“I know,” I reply.
He turns his head to look at me. “You’re learning the neighborhood.”
“I am,” I say proudly. “I’ve had a lot of fun exploring over the past week. Charleston’s such a cool place.”
He’s still looking at me. The laughter is gone from his eyes now.
“I love that you love it.”
The way his eyes search mine turns my heart upside-down.
We turn onto Longitude Lane. The rain is really coming down now. Eli’s shirt is plastered to his chest and arms.
A stab of desire hits me right in the middle of my chest and lands in my clit.
It’s so potent and I’m so overwhelmed by it that I have to drop his hand. I’m worried I’ll spontaneously combust. I start to jog ahead of Eli. Jog to the carriage house and up the stairs.
My heart does a somersault when I hear Eli’s footsteps thudding on the treads behind me.
“Gotta make sure you get in okay,” he explains.
My pulse pounds low in my belly.
The laughter and the heat of the moments before turns to anticipation. Lust. Longing like I’ve never experienced before.
I want him to come inside. My God, do I want that, more than anything. My body is on fire. The flames inside my skin lick higher when I imagine the solid weight of his body pressing me into the mattress, those pouty lips of his on mine, teasing, pulling, moving down my chest to my breasts.
But there will be no turning back if I invite him in. Eli is forbidden fruit. Touch him, and I’ll be eating from the tree of knowledge.
And we all know how that turned out for Eve.
Will it turn out the same for me? An unmitigated disaster that ends in his disgrace and my fall?
Eli has never been anything but patient and courteous and cute with me. But just the fact that he’s here—his presence—it’s pushing me up against all these questions I have, forcing me to confront them.
Forcing me to pick a side.
He’s got me cornered, he’s got me up against a wall, and that terrifies me and turns me on and makes me want to cry.
I feel the heat of Eli’s body on the step behind me. Smell the woodsy smoke of his aftershave.
My hand shakes as I try to unlock the front door. I can’t get the key into the lock. The enormous gas lamp above the door bathes everything in flickering shades of pink and orange.
Then Eli’s arm appears above mine, and he’s covering my hand with his, steadying my grip. Together we guide the key to where it needs to go. It slides easily into the lock. The muscles in his forearm pop against the skin as we turn the key, the deadbolt sliding back with a small click.
My breath catches at the same moment.
Neither of us moves. The feel of his skin on mine sends shockwaves of lust through my entire being. He’s warm and smooth and big.
I’m wet in every possible meaning of the word.
I lean back, just the tiniest bit. Just enough so that my back meets with his front. We touched a lot dancing. But that was playful touching. Heat-of-the-moment touching.
This is different.
Shutting my eyes, I revel in the feel of him. The knowledge that he’s right fucking there. That he’s strong and solid.
That he could be mine.
Leaving my keys hanging in the lock, Eli slowly turns my hand palm side up. Then he presses the meat of his thumb into my wrist.
“Your heart is racing, Yankee girl.” The softness of his voice is cut with an edge of gravel. Gravel I can feel vibrating in his chest. “And you’re burnin’ up.”
I turn my head to meet his eyes. They are dark with unapologetic lust.
He wants to come in, too.
My heart pounds. One hard, decisive beat.
Yes.
This could be the dumbest decision I’ve ever made.
Or it could be the best.
Either way, I’m making it.
Right here. Right now. Everything changes.
Maybe I want it to. Maybe I’m actually ready and deserving and allowed to experience whatever’s about to unfold.
Oh, but I’m shaking. So hard.
My voice does, too, when I finally gather the courage to speak.
“W-would you like to c-come in?” I ask.
It’s really pouring now, the rain coming down in opaque sheets.
His eyes are dark. Hair soaked and wild.
“I would like that,” he says, his voice an octave lower than usual. “Very, very much. But I need you to know something. I fucking adore you, Olivia. I been wantin’ to touch you since that first morning you walked into my kitchen. I want you bad, sweetheart. So bad it’s eating me up inside. But you asked for time, and I intend to respect that. Unless you tell me right now that you’re ready. You gotta say the words.”
For a minute I just stand there, letting the weight of his confession—his concern and his respect—wash over me.
Letting my skin and my heart and my thoughts absorb it. Revel in it.
“I’m ready,” I say.
Then I reach out. Grab him by the front of his shirt and yank him against me.
Eli curls his arms and slides his hands onto my face in one smooth, swift motion. He’s tilting his head, bending his neck in the most masculine, most delicious way possible. He guides my mouth up to his.
And then he kisses me. Or I kiss him. It’s hard to tell.
All I know, a mere three seconds in, is that it’s the kiss. The one I’ll write about for years to come.
The one there will be no going back from.
Chapter Twenty
Olivia
Eli’s mouth is soft and hungry against mine. I smell a hint of cinnamon on his breath from the Fireball shots. Taste it, too, on his lips.
Lips that move over mine slowly.
Erotically. Patient and knowledgeable and plump. He sucks gently on my bottom lip. Does it again before the tip of his tongue licks into my mouth. His thumb strokes over my cheek, the now familiar ridge of his scar lighting up my skin.
I’m melting against him, fisting his wet shirt in my fingers.
I can feel his heart throbbing. Alive and strong and beating for me.
Me. The real me. Not the perfectly put together Ivy League professor. But the messy, complicated, breakfast-loving romance writer.
Eli tilts my head a little and deepens his angle. He uses his tongue to open my mouth a little bit more. Then his tongue finds mine, lapping at me with intention. He drinks me in. Takes his time. Kisses me with light. Hunger.
Passion. The pent up kind.
The kind that literally makes my toes curl.
His scruff scrapes against my chin. I bring a hand up to touch his cheek, feeling the prickle of hair there. Blown away by the fact that I get to touch him like this.
That I’m being kissed like this. Like the world is ending.
I’ve never been kissed so…thoroughly before. This kiss—it’s juicy and hot and the least practical thing I can think of.
To think I almost passed this up.
To think I was this close to going through life without knowing kisses like this existed.
The dissonance between Eli’s rough, calloused palms on my face and the softness of his lips, his tongue, his touch, makes me want to howl.
I manage a whimper instead.
“You okay, baby?” he murmurs into my mouth, lips moving over mine like he can’t stand to pull away, not now, not even for a second.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve hated when people use baby as a term of endearment. Just struck me as cheesy, I guess. What boy bands called the invisible object of their affection in saccharine pop songs.
But when Eli says it to me, less a word than a growly rumble, I’m hit by a surge of acute arousal.
I guide the wet fabric of Eli’s shirt up over his belly. It sticks there, still plastered to his body. Then I slide my hands a little lower until I meet with the slice of bare abdomen over the waistband of his jeans.
His skin is hot. He’s a wall of muscle here, rippled and ridged in all the right places. So different from my own body.
I reach behind me and somehow manage to open the door. I fall back, and Eli falls with me, catching my mouth with his. He shuts the door behind him.
His kiss deepens. He’s kissing me hard now. We’re breathing hard. I can feel him getting hard against my thigh.
Oh, Jesus, he feels big.
Really big.
The heaviness between my legs throbs.
I run my fingers over a happy trail of wiry hair arrowing from his bellybutton down to his taut waist. It disappears—tantalizingly, teasingly—into his jeans.
I slide my palms back up his torso, then grab the hem of his shirt. Wordlessly we work it up his chest, only breaking our kiss when he tugs it over his head. It lands with a wet plop somewhere on the floor.
Just like that, he’s shirtless.
Back in his element.
His eyes meet mine. They’re sharp. Glistening.
“So my Yankee girl likes me shirtless after all,” he says, a half smile playing at one corner of his lips. I notice they’re a little swollen.
He’s so damn sexy I’d probably black out from looking at him if I wasn’t so turned on.
I slide my arms around his neck, arching my body against his. The heat of his skin burns through my wet shirt.
My nipples prickle to life through my thin shirt. Eli notices, his eyes flicking down to my chest.
“Oh, you definitely like me shirtless.” His eyes flick back up to meet mine. “I think I’d like you shirtless, too.”
“I’ll join your club.” My voice is a little hoarse. “Although I don’t think I’ll quite compare to you.”
“Shush,” he says, reaching down for my shirt. “Stop comparin’. You’re gorgeous.”
I shiver when he pulls my shirt over my head, separating us again.
Keeping my eyes closed, I feel the heat of his gaze on me. I send up a silent prayer of thanks that I wore a decent looking bra today. It’s red, a little lacy. Nothing crazy, but the cups are sheer, and it makes my tits look round and firm(ish).
I hear Eli let out a long, low breath through his nose.
The next thing I know he’s pressing a scruffy kiss to my neck, just where I like it. Just where I can feel it in my clit.
I squeeze my legs together. Open my eyes and dig my hand into his hair as he bends down to kiss the rounded top of my left breast. The way he bends his neck—the thick cords of vein and sinew that pop against his skin—there’s something overwhelmingly masculine about it.
“I’ve been wanting to do that since I walked into your kitchen the first time,” I say.
The ghost of that delicious smirk of his plays at his lips.
“So do it.” His eyes are a little hazy now. “Do what you want, sweetheart.”
Rolling up onto my tip-toes, I curl my arms around Eli’s neck and pull him down. I kiss him. I close my eyes and tilt my head and I kiss him.
In half a second flat the kiss is messy and hard and deep. I cannot get enough of it. Of him. The way he smells and the feel of his skin.
My pulse is hammering. A new wash of heat settles low in my core when Eli’s hands snake down to my ass, giving me a squeeze before gently pressing me into his groin.
Oh, I can definitely feel his erection now. He’s rock hard.
He kisses my neck. Sensation shoots through my skin to land squarely between my legs, making the heaviness there throb.
And then he says my name.
Olivia.
A half growl, half plea. That accent of his curling around the vowels, making it sound like something entirely new and entirely different and entirely sexy.
My knees buckle.
They fucking buckle.
I see it in my head. Me going down like a sack of potatoes, dragging him with me. One of us ending up with a bloody nose, the other a shattered elbow.
But I don’t go down.
Instead, Eli catches me. His grip firms on my ass, moving to the backs of my thighs before he lifts me up, curling my legs around his waist.
He takes my gasp into his mouth. Kisses me senseless, tongue licking into my mouth, teeth nicking my bee-stung lips.
“I don’t—” I manage.
Eli gives me one long, lazy stroke of his tongue. “Don’t what?”
“I don’t get all wobbly like that,” I breathe. “Not with anyone.”
Laughter rumbles in his chest as he takes my mouth with his again.
“You just did with me.”
I roll my hips against his erection. He growls.
“Bedroom,” I say, digging my fingers into his hair. “Just—just keep going back. Door past the counter.”
Eli walks us across the tiny space of the carriage house. His lips never once leaving mine.
The ancient floorboards creak beneath our weight.
I am on fire. His scruff tickling my chin. Dick pressing into my pussy. The bare skin of his firm tummy pressed against mine.
Even though my eyes are closed, I can tell we’re in the bedroom by the gentle sound of the rain pattering against the windowpanes.
He curls one arm underneath my butt. He glides the other hand up my spine to cup the back of my neck, cradling me.
“You ready?” he asks, pressing a kiss to the corner of my lips. “I’m gonna put you down on the bed.”
I can only nod into his shoulder.
I’m speechless. I’ve never been held like this. Never felt cherished like this.
Or maybe I never allowed myself to feel this way. To be so vulnerable with someone else.
I just feel safe with Eli. Safe, and very sexy.
Eli sets me gently on the bed, and I untangle my legs from around his waist. A rush of cold air moves in where the heat of his skin used to be. I suck in a breath, shivering, and gather my arms against my chest.
The light from the window catches on Eli’s face at the foot of the bed. There’s a crease between his gathered eyebrows.
“I’m here,” he says, and then he plants his palms on the bed and slowly climbs on top of me, the mattress dipping in time to his movements.
The climbing. It’s so sexy I think my head might explode. The muscles in his arms and shoulders flex as he shifts his weight from one side to the other. His wet hair falls in his eyes. I reach up and brush it back.
I part my legs. Invite him in.
Eli’s gaze sharpens.
My eyes nearly roll to the back of my head when he settles his groin against mine, giving his hips this little teasing, eviscerating roll before he grabs my leg and guides it up toward my torso, bending my knee. His body melts into mine. My wet jeans don’t want to give; they tighten uncomfortably around the joint.
But when he bends his head and gathers my nipple in his mouth, sucking it hard through the fabric of my bra, all other sensations fade to the background.
I arch into his mouth, tugging my hands through his hair. Lust bolts from the hardened point of my nipple straight to my clit.
As if he can read my body like a book, Eli rolls his hips again, making the seam of my jeans hit me right there.
“Eli,” I moan.
In reply, he moves to the other nipple, then trails a fiery line of kisses on my chest, my neck. My jaw.
Then he captures my mouth in his, surrounding me in warmth and skin, settling his weight onto me as he draws a hand up my naked side and cups my breast, thumbing my already over-sensitized nipple.
He’s hot. Huge. Heavy.
He begs me to give in to him. With his mouth and his body, he’s asking permission to take charge. To do what he’s wanted to do since he first saw me how many days ago.
“Yes,” I breathe.
Chapter Twenty-One
Eli
Olivia gives her hips a tiny little roll. Just enough to meet me at the crest of my own roll, so the head of my dick hits her center just right.
Leaning all my weight onto one elbow, I hold myself up and reach between her legs. Even through the thick, wet fabric of her jeans, I can feel how hot she is.
I can feel the beat of her pulse, too. It’s going wild.
She’s clawing at my chest. Digging her nails into my skin when I press my two fingers against the length of her slit.
She is burning.
Olivia does this thing—she lets out these little moans, so quiet I can hardly hear them over the rain outside, whenever I do something she likes.
She’s moaning now into my mouth.
I feel like I died and went to heaven.
I want to unbutton these jeans and touch her for real. Slide my fingers into her soft, sweet heat. Spread her wide and taste her. See if she’s as hot and bothered as I am.
Because good Lord am I hard. My dick feels swollen and huge inside my jeans. I’d like to unbutton them, too.
But I don’t.
For starters, I don’t want our first time to be some wet, thoughtless fuck after a couple beers at The Spotted Wolf. Olivia means more to me than that.
I want to give her more than that.
But more important, she’s letting me in. She let the fire in her eyes spread to her body. She’s feeling the passionate things she writes about in My Enemy The Earl, and she’s trusting me to keep them from burning her to a crisp.
She’s being truly vulnerable with me for the first time. Her trust wraps around my heart like a hand and squeezes, making me feel—
Capable. Strong.
Things I haven’t felt since this whole business with The Jam began.
And if I’m as capable as Olivia seems to think, then I’d know not to reward her trust by pushing her. Even though I’m on top, she’s the one in charge.
She’s the one calling the shots.
So as much as I want to get her naked and give her an orgasm or five and make love to her the way Gunnar would make love to Cate, I’m not going to.
Not unless she specifically asks for it.
We’ll stick to making out for the time being. Which I certainly don’t mind.
Actually, all this dry humping takes me back to my teenage days in the backseat of my old beat up Ford. It’s fun. I feel like I’m seventeen again, doing all this shit for the first time.
Southern Charmer: A Charleston Heat Novel Page 14
