Southern Player (Charleston Heat 2)

I go to town, soaking the pork with the sauce.

“You’ve had barbecue before,” I say, more a fact than a question.

Gracie dips her head in a nod. “Remember we had it at my Mama’s house? Back when we first met?”

Like I could ever forget the day I met you.

“’Course I remember,” I reply gruffly. “But you weren’t with me when you ate—I was helpin’ Eli in the kitchen I think.”

She nods again, this time at my basket. “You really look like you know what you’re doing.”

“Are you asking me to tell you the secret to the perfect pulled pork sandwich?”

Gracie lifts a shoulder, grinning. Fucking tease.

What would I give to lick the sweat off that shoulder right now? My firstborn. My soul. One of my balls. But just one, so I still had a shot at making those babies with her.

“If you’d be so kind,” she replies.

“I thought you didn’t like it when I was kind.”

“I never said I didn’t like it when you were kind.” Gracie settles her elbows on the table, clasping them with opposite hands. “I just like it when you’re a dirty-talking dominant more.”

A rush of blood just where I don’t want it when I’m in a family establishment.

“You takin’ notes from me, baby girl? ’Cause that was shameless as fuck.”

She grabs her beer and takes this sassy, satisfied sip. Nods at my sandwich. “Show me.”

“Fine.” I rub my hands together. While also attempting to get my shit together before I get thrown in jail for public indecency. “I like a nice fat barbecue sandwich. Dripping with sauce and topped with a big ol’ scoop of slaw.”

“Sounds freaking delicious.”

“It is. So you start with the sauce. Mrs. Lacy makes a bunch of ’em. My favorite is the vinegar sauce.” I lift the orange-ish sauce out of the caddy. “It’s an Eastern Carolina style sauce. Real tangy with a nice spicy kick. Not too much heat. Then there’s Alabama white sauce—mixture of mayo and vinegar. The red sauce is Piedmont style, made with ketchup. The mustard looking one is South Carolina style, made with mustard, obviously.”

Gracie lifts her brows. “You’re up on your sauces.”

“Please don’t force me to make a joke about your sauce,” I say. Half-kidding. Half-pleading.

“Save the joke for later—I want to hear it,” she says. “Why is your favorite the Eastern Carolina one?”

“’Cause it’s the best. Cuts the richness of the slaw real nice, and gives the meat more depth of flavor. Here.” I squeeze some onto my fingertip. “Try it.”

She glances down at my offered finger. Glances back up, doing that thing where she digs her teeth into her bottom lip.

She ducks down and takes my finger in her mouth.

Swirls her tongue around my fingertip. And then, without warning, she sucks. One quick, hard pull of tongue and teeth and lips. Eyes still locked on mine.

My cock jumps. My vision dims. I worry I’m about to have another Birdbox moment.

“Mm,” she says, pulling back nonchalantly. “That is good. I’ll try it on my sandwich.”

I watch, practically glowering, as she coats her pork with the sauce.

“Then what?”

Clearing my throat, I pick up my plastic fork. “Then I top it all off with the cole slaw. I like a lot of it on there. It’s a refreshing counterpoint to the pork. Otherwise I think the sandwich is plain. That’s where too many people go wrong with a pulled pork sandwich—not doctoring it up enough. If you do it right, it can be the most delicious thing ever.”

“So first sauce, then slaw.” Gracie tops her pork with a few forkfuls of slaw. “On it.”

I lift my sandwich with both hands. She does the same.

“No erotic food noises, please,” I say. “I’m hangin’ on by a thread here.”

“It’s that good?”

I nod. “It’s that good, Gracie girl.”

We take a bite at the same time. Hell yeah it’s good. The bun and the pork, the sauce and the slaw, all coming together to create this amazing flavor bomb. The coolness of the slaw cuts through the vinegary heat of the sauce, which gives the meat itself this really great, really satisfying bite.

Gracie starts to nod as she chews. Swallows.

“Wow,” she says, looking down at her sandwich. “Luke, that’s ridiculous.”

She doesn’t even look up at me before leaning in for another bite. Then another.

Look at this. My city girl devouring an eight-dollar dinner like it’s the best thing she ever ate.

I love it.

I do not love how it’s making me tent my fucking pants.

Always had a thing for women with appetites.

After finishing half her sandwich in less than a minute, Gracie sets it down. Wipes her hands on her napkin and grabs her beer.

“You’re staring.” Dimples. Crinkly eyes. The whole thing. “Do I have shit on my face again?”

Come home with me. Stay forever. We’ll make our dreams come true together. Make some babies while we’re at it.