Southern Player (Charleston Heat 2)

“Yeah?”

“My hand. You’re squeezing it.”

Immediately I loosen my grip, dropping her hand.

“Sorry. I’m sorry, Gracie. Did I hurt you?”

She manages a tight grin. “I’m fine. Horny as hell. But fine otherwise.”

“Here. Make yourself at home.” I gesture to the bed. “I’m gonna go grab a few things from the bathroom.”

Gracie turns her head to look around the room. It’s surreal, having her here. How many times did I think about her when I was alone in my bed? How many times did I fantasize about having her in it with me, my hips bucking when I came into my hand?

Her eyes meet mine. She smiles, a brilliant, feminine flash of white teeth and comely lips, and I feel it like a bullet straight to the chest.

“It’s so cozy in here,” she says. “I love it.”

“Thanks. It’s my favorite room in the house. There’s another bedroom downstairs—bigger—but I liked this one more. The light is real pretty first thing in the morning with those east-facing windows. And I think the eaves give it some character, too.”

She takes in the sharp angles of the roofline above the bed. The ceilings up here are low—barely eight feet—but that’s part of the appeal for me. It’s a cozy spot that invites you to take off your clothes and stay a while. The shiplap walls are painted a dark, moody green. I wanted to put a big old four-poster bed in here, but we couldn’t fit one up the narrow staircase. So I settled for a king-sized iron frame instead. Linens are pristine white and clean, just how my mama taught me to keep ’em, with a fat duvet at the bottom of the bed. I keep the house as cold as I can when I sleep.

The whole thing looks mighty inviting if I do say so myself.

“I agree. I think it gives this room a sense of place. Of history.” Gracie’s eyes flick to my crotch. Her smile deepens, dimples coming out to play. “Go get what you need.”

I duck inside the bathroom, grab some lube and a few washcloths—no condoms, ’cause we ain’t fucking like that tonight—and am back in the bedroom in about eight seconds flat. I may be six-three, two-oh-five, but I can move fast when I’m motivated.

Gracie is sitting on the edge of my bed, her back to me, taking off her sandals. I notice her toes are painted a dark, ruby-red color that’s more black than red. Understated and sexy and sophisticated, just like her.

She must’ve seen the chargers and remotes on the nightstand on my side of the bed, because she’s sitting on the other. The side furthest from the door.

I watch her bend down to put one shoe, then the other, on the floor beside the bed. Watch her straighten, running her hands nervously through her hair. The hem of her shirt lifts, revealing a pair of barely-there indents on her low back.

She looks so soft and sweet there. So vulnerable.

I feel an ache in my chest.

Oh, baby, I want to say to her. Oh, baby, you are just right.

And I wanna take care of you.

Let me want you that way.

But she won’t.

Not yet.

I am a patient man. I spent nearly a decade treading water in the minors before I ever got to play major league baseball. I’m happy to play the long game.

If it means ending up with Grace, it’ll be worth it.

I cross the room to my side of the bed—yeah, the other side is already her side, even though she’s been here all of three minutes—and set the lube and washcloths on my nightstand.

Gracie looks at me over her shoulder. Glances at the lube, then glances back up at me. Bottom lip caught between her teeth.

She’s scared. And curious. And turned on as hell.

Adore adore adore.

My gaze never leaving hers, I reach behind me and grab my shirt at the nape of my neck. I tug it over my head and drop it to the floor.

Gracie’s mouth pops open. Literally. I can almost hear the pop sound in my head. A bottle of champagne being uncorked.

I smile.

“Ohhhhh,” she says, half word, half groan, eyes raking over my bare chest and belly. My nipples harden to tight points beneath her frank admiration.

I wince when my cock bumps up painfully against the fly of my jeans.

“You got the safe word,” I say.

She nods. “Watermelon. Got it. Now get over here.”

I can’t deny this woman a damn thing.

So I climb onto the bed. The mattress dipping beneath my weight as I crawl to her on my hands and knees.

She is still facing away from me. So I duck down and press my lips to the spot where her neck slopes into her shoulder.

Her skin, warm and soft, pebbles into goose bumps as I kiss her there, nicking the sinew with my teeth.