Southern Seducer: A Best Friends to Lovers Romance

by Jessica Peterson

  “I’m starving,” I say, my voice shaking. “I’ve been starving for this.”

  He nudges his nose against mine. “I’m following you, honey. Lead the way.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Annabel

  I leave the baby monitor in the kitchen.

  By intention or accident, I don’t know.

  But it stays there. I always keep the volume turned up, so we’ll hear Maisie from the bedroom if she needs us.

  But this golden hour—sun is setting outside the windows, desire buzzing inside my skin—I want to myself.

  So I take it.

  I take Beau’s hand, twining our fingers, and lead him to my bedroom.

  I’m grabbing him by the front of his shirt and guiding it up the washboard of his torso before he’s even through the door.

  He laughs, a husky, male sound. My nipples prickle to life, and my clit swells.

  He tosses the containers of lube on the bed.

  I try to yank his shirt over his head, but he’s too tall. He grabs the hem with both hands and helps me out by tugging it over his head and tossing it somewhere behind me.

  I must make a sound when my eyes fall on his naked chest and shoulders because Beau laughs again, eyes alive with a cocky gleam I know well.

  “You’ve seen this before,” he says, motioning to his body. He’s broad and tan with a good bit of dark hair smattered across his chest. A line of it arrows down his stomach, disappearing into the waistband of his underwear that peek over his jeans. My gaze catches on the thick vein that follows the inside curve of his shoulder. I can see the striations of muscle there popping against his skin. Mercy. “The yacht. And Super Bowl weekend in South Beach. And—”

  “I know. But I’ve never seen you like this.” I lick my lips. “Half naked on the way to…all the way naked.”

  “All the way naked. That sounds fun.” He holds out his arms. “Have at it.”

  It’s wonderfully bizarre to have permission to touch him any way I want. I reach out. Pressing the tip of my tongue to my upper lip, I flick the pad of my thumb over his nipple, drawing it to a pebbled point. His stomach caves, the ridges along the sides of his torso bunching.

  I look up to see him watching me intently, his eyes dark and hazy.

  “You like that,” I say, my voice low.

  He dips his head and presses a kiss to my neck, sending a bolt of need through my core. “Show me what you like, Bel.”

  One of life’s little pleasures: how hot it sounds when a hot guy says your name.

  He sucks in a breath when I return the favor and kiss his neck, trailing my mouth over the stubble on his chin.

  Taking my time, I savor the salty taste of his skin and the way his hips roll into mine a little more firmly with each flick of my tongue.

  Our mouths meet, a juicy tangle of tongues and lips and teeth. Our chests rise together on a long, luxurious inhale. The sound of breath against skin echoes inside my chest cavity.

  A cavity that’s empty, thanks to Beau scooping out my heart, neatly and wholly, and keeping it for himself.

  It’s gone.

  I’m gone.

  Reaching between us, I cup his erection through his jeans. He growls again, his kiss bruising, and I back us toward the bed. Caressing the bulge, I marvel at the thickness of it.

  He’s this hard for me.

  He feels this way because he wants me.

  “Can I undress you?” he asks, breaking the kiss to run his nose up the side of my neck. My eyes, already shut, squeeze together even more tightly.

  “Um.” My heart thumps in my chest at the idea of Beau seeing me. Seeing me, as vulnerable and unprepared as I’ve ever been for this act.

  But I’m ready. My gut tells me if anyone can make me feel like a million bucks in bed, naked, it’s Beau.

  I put my hand on his bare chest—the hair there feels wiry, coarse, the skin beneath a soft counterpoint—and push him onto the mattress.

  His eyes stay on me as he falls back, landing with a soft shush on the cloud-like duvet. He looks laughably huge in my bed.

  I love it.

  Crossing my arms, I grab my shirt and pull it over my head. The sudden rush of cold air against my skin makes me break out in goose bumps.

  Standing in front of Beau shirtless, I feel a little shy. I wore my prettiest nursing bra, but really, that’s the equivalent of the bright pink strap my orthodontist gave me to wear with my headgear back in fourth grade.

  I remain frozen for one agonizing heartbeat, then another, wanting to recoil from Beau’s gaze but forcing myself to meet it head-on.

  I realize I’m shaking.

  He looks. And looks. Mouth parted, eyes unreadable.

  “Say something,” I whisper.

  But instead, he sits up and reaches for me, running a calloused hand up my side, reverent and firm. He may be a gazillionaire businessman, but his hands bear witness to the country boy he is at heart.

  “I don’t want to hurt you again. Tell me how it feels, okay? Talk to me.”

  “Okay. I’m learning, too. This—my body—it’s new to me all over again.”

  The heat between my legs starts to throb. His hand stops just beneath my breast, the tips of his fingers whispering against the skin on my back as his thumb grazes the underside of my bra. He dips the blunt edge of his thumbnail inside, making my pulse spike.

  “Can I?”

  Like I could say no.

  I nod, breathlessly watching his expression darken as he trails his thumb along the bottom seam of my bra. He traces a line of fire around my rib cage to my back, where he patiently unhooks my bra with fingers that brush against my skin. My spine. The bra loosens, and he guides the straps over my shoulders.

  It falls to the floor. My boobs are softer than they used to be. Larger, but not in a sexy way.

  Not that Beau seems to mind. He takes one breast in his hand and gently kneads it.

  “I’ve been waiting forever,” he breathes. “For this. A chance to touch and kiss and worship you.”

  Oh shit.

  Oh shit that’s lovely.

  The response I have to his words and his touch—arousal, sexual energy gathering in my nipple—is foreign and wonderful.

  Empowering. I have control over my body. It’s mine. The physical miseries of new motherhood are as far away as the moon. Pleasure rises in their place, made sweeter by my abandon to the moment.

  “Wow, that’s good.” I breathe.

  He watches me with heavy-lidded eyes, gently plucking my nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

  “I’ve heard horror stories,” I say. “About milk flying everywhere when breastfeeding women orgasm. Just so you know.”

  Beau licks his lips. “As long as you orgasm, I couldn’t care less.”

  “Cool.”

  “Not cool.” He puts his other hand on the small of my back and pulls me to him, pressing a scruffy kiss to my belly. “Honey, you’re makin’ me lose my goddamn mind. And for once, that’s a good thing.”

  I smile, running my hands through his hair. “I like the sound of that.”

  He looks up at me. His eyes, the expression in them, heat and heart, makes my own heart turn over.

  “Thank you,” he says.

  Before I can ask him what he’s thanking me for, he’s taking my other nipple in his mouth. He swirls his tongue around it, hot and slow, and I arch against him, feeling a sharp stab of pleasure in my core. His mouth moves to my chest, then my neck.

  Wrapping his arms around my waist, Beau spreads his legs and pulls me between them, gathering my naked torso against his. The skin-to-skin contact is so sweet it makes my stomach twist.

  I love this.

  Love it.

  Him hugging me, head buried in the crook of my neck. His breath feels warm on my skin, steady and deep. I curl my arms around his neck and hold him there.

  Hold on for dear life.

  This is the moment. The point of no return.

  If we
keep going, there’s no way I’ll be able to stop.

  My past self might’ve ignored the stakes. Pretended they didn’t exist. But tonight, I embrace them. Scared as hell but going in anyway.

  Acknowledging the risks makes it all that much sweeter.

  “I’m ready,” I say.

  He wastes no time. Tightening his grip on my waist, he lifts me onto the bed with a small grunt, turning me so I fall onto my back beside him. The duvet is cool against my skin, and he climbs on top of me, crowding me with the enormous bulk of his body.

  The need that spikes between my legs is almost too much to bear.

  We speak a secret language, one we both seem to understand without saying a word. I bend my legs, opening them, and he settles himself into the cradle of my pelvis, resting his weight on the forearms he places on either side of my head. Bearing just a little bit of his weight—feeling him pressed against me, knee to navel—makes me breathless in the most delicious way possible.

  It’s never been this way with anyone. Not my ex, and certainly not with any past lovers. It was never this easy.

  Never implicitly understood what I needed.

  Our eyes lock as he rolls his hips, one long, slow, firm thrust that has me seeing stars. The seam of my jeans catches on my clit, making the need there burn hotter.

  We watch each other getting so turned on it hurts.

  The arousal I see in the furrow of his brow, his labored breathing, the darkness that flashes in his eyes, is the biggest turn on for me.

  My hips rise to meet his caress, urging him to hit me right there. Urging him to give me the relief I’m seeking.

  “Honey.” He dips his head and kisses my neck again, my head falling to the side. His beard scrapes my skin, teeth nicking me in just the right way. “Aw, honey, I love lovin’ up on you.”

  He kisses my mouth. I reach down and unbutton his jeans. He lifts his hips, allowing me to pull down the zipper of his fly, and I push his jeans and his boxer briefs—silky smooth, expensive-feeling; of course Beau would wear ridiculous underwear—over his hips and then the steep curve of his ass. How had I never noticed Beau’s muscular bubble butt?

  I adore it.

  I keep tugging, and his cock comes out to play, stiff and hot against my belly. Our kiss becomes feverish.

  “Off,” I breathe.

  He does this wildly erotic maneuver where he shimmies out of his jeans and underwear, kicking them to the floor, then dipping over me in a full-body push-up, his erection catching on my slit as he rolls his hips, his shoulders, mouth catching on my chin.

  Then he’s grabbing my hands and holding them in one of his over my head. He’s moving in the other direction. Down, lips trailing a ribbon of fire over my throat, collarbones, breasts. I feel a slight tingle there. Milk? Maybe.

  But what the fuck ever. I feel the opposite of self-conscious with Beau.

  It’s a beautiful thing.

  He holds me captive, his grip on my wrists firm enough that it hurts a little, but I like it. The pain radiates down the length of my body, bouncing off my toes to settle between my legs, a spreading wash of heat that has me moaning.

  “Beau,” I breathe when his mouth hits my hip. “I have no idea what you’re going to find down there.”

  “Pretty sure your vagina didn’t fall out along with the baby,” Beau replies easily, falling back on his haunches. He undoes the fly of my jeans with one, two quick motions. “Whatever your situation is, we’ll make it work. Just keep talking to me.”

  He drags my jeans down my legs. I can’t stop looking at his cock as he moves. The way it bobs, proud and erect, is wonderfully lewd.

  “The piercing,” I say. “How did it work?”

  Beau looks up from dropping my jeans to the ground. He must know my question is a ploy to get him to touch himself because that’s exactly what he does. Drawing up to his knees between my legs, he grips his shaft in his hand. He gives it a lazy tug, the circle formed by his thumb and forefinger drawing up around his head.

  A silvery bead of precum appears in the slit there.

  My tongue tingles. I want to taste him.

  I’m greedy, suddenly, for that knowledge. I know him inside and out as a friend, and now I want to know him as a partner.

  “It went through here.” He thumbs his crown, where the slit begins. Then he glides that thumb down the length of his slit, stopping at the underside. “And came out here.”

  I sit up, transfixed. “Did it hurt?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “Beau?”

  “Yes, you can.” Of course he knows what I was going to ask. “But only for a little bit, because you’re coming first.” He tilts his hips toward me, eyes hazy again. “Open your mouth.”

  My pussy throbs. I do as he tells me, curling my hands around his hips so my fingertips dig into his ass cheeks. They’re ridiculously firm. Strong.

  He guides his dick into my mouth, his nostrils flaring. As he sinks inside, bit by bit, I keep my eyes on his, watching as his brows curve upward. He tastes salty and clean. He’s big, and I have to work to keep my lips curled over my teeth so I don’t scrape him. It makes my jaw ache, but I don’t care. I run my tongue over his head, lapping at him.

  “Aw, honey,” he says, drawing back, then pushing back in. His hips cant ever so slightly as I press my tongue into his slit and swallow. His hand finds the back of my head, and he guides himself deeper, hitting the back of my throat. “Bel—fuck.”

  I moan.

  He growls.

  I gag. He goes still, cursing, pulling back, but I grab him and keep him inside my mouth, eyes watering as they plead with his to keep going.

  He goes deeper, hips pumping a little faster. He’s losing himself in me as his fingers tighten in my hair.

  I have the power to make this man lose it.

  I swallow again, and he jerks. “I’m sorry. I can’t. I’ll come. I don’t want to be, like, this fuckwad who ejaculates five minutes into this thing.”

  “Okay.” I draw my thumb over the corner of my mouth. His taste lingers on my tongue. The sense of power, the satisfaction of making him feel good—that lingers, too. I’ve felt the opposite of capable over the past few months, and I’ve fallen on my face more times than I can count.

  But here, now, I feel powerful.

  It’s a breakdown.

  It’s a blessing.

  It’s terrifying when he reaches for my underwear. For the level of arousal I feel, I can tell I’m not very wet.

  “Please don’t be offended,” I say, watching him pull my underwear past my knees. “Breastfeeding apparently dries you out.”

  Beau just grins and shakes his head, waving his hand. “Relax. We have all night. And about five gallons of lube. I think we’ll be all right.”

  I want so badly for us to be all right. Together. For real.

  I swat away the thought. I knew what I was getting into when we started this. I accepted what Beau could give me and what he couldn’t.

  But oh, how I wish things were different.

  “Gremlin’s looking good,” Beau says, pressing the pad of his thumb to my stupid tattoo.

  I laugh. “No, it’s not. But thank you for the vote of confidence.”

  I plant my feet flat on the bed, knees bent. I’ve brought my legs closer together so that the insides of my knees are locked against Beau’s hips. When he leans down and kisses my mouth, the tips of my breasts brush against his chest. Gently, he nudges one of my knees to the side, spreading me wider.

  He reaches between us and cups my pussy, pressing the heel of his hand to my clit. My heart is hammering.

  I run my hands over his chest, curling my fingertips into the hair there.

  His tongue licks into my mouth at the same moment he parts me with his middle finger. I’m not slick, but I’m not totally dry either, which is both a relief and an annoyance. Yet another thing I’d hoped would magically bounce back to its former self: my vagina.

  Patience is clearly not a virtu
e of mine, especially when it comes to being patient with myself.

  But Beau?

  Beau is nothing but patient. Stroking me slowly, he dips his fingertip inside me to gather moisture and spread it along my length, front to back.

  It feels so good. Not only to be aroused, but to be cared for this way.

  The man I once gave my forever to never looked after me like this.

  He draws his thumb down on my clit, circling it, drawing my body up into his electric touch. Despite that, however, I still feel too dry for comfort.

  “Let’s try the lube,” I say. “I think it might help me feel a little more…myself.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Beau rolls over and grabs the nearest lube. He literally tears the box apart and cracks open the cap.

  “I have no idea how much to use.” He squirts a nickel-sized dollop onto his fingers, then holds them up for me to see. “That look good to you? The internet told me to use a lot.”

  I shrug. “If the internet says it, then it must be true.”

  He rubs his fingers together.

  “It’s cold,” he explains. “I’ll try to warm it up a little.”

  I watch him. My best friend, naked as the day he was born, warming up lube for my first postpartum sex session.

  “What?” he asks, laughing a little.

  I shake my head, biting my lip. “You know what.”

  His face falls as his fingers slow their motion.

  I can see it—the hesitation and the fight he’s putting up. I understand it, even if I disagree.

  But I don’t want to lose the piece of him that he is willing to share. So I swallow my heart, knowing it’s too late for me, and reach for him with a smile, trying my very best to ignore the ache in my chest.

  Again. It’s happening again. Two heartbreaks in a handful of years.

  “Hey. Stay with me.” I say it to him and to myself.

  He grins, relieved, and scoots back over. He lays on his side, resting his weight on one arm while reaching between my legs with the other.

  When Beau glides his fingers into my folds, I startle. The lube is still a little cold. Its wetness is different from my natural lubrication. It’s thinner and less satisfying.