Southern Heartbreaker (Charleston Heat 4)

Everything inside me buckles.

I watch Ford climb into his fancy Uber wearing his fancy suit and fancy shoes. A pulse of want moves through me, settling in my stomach like a brick.

One night together, and I already want this heartbreaker so bad it hurts.

Shit.Chapter EightEvaSophie looked up at the creak of the door. Giving her hair a quick toss, she squared her shoulders.

She would break through His Lordship’s icy demeanor come hell or high water. He may have played the haughty, detached aristocrat. But as he’d swooned in her arms—and yes, he’d definitely swooned, no matter his protestations to the contrary—she’d glimpsed an entirely different creature. It’d been his eyes that had given him away. Falling on her face, they’d been warm.

Interested.

Vulnerable.

His Lordship bowed to her from the threshold. Heavens, did he look handsome in his breeches and waistcoat. Hair clubbed back with a black ribbon. He appeared neat and tidy and in control.

Oh, she would make a mess of him yet. She had a feeling there was a beast beneath that polished veneer.

“I have come to perform my duties as your husband,” he said, voice carefully even. “I shall be quick so that you might enjoy the rest of your evening in peace.”

Why was he so determined to keep her at arm’s length? She would find out.

Climbing out of bed, she approached him. He made a noise—something like a groan, or a growl, or a growly groan—when his eyes fell on her naked body.

Eyes that flashed with that same interest.

“Madam, you are indecent.”

“What if I don’t want it to be quick?”

He was blinking, breath coming in hot spurts through his nose as she stood in front of him. He was trying valiantly not to look at her breasts, and he was failing. Her nipples hardened to aching points beneath his attention.

He groaned again.

“What if I want to take our time?” She reached up and tugged at the ribbon in his hair, releasing it about his shoulders. It was unfashionably long, lusciously thick. A muscle in his jaw twitched, but he made no move to touch her. “What if I want you to make love to me?”

He speared her with a hot look. “I told you this was no love story.”

“What is this vendetta of yours against love?” She ran her fingers through his hair. His jaw was jumping now.

“Love is a game. A mean game that makes fools of otherwise good, decent people.”

Aha. So he was afraid. He’d been hurt—or someone he cared for had been hurt—and now he believed that love was pain. A toy. A trap.

“You’re in luck then.” With her other hand, she began playing with her breast. Squeezing the nipple between her thumb and fingers, making the need between her legs pulse hotter. “I have no talent for games.”

His eyes flickered with flames now. The ice gone.

“You tease me,” he ground out.

She shook her head. “I am merely being honest with you about what I want. No games. No artifice. All I ask is that you be honest with me in return. Tell me what you want, Edward.”

He looked at her for a beat. Then another. Expression positively murderous.

“I want to fuck you,” he said at last. “Because when I do, dearest Sophie, I shall do it so thoroughly, and so hard, your legs will be naught but jelly. And then you’ll be the one doing the swooning.”

She looked at him. Body rising on a tide of ferocious want. “You know how much I adore a good swoon.”

He growled, a low, feral sound, and crushed his mouth to hers. The kiss was deep and punishing.

She loved it.

Loved it more when he reached a hand between her legs and sunk his blunt-tipped fingers into her wetness.

“Indecent,” he said against her lips.

“Honest,” she replied.

The audiobook cuts off when my phone starts to ring.

Nothing like starting your Saturday morning off with a literal—if literary—bang.

I woke up with a headache, a gnawing stomach, and a very insistent throb between my legs. When I got home last night, I could’ve wrung out my underwear I was so turned on.

I thought I’d taken care of it, thanks to a quick, sleepy date with my vibrator. But then I woke up today still wet, and still horny as hell.

Ford working his black magic. Just the memory of his touch, his kiss, is enough to get me going in a big way.

So I figured I’d listen to a little My Marriage with the Marquess. Help me get off again. Maybe help me feel a little less lonely, too. If I can’t wake up with a real dude in my bed, a fictional Marquess who’s hung like his horse and good with his hands is not a shabby substitute.

I usually wouldn’t answer my phone this early, but it’s my mom. She tells me she was going to make breakfast this morning, but Dad left early for the restaurant—of course—and now she has a bunch of groceries but no company and no one to cook for. Unless Alex and I want to come over…