Southern Player (Charleston Heat 2)

I can only stare at him.

I didn’t stand a chance, did I?

For a beat I search Luke’s eyes, happiness blooming in my chest. We’re touching. Talking romance. Not only are we talking about it—he gets it.

He gets me.

“Right,” I say. “Yes. Totally.”

“I bet it’s those shitheads who say stuff like that—that romance is bullshit because it makes your standards sky high. Fuck them, Grace. Fuck them for life. Your standards should be high. You should expect to be treated right. If that makes some guys feel insecure…well. That’s their fuckin’ problem. Says a lot about them if you ask me.”

I nod. “Yes. I mean, I don’t expect to, like, end up with a Duke or a billionaire or whatever. I don’t need helicopters and private chefs and country estates to be happy. I just want someone to make me feel the way heroes in romance novels make heroines feel. I just want that intensity of connection. That respect and adoration, you know? That is not an unrealistic expectation to have. Wanting to be loved well by someone who makes you feel safe enough to be yourself with them.”

Luke’s expression changes. It’s soft and hard all at once. Making the air between us swirl with delicious tension.

My body, already running hot, burns hotter. I’m so wet I’m a little worried I’ve soaked through not only my underwear but my shorts, too.

I have never been as attracted to someone as I am to Luke. I thought the possibility for this kind of infatuation ended in college. When life started feeling less romantic and more…complicated, I guess. Difficult.

Practical.

I was wrong.

“I can love you like that,” he says. Voice gruff.

Love.

The word gets scooped up in the swirl. Surrounds us.

Luke’s eyes search mine. They’re a little glassy with moisture. Hopeful.

So blue and so adoring it overwhelms me. I struggle not to look away. Not to bow underneath the weight of everything he’s saying. Everything he’s offering.

I force myself to look. And then—

Then, a rising inside me. A great big wave of emotion that makes my heart skip and my eyes prick.

I’m scared.

So fucking afraid.

I blink. Take a breath.

Tell myself to choose not to be afraid.

I say it again. And again.

I repeat it inside my head until I’m able to gather enough courage to tell the truth.

When I finally speak, I feel like my heart is going to come out of my mouth, too. Because I’m putting it at his feet—my heart. Hopes.

I am taking a chance on him.

“You already have,” I say. “You’re showing me how it’s done. I…I want to love you like that, too, Luke.”

His brows come together. “Really?”

“Really,” I say.

His nostrils flare. And then he’s reaching up. Sliding his hand onto my face.

“Oh, baby,” he says. A good kind of anguish in his voice. “Baby, you’re shakin’ again.”

“I’ll be okay,” I reply.

Just have to keep saying that. To him. To myself.

“It’s a beautiful fucking thing,” he says.

“What?”

“Your faith. Think about it, Grace. Even after all you been through, you didn’t lose your faith in love. Maybe you got romance to thank for that. Maybe Max and Jane’s happily ever after kept you hopeful for your own—that one great love you talked about. And that is beautiful. If that don’t turn me into a true romance fan, I don’t know what will.”

Oh my fucking God.

If I wasn’t head over heels for this man before—

“I think I do have romance to thank for that. I hadn’t—” I swallow. “I hadn’t considered that angle.”

“C’mere,” he says. Guiding my face up to his.

The last thing I see before my eyes flutter closed is Luke tilting his head. Eyes on my mouth. His lips full, a little parted.

My body floods with light when those lips meet mine. He opens his mouth and I open mine, lips tangling, his tongue searching for mine. I let out a low moan, curling into his body as he pulls at me, as he takes—takes my breath and takes charge. Scruff burning against my skin.

I slide my hand onto his trim waist. Feel the muscles there move beneath the silkiness of his tee. Heaviness gathers between my legs. In the tips of my breasts.

“Get a room, y’all,” someone mutters as they pass us.

I can’t help it. Too full of good things. I laugh into Luke’s mouth, and he responds with a sound that’s half laughter, half rumbly growl.

He pulls back. Searches my face again.

“Safe word,” he murmurs, setting his beer down on the bar.

“What?”

“Use it if you need to.”

I stop. Look at him. Blood jumping as an awareness of his intent soaks through my skin.

“Okay.”

Luke laces his fingers through mine. I have just enough time to set my own beer down before he’s tugging me through the bar and out the front entrance.

The night is warm and dark. There are still people around, spilling out of restaurants. Hanging out on decks and patios.