Southern Sinner (North Carolina Highlands 3)

He puts on an Ed Sheeran playlist—“this dude is one hell of a musician”—and makes quick work of getting dressed.

It’s warm inside the bathroom. It smells like Hank’s cologne and sex. The light glints off the mirrors, coating everything in a cozy glow.

We don’t talk about what Hank said.

When he’s fully dressed in a sharp suit and chrome Rolex, he disappears from the bathroom. I take the opportunity to finish getting ready. I put on on the sexiest bra I own. Finding bras that fit my generous bust well, don’t cost a fortune, and are kinda-sorta cute is a constant battle for me. This one is as close to a triple threat as it gets: black satin, with a frill of lace that lines the cups. I hike up my Spanx next, followed by my most favorite dress I’ve ever bought. It’s bold but classic, a bright orange Victoria Beckham sheath that’s skintight and sexy as hell. There’s an open panel on the stomach, allowing just the right amount of skin to show through (the opening is well above my belly button, so my Spanx don’t show through).

I slip on a few gold bangles and a pair of matching stud earrings. Simple but pretty.

I’m stepping into my heels, nude stiletto sandals, when Hank comes back into the bathroom. He’s carrying glasses of white wine in his enormous hands, the bowls deliciously frosted over.

He sees me and stops short. Stares. Lips parted, this soft, almost pained look in his eyes.

The romance of the moment works its way up my sides. It feels like the whispering touch of curious fingertips, making me want to smile and giggle and hide all at once.

“You okay?” I ask, a little breathless.

He holds out a wineglass and blinks, hard. “You look like a million bucks, Stevie.”

“Thanks.” I take the wine and sip. “I still need to put on makeup.”

“No, you don’t.”

I grin. “You’re cute.”

“You’re beautiful.” He takes my chin in his hand and presses a hard, wet kiss to my mouth. He smells good enough to eat. “How are you feeling?”

“Sore.”

“Shit, did I—”

“No. You did everything exactly right.” So. Fucking. Right. “What about you?”

His lips twitch. “I’m good. Real good, honey.”

“Hey,” I say, tilting my head toward the vanity. “I’m gonna finish up. I’ll be ready to go in fifteen, all right?”

“Sure.”

I set my wineglass down and grab my makeup bag. Looking up, I see Hank take a seat on the edge of the tub. He crosses his ankle over his knee and grips that ankle in his hand.

I love his hands. They’re strong and sure, and they feel fantastic on my body.

Smiling, I uncap my foundation. “You watching me get ready?”

“Yes.”

Ed Sheeran is still playing. I apply my makeup, and Hank watches. I feel just the tiniest bit self-conscious. It’s delicious self-consciousness, if such a thing exists. It makes me aware of everything good happening right now: the healthy beat of my pulse, the excitement in my blood. The certainty that, at this moment at least, I’m wanted and well taken care of.

No work to be done. No one to please. No rush.

The silence between us is companionable. Maybe because we said everything we couldn’t say aloud while we fucked right here on the counter.

I lean over the sink to apply a swipe of eyeliner. Hank’s eyes move to my ass. He grins, a small, private thing.

Yeah.

Tonight’s gonna be a good night.

We arrive right on time.

Hank helps me out of my coat as I take in the room. It’s technically called Blue Mountain Farm’s “library,” but really it’s a large section of the main house with soaring ceilings, big, sophisticated furniture, and a huge fireplace. The lights are low, and tall taper candles are everywhere. A small army of servers offers hors d’oeuvres to guests, while bartenders are busy shaking up cocktails at the gleaming wooden bar on the far wall.

A guy with a guitar croons in a corner, and a good-looking crowd mills around the space. Two sets of French doors lead out onto a wide terrace, set up with heaters, bistro tables, and another bar.

“The library at Biltmore inspired this room,” Hank says into my ear. “I can’t believe you’ve never been.”

The Biltmore is the old Vanderbilt estate here in Asheville. It’s billed as America’s largest private home, and apparently, much of its gilded-age glamor is still intact for tourists like me to gawk at.

I can’t resist. I give in to the pull of his presence and turn my head, our noses brushing. The desire to be close to him is acute. “I hear it’s amazing.”

“Let’s go tomorrow, then.”

“Don’t you have to buy tickets, like, months in advance?”

Hank grins. “I know a guy.”

“Of course you do.” I look across the room. “Hey, there’s Milly. I want to thank her again for her help with today’s tasting.”