Southern Sinner (North Carolina Highlands 3)

Stevie digs her teeth into her bottom lip. “That’d be awesome. Thank you for the offer.”

I’m leaning in for one last kiss when there’s a familiar slap on my shoulder. I whip around, annoyed, and see Rhett grinning at me like a goddamn Cheshire cat.

“What?”

“Aren’t you going to introduce me to the girl who’s kept you busy all weekend? Dude, you can respond to at least one text message. I thought you were dead.”

Running a hand over my hair, I let out an aggrieved sigh. “Stevie, this is my brother. Rhett, this is Stevie. I was just wishing her safe travels when your rude ass interrupted us. What would Mama say?”

Rhett smiles and holds out his hand to Stevie. “Mama would say Stevie’s a champ for putting up with your shitty attitude all weekend. Hi.”

“Hello,” Stevie replies with a smile. “And you know, Hank here was actually the champ. He killed it at the blackjack table.”

“No shit.” Rhett raises his eyebrows at me. “He’s not much of a gambler these days. Not with his—”

“Wallet,” I snap. “Can you go now? Stevie’s got a flight to catch.”

Rhett glances through the doors at the waiting Phantom. Glances at me, a strange gleam in his eyes. “Now who’s being rude? Stevie, it was a pleasure to finally meet you. Don’t be a stranger, you hear?”

“Nice to meet you too.”

“Go,” I say and glare at him until he does.

“Well.” Stevie chuckles, flattening her palm on my chest. “Y’all seem to be close.”

“My family.” I shake my head. “I love ’em, but they are a huge pain in my ass.”

“How many siblings do you have?”

“Too many.”

I don’t want to talk about my family anymore, so I bend my neck and press my lips to hers. I kiss her mouth deeply this time. She rises into the caress, rolling up on the balls of her feet.

A flare of heat ignites in my center. We’ve fucked fifteen thousand times, so much and so often my dick’s a little raw, but I can’t seem to sate the hunger I have for her.

Girl’s got a story to tell. I like stories.

Or used to, anyway.

I’m equal parts relieved and bummed when Stevie breaks the kiss, adjusting the bag on her shoulder.

“You’re a good guy, Hank.”

The gorilla on my chest makes itself known, settling its weight on my breastbone. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

“You are. They don’t make them like that where I’m from.” She gets a faraway look in her eyes as she toys with the collar of my shirt. After a beat, she draws a sharp breath through her nose and blinks hard. “Aces and eights. Don’t forget.”

“Never.” I reach for the revolving door, but she stops me with a hand on my chest.

“Don’t. You’ve already done too much.”

“You gotta let me walk you out.”

“I’m good, really. Bye, Hank.”

I hold up my hand. “Bye, blackjack babe.”

She pushes through the door, calling “See? Ridiculous!” over her shoulder.

I watch her climb into the car, tossing her hair. The Phantom pulls out of the drive, and I’m left with a throbbing hangover and a funny feeling in my gut.

I guess I just haven’t felt something real in a long time. Hell, I’ve hardly felt much at all over the past nine months, other than horny or hungover.

And now there’s this. A lightness.

I like it. I want more of it. I just don’t know where to find it.

“Hey!” I turn around to see Rhett tilting his head at the door to the casino. A bellhop holds the door open for him. “You look like hell. Let’s get some food in you.”

Chapter Six

Hank

“Fuck me!”

I take my two hundredth tumble of the day. This time I lose not one but both of my skis, a pole, a glove, and the baggie of pre-rolled blunts I’d shoved in my coat pocket earlier.

Hey, weed is legal in Colorado. Thank God for that—it’s the only thing that relieves the full-body ache I get from skiing all day.

To be fair, I wouldn’t call what I’m doing “skiing.” It’s more like me splitting my time between falling on my ass, falling off the lift, and cursing loudly as I creep my way down Aspen mountain.

Yes, I grew up in the mountains back in North Carolina. But football was my life. I was so focused on it when I was young I didn’t really do much else, sports-wise. When I played in college and the pros, I wasn’t allowed to do stuff like skiing because of the risk of injury.

But being the thick-skulled asshole I am, I thought, hey, I’m athletic. I’m no stranger to snow. How hard can coasting down a hill on sticks be?

It turns out, it’s way, way harder than James Bond makes it look.

“Mon dieu! What is this? Monsieur Beauregard, you are having a yard sale! Haha!” My instructor, a French dude named Clyde, glides to a crisp stop beside me. “Is it okay, your bodies?”