Southern Sinner (North Carolina Highlands 3)

How new we are. And how we promised our connection was based solely on Stevie Nicks and sex.

It’s a promise I never intended to break. But here I am.

Breaking shit. Rules. Boundaries. Sheetrock.

Let’s not forget she’s got a huge career to go back to, a business based hundreds of miles from here. These feelings I’m catching don’t have a future.

Should they, though?

“Well. Not zero memories,” I say. “Thanks to you.”

“You want more than memories,” Stevie replies quietly, looking back at me.

“So what if I do?” It’s a bold move, saying that aloud. But I’ve already lied so much tonight, it’s time to share some truth. A half-assed bid to even the karmic scales.

And yeah, maybe I want to see how she’ll react. Are her thoughts on our arrangement shifting too? She said she was confused. While I wouldn’t say I’m not confused—because I am—I already sense that feeling passing.

It’s becoming clearer by the second that I genuinely dig this girl.

“One night,” Stevie says at last, taking my hand. “One night to make all the memories you want. And then it’s back to fake dating, okay?”

My heart leaps and my cock stiffens. “Really?”

“Really.”

I don’t want to jump five steps ahead. That’s what happened with Emma, and it got me in trouble. But I can’t help thinking if Stevie gives me one night, who’s to say she won’t give me another, and another?

Leading her to the bar just off my kitchen, I say, “I hope you weren’t planning on sleeping.”

A flame ignites in Stevie’s eyes, turning them to liquid pools of black. “I’m learning sleep is a moot point when we’re together. Also, this bar is ridiculous. Hank, it’s bigger than my kitchen.”

“It’s my favorite room in the house,” I reply. “Only one I had any personal input on. The rest I just kinda left to my designer and the architect. But this room, I had a good idea of how I wanted it to look and feel.”

It’s done up in floor-to-ceiling cabinets painted a deep Oxblood red. A gleaming wooden bar I salvaged from an old Irish pub takes center stage, complete with brass foot railings and a Guinness tap. A series of shelves on the far wall is illuminated from behind, making the rows of liquor bottles glow in the low light.

I reach for a bottle of Appalachian Red. It’s one of the world’s best whiskeys, and also one of the most expensive.

Stevie, being the beverage goddess she is, knows this.

“Not that bottle,” she says, grabbing my wrist.

I crack off the top with a twist of my fingers. “It’s the whiskey your body deserves. Now turn around.”

I unzip her dress. Not all the way, just to the point where the zipper meets with her bra clasp. I part the sides of her dress. I tuck her hair over her shoulder so it’s out of the way.

I tilt the bottle and pour a single trail of whiskey down the length of her spine. It drips onto her dress and the fancy silk carpet that cost more than a car.

Her breath catches and her back straightens.

“Cold?”

“Wet.”

I lick my tongue over the trail, pouring more. “Tastes hot. Wet and hot. Exactly how I want you.”

Yanking her zipper all the way down, I tell her to pull the top down, and she does. I slip the straps of her bra over her shoulders one at a time, coating them with whiskey. She’s dripping with it now, skin slick and slightly sticky.

I pour the whiskey down her chest, soaking her bra. Walking around her, I pull the cups of her bra down, revealing her nipples. More whiskey. I lick it off one nipple, making Stevie gasp, and then move to the other.

Curling my fingers into her dress—it’s bunched at her waist—I say, “I don’t want to tear this.”

“I don’t care,” she pants, and digs her fingers into my hair. “Maybe I wanna make a mess too.”

“I’ll buy you a new one. A new dress.”

“I’ll buy myself a new dress.” She gives my hair a tug. I nibble her breast. “Don’t fucking stop. Please. Your tongue—on me—”

I bite down on her nipple and she pitches forward, thighs clenching.

Like a man possessed, I yank down her dress. The fabric rips, making staccato sounds that seem to tear apart the air. Stevie gasps.

My dick throbs when her dress hits the floor.

“What are these?” I ask in wonder, running my hand down the pantyhose-type thing she’s wearing.

Stevie laughs. “They’re Spanx.”

“They’re sexy.”

“Are they?”

“They are when they’re on you.”

Stevie looks at me. “They do have a slit in the crotch.”

I use my hand to guide her legs apart. Slide that hand up the inside of her thigh. “Oh really? And what am I gonna find there?”

“Wet and hot. Just how you like it.”

Dropping to my knees, I dribble whiskey across Stevie’s stomach and lick and drink my way to her pussy. She moves her legs a little wider and I press my tongue into her slit.