Southern Charmer (Charleston Heat 1)

My body stiffens, and I come. Hard. My eyes screw shut, and behind them neon fireworks explode as sensation slams through me. I feel pulses of my cum sliding down her throat.

“Olivia,” I sputter.

She milks me with her tongue, then swallows. My knees nearly give out.

Now who’s the wobbly one?

My fingers are still between her legs. As my orgasm fades, I carefully stoke hers to life. I glide my fingertips over her clit, again and again. She moves against me, guiding me to touch her just where she needs it.

I reach down to tweak her nipples with my free hand one at a time. They’re puffy and so perfectly soft in my fingers I groan.

My dick is still in her mouth when she comes. I want to bury my fingers inside her so I can feel her spasms. But I know she’s still hurt, so I settle for her moans and the way she goes boneless as the shockwaves subside.

I tilt my hips, pulling out of her with care. She falls heavily onto her back, fisting the sheets. She’s breathing hard.

I climb onto the mattress beside her.

“C’mere, baby,” I say, looping an arm around her middle and curling her into my body. Big spoon and little spoon. A breeze moves through the open windows, and I pull the covers over us.

My pulse is racing. So is hers.

I kiss her throat. She turns her head and lets me kiss her mouth. I can taste myself on her lips.

“I like you this way,” I say, kissing her slowly. “Wrung out. My taste on your mouth.”

She whimpers into my kiss.

“What?” I say.

“You,” she says.

I pull back to meet her eyes. “What about me?”

“You overwhelm me, Eli,” she replies, gaze searching mine. “I just feel…God, I feel everything when I’m with you like this.”

My heart swells.

“I hope that means you’ll stay a while,” I say.

I press a kiss to her temple.

We fall asleep like that. Tangled up in each other. Warm and cozy and content.

I want to make this week last forever.Chapter Twenty-EightOliviaThe days pass too quickly at the cabin. And the nights—those are never long enough.

By the end of the week, I’m exhausted. Neither of us has slept for more than a few consecutive hours at a time. Eli and I are too hungry for each other to sleep through the night.

He’ll wake me at dawn, a wicked smile on his lips as he settles his head between my legs. I’ll wake him in the dead of night, soaking wet and needy, and he’ll wordlessly tear open a foil packet and roll his big body on top of me, making love to me slowly. Sleepily. His mouth on my mouth, my breasts, my neck.

He always cleans me up afterward, checking to make sure there’s no blood. Satisfied, he’ll pull me against him, his heart beating thickly into the center of my back as I drift off.

I wonder if I’ll ever be able to fall asleep again without being surrounded by that soothing, confident sound.

Without being surrounded by him.

I’m not sure if it’s the beautiful scenery, the good food, the incredible sex, or some combination of all three, but my muse absolutely sings out here. I spend the bulk of my day either in bed with Eli or in a chair beside the fireplace on the deck, churning out chapter after chapter. Eli edits as I write. He’s falling in love with my characters.

And I am falling in love with him.

There is zero point in denying it. In playing the tough guy. I am so soft and so vulnerable being who I am with him. There’s something incredibly romantic about opening myself up like this.

I think a lot about Eli’s advice to keep things simple. Maybe this is part of that—simply letting my feelings be what they are.

Simply accepting them. Accepting myself.

Being free of all that self-imposed torture makes me feel like I can fly. I’m high on life. Eli is, too, for the most part. Every so often I’ll catch him frowning when he checks his phone. And he’ll get this troubled, faraway look in his eyes sometimes. Like he’s somewhere else completely.

“Are you all right?” I ask one night during dinner. We’re eating outside beside the fire, like we always do. We were having the best little chat about Gunnar’s use of a French letter, the nineteenth century’s version of a condom made out of sheep intestine, when Eli started zoning out again.

Eli blinks, shaking the frown from his face. “I’m sorry. You’re wearin’ me out, Olivia. I been walkin’ around like a zombie all week.”

“What were you thinking about?” I ask. “The Jam?”

His eyes flicker. Harden. Almost like a gate coming down. I can’t tell what he’s feeling.

“A little bit, yeah.” He runs a hand through his hair.

I reach across the table for his hand. “I’m sorry. The whole thing sucks. I’ve wanted to ask you about it. But I know it’s a sensitive topic, so I’ve kinda been waiting on you to bring it up. I’m always here if you want to talk.”