Southern Player (Charleston Heat 2)

“Truth,” I say. “Bein’ able to tell your partner the truth about who you are and what you want. Without reservation. Without bein’ afraid.”

Her gaze electrifies. A light bulb turning on.

“So you have to feel safe,” she says. “To be yourself. No smothering or hiding.”

“Exactly,” I say.

God, I wanna show you how it’s done.

I wanna show you, sweet girl.

And then I’d wreck you. Same as you’re wrecking me right now.

But I can’t.

I fucking can’t. And that kills me.

I look at her. “Your boyfriend is a lucky man, Gracie. To get to do this explorin’ with you—”

“You didn’t hear?” Gracie pulls back, clearly surprised.

“Hear what?”

She sets her bottle on the table. “Nick broke up with me a couple months ago.”Chapter ThreeGracieI can’t stop thinking about Luke later that night in bed.

The way his hands felt on me. The things he said.

I admire you.

You’re just right, just as you are.

Being able to tell your partner your truth—that is what makes an encounter intense.

What is it, exactly, about intensity that I like so much? What the hell do I even mean by ‘intense?’

I’m not sure. But I have a feeling Luke could deliver it in spades.

My heart throbs. Awareness gathering just inside my skin, between my legs. In my lips. I could be imagining it. But did something change between Luke and I tonight? I’ve hung out with Luke before, plenty of times. We’ve always flirted.

But not once have we ever talked so explicitly about sex.

Not once has he ever looked at me with such pointed, poignant want in those blue eyes of his—especially when I told him Nick and I broke up.

I have to keep reminding myself that I could be imagining the whole thing. I’ve been feeling especially lost these days.

I’ve also been reading especially sexy books. Maybe my desperate body convinced my equally desperate mind to cling to any glimmer of interest, no matter how small, and now I’m blowing it totally out of proportion.

Why would Luke Rodgers want me, the dorky, dreamy, driven little sister of his friend, when he could have literally anyone he wanted? He’s hot. Funny. Confident. Successful.

Also. Luke’s a player in every sense of the word. I can’t remember the last time he brought a girl around, or introduced us to a significant other. I’ve seen him flirt plenty, though, with lots of women. No doubt he’s taken more than a few home. I mean, the guy said point blank he “doesn’t do serious”. He’s not looking for the kind of love I want.

But my mind—and my body—won’t let it go.

I can’t sleep. So I grab my ear buds and start listening to My Deal With the Duke.

If I can’t have good dick in real life, might as well have it in fiction.

As I listen, I can’t help but think Luke and Max the Duke seem to have an awful lot in common. They’re alpha. They know what they want.

They have really hot accents.

Most important, they are super open-minded when it comes to sex.

Open to enjoying sex.

I’m thirty-one years old. I have experience. Lately, though, I haven’t been enjoying sex all that much. Yes, my partners have been…well. Not the greatest.

But it takes two to tango.

I keep coming back to Luke’s idea of being unafraid to show your truth in bed.

I’m always so eager to please—so eager to make a relationship last—that I second-guess every move I make in bed. It’s like I have this running narrative inside my head. Am I coming on too strong? Taking too long to come? Being too weird or too quiet? Too much teeth, not enough tongue?

There are some things I’d like to try. Anal. Sixty-nine. Phone sex. Nothing too crazy, just stuff I’ve fantasized about. But I’ve been hesitant to bring it up with my partners. I was worried it might turn them off, the way it turned Nick off. Make them think less of me.

So I just had so-so sex with them instead. Trying all the while to make the sex better. Praying they stuck around.

It didn’t.

They didn’t.

I’m heady. I overthink things. I get it. But I’ve gotten to the point where I’m walking on eggshells every time I take my clothes off. Which, I think, totally backfires. How can you have fun in bed if you’re not enjoying it? If you can’t turn your brain off and just be?

When you’ve had guys walk out on you when you show them a sliver of vulnerability, though, it’s hard not to be afraid. To think, hey, if I don’t screw this up, or I try a little harder to be the perfect partner, he’ll choose me. He’ll make me the star.

I’ll finally have the soul mate I’ve always wanted.

It’s regressive and sexist. It’s harmful. It’s counterproductive. I know this.

But I came of age in a hugely sexist, hugely toxic hook-up culture that valued a guy’s satisfaction above all else. That made sex more performative than pleasurable for me.