Southern Sinner (North Carolina Highlands 3)

His short hair is styled just the right side of hipster, and the square lines of his clean-shaven jaw gleam in the club's multicolored lights.

He looks like a Disney prince who’s ready for some debauchery.

I am so, so here for it.

He holds out his hand to me and leans in so I can hear him. “I’ll be honest, I’m not quite sure what to do here. Do we shake hands again? Hug it out?”

My pulse spikes. He smells like sex. Some kind of cologne that’s clean and subtly woodsy.

I bite my bottom lip. “How about a high five?”

He holds up his hand and I step closer, our thighs brushing as our palms meet. The space between us thrums. He smiles, a blindingly handsome flash of straight, white teeth. My gaze lingers on his lips, the heat between my legs aching at the idea of kissing him.

At the idea of him kissing me there, where the heat continues to gather.

His fingers curl over mine, drawing my gaze back up to his eyes. I see desire in them, real and raw.

My stomach flips. His touch is tender, and my skin ignites.

“You’re gorgeous,” he says.

“You’re hot as hell.” I glance at the glass in his hand. “What are you drinking?”

He glances down too. “Vodka.” Glancing back up, he lets his eyes linger a beat on my tits. “You.”

I let my arm fall but twine my fingers through his so his arm falls with it. Our hands are clasped now, resting against our legs.

“Which has you buzzing more?”

He meets my eyes. “I’d say the girl in the see-through dress wins that contest real easy.” He nods at the table behind me. “But the vodka is giving me the liquid courage to talk to said girl, so . . .”

I grab the glass from his hand and take a sip. Vodka soda. Not delicious by any means, but it is well-balanced—sting from the liquor, bright bubbles from the soda, hint of sweet from the lime.

“Who said I wanted to talk?” I ask.

His lips twitch. He takes the glass back and sips, eyes never leaving mine. “What did you have in mind, blackjack babe?”

“See, I think that’s such a cool name for a beer, but when you apply it to a person, it sounds kinda ridiculous, right?”

He laughs, and I do too, and the electricity between us thickens. “It’s your beer, honey. You call it whatever you want.”

Honey. Oh, I like that.

It’s been years since I’ve felt this free—free to be happy. Years since life wasn’t complicated.

Tonight is my night to finally let loose. And Mr. I-Wanna-Waste-Time-Football-Hottie is the perfect place to start.

“Are you giving me permission to do what I want, then?”

He holds out his drink, and I take it. Take a sip. “If you give me permission to do the same.”

“Okay.” I set the drink on the table. “I want to dance.”

Right on cue, a Britney Spears remix comes on.

It’s Britney, bitch.

I smile, and he smiles, and then he guides our clasped hands up to his chest. “Lucky for you, I’m a connoisseur of early 2000 TRL hits. PS, hashtag FreeBritney.”

“You saying you know your way around Stevie Nicks and Britney Spears?” I curl my hand around the nape of his neck and play with his hair. His gaze darkens.

“Maybe not so much with your hands on me.”

“Should I—”

“Don’t you fucking dare.” He grins and loops an enormous arm around my waist, pulling my body flush against his as he begins to move to the beat.

“Gimme more,” he sings, hitting the notes perfectly. “Gimme gimme more.”

“You really do know your Britney,” I say as I wrap my arms around his neck.

His other hand is on my waist now, low enough to flirt with my ass but not quite there.

Not yet.

I curl my hips into his, and he curls back. An expert, unspoken push and pull that sets my body on fire.

Glancing over Hank’s shoulder, I make sure my girls are okay. Lauren gives me a thumbs-up. Kate just stares and mouths, “Fuck yes.”

Britney talks dirty dancing, and I turn around, pressing my ass into the cradle of Hank’s pelvis. He settles his arms on my shoulders, his firm chest flush against my back.

“Aw yeah!” he hollers when I bend over and put my hands on my knees, giving my hips a good shake. “Get it, girl.”

His hands are on my waist. Mine are on his. His fingers wrap around mine, and he pulls our arms over our heads, swiveling his hips as he keeps up with my every move. He’s athletic, and he’s confident, and he sings along to nearly every song, from Kendrick Lamar to Madonna to Maroon 5 remixes.

We laugh.

We sweat.

By the time Kygo comes on, I’m buzzed out of my mind. Not on vodka, but on Hank.

This is fun. This is perfect.