Southern Gentleman (Charleston Heat 3)

“Uh oh,” Julia says.

The sudden arrival of near-complete darkness is discombobulating. I blink once, twice, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the sea of blackness we’re swimming in.

Wrong that my first thought is oh shit I hope this doesn’t mean Julia’s going to leave?

I’m not done yet. Not done feeding her—I have two pints of Jeni’s ice cream in the freezer. Sweet cream biscuits and peach jam and Savannah buttermint.

I’m not done talking and laughing and just being with her.

I’m voracious for this woman in every way imaginable.

In ways I have no right to be.

I should take this as an opportunity to politely but firmly suggest our evening is over. I haven’t had too much wine to drive; I could easily take her home and call it a night.

But I can’t. I haven’t had this much fun—felt this good—in years.

My eyes start to adjust, shapes and silhouettes coming into view. I find Julia’s eyes. They glimmer in the dark. A sparkler that’s just been lit, emitting its first flashes of light.

“Do you have any candles?” she says, rising. “A flashlight maybe? I think my phone is somewhere on the counter…”

I dig my phone out of my pocket and turn on the flashlight. “I got it. I’ll go find some candles and grab my iPad—I think I have a few episodes of Game of Thrones on it if you’d like to watch that?”

She blinks. Furrows her brow.

Then she smiles. “Okay. Yeah. Sounds great.”

“Cool. I’ll be right back.”

Ten minutes later, Julia is lighting the motley assortment of candles I found underneath my sink while I scoop the ice cream into bowls. iPad tucked beneath my arm, I hand her a bowl and settle on the couch beside her.

Our knees brush as she crosses her legs pretzel style. My cock leaps.

I nearly bite off my tongue trying to keep it in check.

Cannot sport wood. Not now. Don’t want to scare her. Give her the wrong idea.

But Lord, how good does the wrong idea sound right now?

I shove the thought from my head and attempt to ignore the throaty noises Julia makes as she eats her ice cream while I cue up Game of Thrones on my iPad.

I try to prop it up as best as I can on the coffee table in front of us.

“Yes!” Julia says around a mouthful of ice cream. “It’s been so long since I watched the first season. I love how we get to see all the families together—the Starks in particular—before basically everyone dies.”

“You know”—finger poised above the play button, I glance at her over my shoulder—“all your movie and TV show picks are about family. Creating it. Losing it. Loving it, even when it’s made up of a bunch of murderous Italians or sparkly vampires.”

Julia’s face is lit by the glow of the screen. Her spoon halts midway between her bowl and mouth. She looks at me for a beat. Looks down at the spoon. Then she slides it into her mouth. Slowly pulls it back out again, a sliver of pink tongue making an appearance as she licks at the corner of her mouth.

She swallows.

I scream. Silently. As the head of my cock glides up the seam of my sweats.

Shit no stop.

“Haven’t thought about it that way,” she says, looking down at her bowl. “But you’re right. Now that I’m thinking about it, too, everything I’ve read or watched over the past year kind of is about family in a way. I guess…well. I really miss mine.”

“I’m sorry. I know I’ve said that fifteen times already, but I mean it.” I look at her. A day ago—hell, even just this afternoon—I don’t think I would’ve been comfortable talking to her about this stuff.

But now it seems wrong not to. Maybe because I’m inspired by Julia’s way of cutting through bullshit to get to marrow. I’m inspired and frankly awed by her willingness to give this part of herself up and be vulnerable. I want more. Which probably makes me an asshole, considering I’ve given her nothing beyond headaches at work and a surprise fetus.

“I honestly can’t imagine how much it fucking sucks to lose your parents.”

Her eyes are getting wet.

“It does suck. I think about them a lot anyway. But now that this whole thing is going on,” she says, making a circling motion in front of her belly, “my grief has hit a new low. I think all the time about how much they would’ve loved being grandparents. How proud they’d be. The joy of telling them this news—even though I got knocked up by a Satanist—Greyson, it would’ve been awesome. I’d give anything to see their faces when I told them about Charlie Brown and how healthy he is. My mom would go crazy buying all that smocked baby shit for him. She really, really loved kids. Dad would already be building this, like, post-modern swing set in their backyard. They’re missing this, I’m missing that part of this. I want so badly for it to be different sometimes…it’s hard.”