Southern Player (Charleston Heat 2)

He curls his arms around my waist and pulls me tight against him. Just like he always does.

My body lights up. Like it always does.

And just like it always does, the space between and around us electrifies. Snaps with possibility and yearning.

For a second I close my eyes, drawing a small breath between my teeth. God, I love this. The weight settling between my legs. The way my chest aches the tiniest bit.

Being in his arms is a stark reminder of just how ravenous I am. Sexually speaking.

It’s been a long time since I felt this. Attraction. Raw desire. Nick was many things, but an animal in the sack he was not. Hell, the guy broke up with me when I told him I wanted to try some role play.

Luke, though? If the rumors around town are true, Luke is the fucking gold standard. Pun intended.

I’ve never acted on this thing I have for him. For a long time, we lived in different cities. When we were both in Charleston, we’d get together for the random coffee date and flirt shamelessly when we ran into each other, which was often enough. But ultimately we were looking for different things.

And then there’s Eli to consider. I doubt my brother would be thrilled about us smushing our private parts together.

I also wonder if the level of attraction I feel is one sided. I’m pretty confident that Luke must feel something. The energy between us is hard to ignore. But he’s a natural born killer. A handsome, confident, A-plus member of the male species who probably flirts with everyone.

Fucks them, too, if those rumors really are true. I admit I’ve always wondered what he’s like behind closed doors.

“Things are good,” he replies. “New place is comin’ along. You should come out to the farm sometime. I’d love to show you around. I’d also love to pick your brain about some stuff I been thinkin’ about. Growin’ my business. Branding my grits. How I can get pretty girls to come visit me more often, even though I live way out in the sticks.”

For years, Luke played pro baseball. First in the major leagues for Chicago. But then an injury brought him back to Charleston to play for our AAA team, the Pirates. Last year he retired from the game for good and bought a thirty-acre farm on Wadmalaw Island. He grows all kinds of organic, heirloom produce out there, most of which Elijah buys for The Pearl.

I grin. “Please don’t tell me you have a tractor.”

“Please don’t tell me you think tractors are sexy, ’cause then we’re gonna have a real problem.”

“A problem with liking hilarious old country songs too much? ‘She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy’ is probably my all-time favorite Kenny Chesney song.”

“Total classic. But naw. A problem with you keepin’ your hands off me. I ride that tractor all damn day, Gracie. All. Damn. Day.”

“My head would probably explode.”

“Probably? Definitely.”

“There’s a joke in there about riding you instead.”

Luke nods his head. “I set that one up for you real nice, didn’t I?”

Laughing, I squeeze him a little tighter. Twenty seconds with Luke, and I already feel twenty times better.

Turning my head, our eyes lock. His flash. Just for a second. Just long enough for me to catch a glimpse of interest.

I fantasize about him leaning down. Sinking his teeth into my neck, sexy teenage vampire style.

Give me your immortal soul, he’d say. Or at least your afternoon.

Instead, Luke loosens his grip. His hands glide down the slope of my lower back, lingering half a beat too long.

He lets me go.

My entire being sighs with disappointment. Apparently I actually sigh, because Luke’s brows snap together, his expression softening.

“That sounds serious,” he says. “Somethin’ on your mind, Grace?”

“Long week,” I reply, swallowing. “Long month.” Long year.

“Lemme buy you a beer. You can talk about it. Or not. I can talk about my tractor instead and how having that kind of throb between your legs makes life worth livin’.”

I laugh. “Okay. Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that.”

Luke reaches behind him. Grasps the pickup’s passenger side door handle in the enormous mitt of his hand and opens the door. “I don’t got Kenny Chesney, but I do have an old Trisha Yearwood box set I can play.”

“You like Trisha?” I say, stepping around Luke to climb inside his truck. It’s just as clean and well taken care of as the outside.

It smells like Luke—detergent and Ivory soap.

My heart skips a beat.

“You got no idea how much I love me some Trisha.”

“Bet you the first round I know more words to Trisha’s songs than you,” I say. “Mama listened to her nonstop when I was little.”

Luke closes the door. The window is rolled all the way down, and he sets his hands—Goddamn, those big, finely made hands—on the sill. He ducks down, lips quirked.