Southern Gentleman (Charleston Heat 3)

I’m always craving this woman.

I spear a hand through my hair instead. Doing my best to ignore the sudden heaviness in my groin. My dick is what got us here in the first place.

Must. Ignore.

Lord Jesus, when are you gonna take this wheel?

“Next appointment. I’ll be there. Let me know when it is,” I grunt.

“Okay,” Julia says, smoothing the fabric of her leggings over her thighs. “It’s on my calendar. I’ll double check and get back to you.”

Those thighs. They were wrapped around me on Wednesday, all smooth skin and strong muscle, Julia’s head falling back as I rocked into her tight, hot cunt. My teeth on her nipple, her fingernails in my back, my thumb on her clit.

She was pregnant. We just didn’t know it yet.

“I should go,” I say, standing abruptly. I need a cigarette. Possible castration as well. This woman makes me regress into a horn-dog teen with blackout level desire, and I need some air if I’m going to stick to our no-hate-sex agreement.

Julia stands, too. Leads me to the door, wrapping her arms around her chest. She winces.

“You okay?” I ask, stopping with my hand on the knob.

“I’m fine. My boobs are just really sore. And my nipples are, like, these spirals of icy death when I get cold.”

“Oh. Wow. That sounds…intense.” It hits me that I haven’t asked how she’s feeling. Fuck me, I’m a douchecanoe. “How are you feeling? Aside from the White Walker nipples.”

Julia’s grin is back, and it is doing things to me.

“You watch Game of Thrones?”

“Yes. How are you feeling?”

She lifts a shoulder. “All right. Just this low-grade garbage-y feeling that is a not-so-nice reminder that something is off. No real nausea, although that isn’t supposed to peak until week eight or nine. We think I’m only six weeks along, so we’ll see. Otherwise, I feel a little bloated. And tired. Really, really tired.”

“Anything I can do? Anything you need?”

Another tight smile. “At this point, I think it’s just about muscling through.”

“If you need anything—”

“I told you. I can take care of myself.”

“I know you can. But if you want help, I’m here.”

The look in her eyes softens. “All right.”

“Okay.”

I’m not okay. I’m fucked.

But as one beat passes, then another, our eyes locked, the silence between us swelling with feeling, I forget why I’m setting myself up to fail.

Julia blinks, breaking the spell. I clear my throat and turn the knob. Can’t do a hug or even a handshake. I don’t trust myself right now.

“Don’t forget to let me know when the appointment is,” I say, opening the door.

She nods, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I’ll text you.”

“Goodnight, Julia.”

“’Night.”

Closing the door behind me, I let out a breath. My cigarettes are burning a hole in my back pocket. I’ll go to Ford’s. While I don’t exactly feel like talking, I definitely don’t feel like being alone.

I need some company. Advice. An exorcism if this half chub doesn’t go away already.

Because I’m a masochist, I glance over my shoulder one last time. My eyes catch on the narrow window beside the door. Julia is still standing in the foyer. Her throat works as she swallows, pulling her hat off her head.

Her blonde waves are wilder than ever.

My heart clenches. She’s struggling.

I’m whipping around and reaching for the doorknob before I even know what I’m doing. But then Julia is straightening her shoulders, her chest rising on a deep inhale.

I still want to go to her.

Don’t.

I lean my forehead against the door. Mimicking her deep breath as I try to still the herd of galloping horses inside my chest.

An hour ago, I lived my life in black and white. I had a solid grasp of right and wrong. I had control over my world. The people in it.

Now, though, I can’t tell up from down.

Balling my hands into fists, I force myself to turn around and leave.Chapter SevenGreysonI let myself into my brother’s house, leaning down to pick up a doll—the scary looking one that pees after she “drinks” her bottle, Bryce’s unfortunate favorite—left by the front door. Ford is in the kitchen in sweats and a t-shirt, banging away on a laptop.

“I told you I’d work through the Moore Foods model,” I say, tossing the doll into the overflowing toy bin beside the table. “Put it away. Isn’t it past your bedtime?”

Ford glances up at me and grins. “Three year olds go to bed at seven. I try to make it to eleven. Besides, I’m better at models than you are.”

“Baby go down okay?”

“She’s still got that little head cold, so she was cranky. But once she was out, she was dead to the world.”

“The antibiotics are working, then.”

Ford leans back, crossing his arms. “You know you’re going to destroy any shot Bryce has at a healthy, independent adulthood with your helicopter uncle-ing, right?”