he’s huge. The corded sinews and muscles of his neck flex beneath my fingers.

Neck and thighs. Two parts of a guy I’ve never paid much attention to until now.

Beau’s are perfect.

His skin is hot to the touch.

He sips me at first, small sucks, licking his tongue into my mouth. He tastes like a savory combination of apples and whiskey. His scruff catches on my chin and cheeks, and even though it burns, I like it. I reach up and press my fingers into his beard. I can feel the sharp, strong lines of his jaw underneath it, the shape of his expression as his kiss deepens and his tongue licks into my mouth. I curl my hand around his jaw and guide him closer. The smell of the bonfire lingers on his skin.

A reminder of how close I am to lighting one of the most important relationships in my life on fire.

But I couldn’t stop if I tried.

Beau’s arm tightens around my waist, and at the same time, his sips turn into long, ardent pulls. My head tips back at the onslaught, each stroke of his lips and tongue making the beat between my legs heavier. My nipples harden.

Experiencing this kind of arousal again is both a relief and a concern. My sex drive has plummeted since I gave birth. I’ve wondered if my vagina just dried up for good and worried that that part of me was dead forever.

I’m happy to report I was wrong. So wrong.

Still, I worry. I’ve heard stories about women squirting milk everywhere when they orgasm.

Pretty sure John Riley Beauregard, star NFL linebacker, multi-millionaire and all-around Southern hottie, has never had to worry about being sprayed with breast milk during a make-out session.

Is that all this is? I don’t know. I don’t know what this is, or how far it’s going to go. But controlling it—the kiss, my response to it, all the feeling that’s coursing between us—feels wrong.

What if I just live in the moment instead? For the past four months, I’ve been living by the clock, always doing, dreading, preparing for the next feeding, the next load of laundry, the next time I get to sleep.

But right now, time doesn’t exist. It’s only breath and heartbeats.

I surrender to the sheer pleasure of just being.

Chapter Eight

Annabel

Kissing Beau back harder, I slip my hand inside his jacket and pull out his shirt from his jeans. I slide my hand inside that, too, finally finding what I’m looking for.