Southern Sinner (North Carolina Highlands 3)

I lean down and take a nipple in my mouth. Her skin is stickier than before and still tastes of whiskey.

She smiles, digging her teeth into her bottom lip. “Making messes with you is fun.”

“I’m gonna make a mess of you yet, honey,” I say. Catching her mouth with mine, I sip a long, slow kiss. It’s lips and tongues, with just the barest hint of wine on hers. I fall into the wide-open space behind my closed eyelids. A little dizzy from the booze. Dizzier still from how good this feels. Her fingers are in my hair, and my heart is in my mouth, and I give it to her.

I let her have it.

Sparks of urgent need—release, I gotta let go—ignite at the base of my spine.

I break the kiss and pull out of her. Taking my dick in my hand, I meet her eyes and give myself one last stroke.

Cum spills from my head onto my hand. Onto her legs, her stomach. The countertop and my beautiful oxblood cabinets.

All the while, she looks at me, and I look at her. The expression on her face—brow furrowed, lips open, eyes suddenly clear and sad and pretty as fuck—makes me think she’s feeling this too.

That deeper-than-lust emotion.

I’m emptied out, teeth gritted.

And still, we look at each other. Drinking each other in. Gulping the moment in deep gasps and sputtering breaths.

She’s covered in me.

“Hank.”

It’s a whisper.

It’s also a confession. Or maybe I just want it to be.

“Hank, look at—” Her eyes finally stray from mine, moving around the room. My gaze follows her.

The bar is a fucking disaster. There’s broken glass everywhere. Bottles on the floor, whiskey on Stevie’s skin, semen on the wall.

It smells like a dive bar and looks like a fight scene.

For the first time ever, it feels like home.

“It’s a story now.” I kiss Stevie’s neck. “This house needs stories. Let’s go write another one in the bedroom.”

Stevie pulls back. Her gaze darts to my hand. Eyes go wide as she gently reaches for my index finger. “Hank, you’re bleeding.”

“Shit, I am.” It’s not bad, a slice from the broken glass, but it is bleeding a good bit.

“Here, I’ll get you cleaned up. Bandages and antibiotic ointment in the bathroom?”

“Nurse Nicks. I like it.”

“My friend’s wife is a surgeon. She taught me a few tricks. You’re in good hands.” She smiles. “I hope.”

Chapter Eighteen

Stevie

I don’t notice the bruise until I’m in the bathroom early the next morning.

After I use the toilet, I wash my hands. Notice the overturned canister of Q-tips on the vanity. The rumpled towels on the floor and the mounds of bubbles still in the bathtub.

Smiling, I turn around and look at my backside in the mirror.

There, right in the middle of my left-butt cheek, is a bright purple bruise.

It’s shaped in a rough crescent. Some parts more red than purple.

A bite mark.

My smile fades. My throat swells, and my pussy floods with heat at the same time.

I’m drowning in you. It wasn’t just a line. I am drowning in Hank, and now I’m in over my head.

Panicking, I try on the lines Kate gave me. It’s just a weekend. Teenage infatuation. Who wouldn’t be bowled over? Eighteen hours ago, those lines fit. They felt right-sized for the situation I was in.

This morning, they feel laughably inadequate.

What is it about making messes with Hank that speaks to me?

The real question: how the fuck could I be falling for someone this quickly? It’s never happened before, and I never would’ve agreed to come to Blue Mountain if I knew it was even a remote possibility.

There were hints of it in Vegas—how intense my connection was with Hank. But I chalked it up to the excitement of a hot hookup in my favorite city. People do ridiculous shit there. Having a ridiculously amazing time is a logical result of that.

The end.

Only, it wasn’t the end. And now the control I’ve so carefully cultivated is disintegrating. I need to shore it back up. I need to do something to put some space between Hank and me.

Time to say blackjack. Only I don’t need Hank to rescue me. I need to rescue myself from him.

Meeting my eyes in the mirror, I square my shoulders. I’m tired as shit; we’ve barely slept a wink. Maybe I’ll take the almond milk latte Hank’s already ordered from the main house and camp out in a guest room, pleading exhaustion or, I don’t know, a need to answer some emails. I do have some notes to send about getting more Lady Luck swag up here for the Blue Mountain staff. And our contractor for the new brewery is due to give me a finalized schedule any day now, and once that comes in, I’ll have a flurry of instructions to send.

Whatever the case, I need some breathing room, and taking an hour or three for myself can’t hurt.