Southern Hospitality (Hot Southern Nights)

by Amie Louellen

She leaned over the console and brushed her lips against his ear as she told him in very naughty words what they were going to do once they made the seemed-like-an-eternity trip back to Magnolia Acres. Her breasts pressed against his arm, and her irresistible scent wafted around him.

  He had been waiting a lifetime for her, and he wanted to get started. Now. Right now. Bind her to him. He wanted to make sure that she thought of no other man. Ever. He wanted to mark her as his. So she would know forever that she belonged to him and him to her.

  Then tomorrow, they could worry about everything else.

  Malcolm’s car and his aunt’s van were not visible when he pulled the Jag in front of the mansion. He barely shoved the thing into park before he cut the ignition. Then he opened his door and practically ran around the car before hauling Lila out of the passenger’s side.

  “Inside. Now,” he ordered.

  But she just smiled and shook her head. “You can’t leave four half-gallons of ice cream and a bag of ice in the trunk while we—”

  “The hell I can’t,” he said starting toward the house. “Besides, I’m trading in this car on Monday anyway.”

  Lila dug in her heels. “What about the pork rinds?”

  “Woman, are you trying to drive me insane?”

  “No, it’s just—”

  “I don’t care about the pork rinds. All I care about is … ” It was his turn to whisper all the wicked things he wanted to do to her.

  He’d never talked dirty in his life. But as turned on as he was right then, he was going to start making it a habit.

  “You get the stuff out of the trunk, and I just might let you.” She flashed him a mischievous smile and sashayed toward the door leaving him to unload their melting, runny, sticky, messy mess of a picnic from the back of his car.

  He left the ice cream and bag of melting ice by the trashcans and carried the rest to the door.

  Lila stood in the soft glow of the porch light waiting for him. Without a word he lowered his head. He loved the fact that she lifted her chin to meet him halfway, but instead of taking her already kiss-swollen lips, he nipped her bare shoulder.

  “There’s more where that came from. Now open the damned door.”

  She laughed and dug in her purse for her keys, but fumbled as she put them into the lock. If he didn’t know better, he’d think she was toying with him.

  On second thought he knew she was toying with him, practicing those feminine wiles women like her were born with.

  He took the key from her and shoved it in the lock, then he dragged her upstairs, stopping only on the landing to seal their fate with a scorching kiss. She giggled like a schoolgirl as he flung open the door to her apartment and hauled her inside.

  Without ceremony, he dumped what remained of their grocery store purchases on the floor and pushed her up against the door of her apartment. Needing to be close to her. Now. Needing to kiss her. Now. Needing to make love to her. Now.

  • • •

  Malcolm was more than exhausted when he finally pulled his Mercedes into the drive at Magnolia Acres. He sighed, but couldn’t say it was good to be home. Usually, his apartment was a safe haven, a place to lick wounds when times got a little too tough, a place to recoup, recover. But not tonight. Not with Roxanne Ackerman still under his roof.

  At least he hoped she was under his roof. But that in itself was a double-edged sword. He wanted her and her meddling ways long gone from Jefferson County. Yet if she was in his house, at least he knew where she was. Sending her away like that, without an escort, was not the smartest move he’d made where she was concerned. But it seemed as if he was destined to fail in his affairs with her.

  He had actually believed her when she promised not to go snooping around and causing trouble. Instead he’d gotten pictures. Pictures he didn’t want to see. Pictures he didn’t want to ask Truman about, though he knew he would have to all the same.

  After Roxanne had left, Malcolm had tried to stay at the party and pretend that nothing out of the ordinary had happened. But he found he couldn’t talk politics or baseball or college draft picks. He couldn’t even look Truman in the eye. So he left. He was just thankful that he hadn’t seen Della before he’d hopped into his car and driven down to the river.

  It had been after ten, but it was Saturday night and a couple of cars were parked along the bank. Most likely young lovers making out, before heading home to beat the eleven o’clock curfew.

  Malcolm had just needed a little time to think. To clear his head. But two nagging thoughts kept haunting him. One: Roxanne was right. Della and Jamie had indeed had an affair. Two: If Della was pregnant, then it was very possible the child’s father could be the late Jamie Valentine. And Roxanne lied to him. Okay, so that was three. But damn it, he had trusted her, and the minute he turned his back she went digging around where she didn’t belong.

  He didn’t know why her betrayal hurt so badly. He’d been lied to countless times, by clients, by colleagues. Even by his parents who said they would see him in the morning, then never returned from their dinner date. But for some crazy reason, Roxanne’s betrayal cut him to the bone.

  He took a deep fortifying breath, then let it out slowly. All in a day’s work, he told himself and got out of the car. He drank in the peace of the night, the swaying branches of the magnolia trees, the far-off call of the bobwhite. He let it wash over him—heal him, if it could—before he called it a day.

  “I was just about to send the cavalry after you.”

  He whirled around to find Roxanne sitting on the porch steps, her knees drawn up to her chest, her arms wrapped around them.

  “Yeah?” Not the pithy remark he was hoping for, but now that it was out, it would have to do.

  She stood in the golden light given off by the porch lanterns and bit her lip. God, she looked so cute there, her kinky hair billowing around her face and well-worn Chicago Bears football jersey, somehow feminine in its masculine contrast. Feet and legs bare …

  What the hell was he thinking? She didn’t look cute. Did. Not.

  Okay, so maybe she did. But everyone knew that even Lucifer was the most beautiful of God’s angels.

  “You were in your car a long time … ”

  He stared at her, scrambling to get his bearings back. A part of him wanted to ignore her. Then there was this other part that wanted to sweep her up into his arms and carry her up the stairs like Clark Cable did to Vivien Leigh in Gone with the Wind.

  Note to self: go to the movies and see something current.

  Malcolm couldn’t imagine Vin Diesel wanting to carry any woman up a flight of stairs. Yeah, that was all there was to it. Malcolm’s personal movie references were just antiquated.

  “I was thinking,” he said, pushing past Roxanne and stalking toward the doors of the house.

  “Malcolm, I—”

  “Go to bed, Roxanne.” Now there was a visual he could have lived without. Roxanne curled up on her side, eyes closed just waiting to be kissed awake by her very own modern day Prince Charming. Kissing Roxanne awake himself. Roxanne writhing under him as he drove into her again and again. Until she splintered beneath him.

  Malcolm ground his teeth, trying to dispel the image. Maybe it was true what they said. Maybe desire and anger were only separated by a fine line. He needed to get a grip.

  “Please, hear me out—”

  “No.” He couldn’t look at her as he let himself in the main house and started for his apartment, Roxanne hot on his heels.

  “I found those pictures.”

  He snorted, the sound derisive even to his own ears.

  “I did. They were in a cabinet in the bathroom.”

  “And you just happened to be pilfering through said cabinet.” He unlocked his door, wishing she would let it drop, wishing this night had never happened. Wishing …

  “I needed a towel to dry my hands.”

  “Whatever, Roxanne.” He tossed his keys onto the table beside the door. He’d long ago abandoned his
jacket and loosened his tie. Now he pulled the cream-colored silk from around his neck and discarded it next to his keys. He took off his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes. It beat looking at Roxanne.

  “Damn it, you’re not being fair.”

  “Fair?” Glasses forgotten, he rounded on her, unable to suppress his frustration any longer. Courtroom training could only carry a man so far. “Fair?”

  She nodded, nearly bowed in half as he leaned in toward her.

  “I’m not being fair?”

  Roxanne took a half a step back and then another as he descended on her. He slapped the door of his apartment shut behind her and trapped her between his body and the solid oak. “Let me tell you something about fair. Not fair is finding out you’ve got to tell the man who’s been like a father to you that he’s been cuckolded. Not fair is chasing you all over the county to keep you out of trouble and my good name out of the papers. And not fair is wanting to be inside of you so badly I can hardly think of anything else.”

  • • •

  His words hung in the air between them.

  Until that moment, Roxanne hadn’t been aware of how close he was to her. The strong muscles of his chest were just inches away from her breasts. She was breathing hard, the air heaving in and out of her lungs and bringing her even closer to him than before. His arms were braced on either side of her, his lips just inches away.

  Then something inside of her just … snapped.

  With a frustrated groan, she fisted her hands on the collar of his shirt and pulled him to her. He met her halfway, his lips rocking over hers. Not exploring or seeking, but devouring. This passion between them had been building. Though they both had tried to ignore it, there was no turning back now. Now that it had been released, it burned like a raging wild fire.

  A whimper of satisfaction escaped her as he nipped her bottom lip, then licked the spot, his tongue moving from there to demand entrance. Roxanne gave it readily, eagerly, wholly.

  She forgot all about murder charges and pictures, even the Elvis impersonators concert she had missed. She forgot all the reasons she shouldn’t be doing this with her conservative, politically-inclined attorney, and instead all she could think about was Malcolm. The way he tasted, the way he smelled, the way he made her … burn.

  She couldn’t deny it any longer. She wanted to make love to him all night long and damn the consequences.

  She ran her palms down the snowy silk of his dress shirt, loving the play of the muscles as she explored and the groan of approval that rumbled up from deep inside him. The sound was empowering, liberating. It made Roxanne feel ultra-feminine and hungry for more.

  Their mouths continued their mating as she pulled the shirt free from his pants. They were going too fast, way too fast, but she felt as if she were powered by the devil himself. God help her, but she couldn’t stop.

  She gasped for air, for sanity, as he pulled his mouth free from their kiss to burn a fiery trail from her ear to the hollow at the base of her throat.

  “I have to touch you,” she panted.

  “I know,” he whispered against her neck, his warm breath chilling the wetness his kisses had created. Goose bumps raised on her skin, and a shudder of pure desire coursed through her. “I know.”

  With practiced ease, he pulled the hem of her Bears jersey up until it reached her waist. Then he slid his hands under the fabric, nearly sending her over the edge of ecstasy as he cupped her breasts in his palms, rolled the taut nipples between his thumb and forefinger. Desire pooled between her legs as he continued his caress. His touch was urgent, not rough, but determined, as if he understood as well as she that this shouldn’t be happening, but was oh-so-glad it was.

  He kissed her again, as if he couldn’t get enough of the taste of her lips. Roxanne had never known the simple act of putting two mouths together could be so explosive. She felt as if she could fall over the abyss of desire from his kiss alone.

  Gasping for air, fighting for control, Roxanne pulled her mouth from his to taste the triangle of freckled skin at the base of his throat. But it wasn’t enough; she needed more. With almost frantic urgency, she slipped the black suspenders off his broad shoulders. Struggling with the onyx studs that held his shirt together, she returned her mouth to his.

  Despite her best efforts he was still hidden from her view, from her touch. Emitting a low growl, she grasped the sides of the material and pulled, sending the offending studs flying in all directions.

  She pushed his shirt off his shoulders and down past his elbows, only to encounter the soft, snow-white cotton of his undershirt. Only her conservative Malcolm would wear so many clothes.

  He seemed in tune with both her frustration and her need to touch him. Or maybe it was his need to be touched. With a guttural moan he pulled his shirt up, breaking their kiss only long enough to free himself of the offending fabric and toss it aside.

  Finally! She ran her fingers over the fine mat of rusty hair that covered his perfectly muscled chest. She had wanted to do this since the day she had first seen him. Maybe even before. It just felt so good to touch him.

  And to be touched by him. There was an urgency inside that she couldn’t name, really didn’t want to, because by giving it a name, it would be diminished.

  He grasped the hem of her jersey and pulled it up and over her head, but it caught on her hands. Roxanne was left trapped, arms above her head, bare breasts thrust out proudly.

  He stared at her for a long second, his brown eyes devouring. The caress of his gaze was almost tangible, and Roxanne sucked in a quick breath of anticipation.

  Then his mouth captured one taut nipple, and she thought surely she would have collapsed into a puddle on the floor had it not been for the knee he had wedged between her thighs.

  He focused on one breast and then the other, the urgency of their lovemaking not allowing him to linger over the sensation but to conquer it, then move to the next. She cried out as he pushed his knee higher, rubbing against the crux of her thighs. Then he lowered it, only to push against her once more, creating a friction that nearly drove her mad.

  One of his hands kept hers trapped above her head while the other sought the scrap of cotton panties she wore. Roxanne mewed her protest, not at his target, but that she couldn’t touch him in return. But evidently Malcolm liked being in control—what there was of it—and wasn’t about to free her.

  She urged his mouth back up to take possession of hers as she placed her bare foot against the oak and pushed, her surprise shift throwing him off balance. They were locked together mouth to mouth as they stumbled backwards, pulling at the other’s clothing. He finished the task of taking off her night shirt. It flew away in an unknown direction just before they stumbled into the coffee table, knocking magazines and whatnots across the Aubusson rug.

  He grabbed her, most likely to steady himself, his lips not leaving hers as he fell, pulling her down with him. They landed in a tangle of arms and legs and interlocked mouths onto the oversized plaid sofa, her on top.

  The air left him with an oof.

  “Did I hurt you?” she asked, shifting her weight in order to plant small, butterfly-gentle kisses across his bruised ribs.

  “I’ll live,” he managed. “But only if you stop that.”

  She laughed out loud at the power of it all and kissed him again, this time a little lower, a little slower.

  With a deep growl, he fisted his hand in her hair and pulled her away from her targeted destination. “Is it always this dangerous to make love to you?”

  Roxanne closed her eyes, moaning softly as he nipped her collarbone with his teeth.

  “Is that what we’re doing?” She was breathless, dizzy, beyond coherent thought.

  He laved the spot with his tongue.

  Way beyond coherent thought.

  He captured her lips in another scorching kiss, the touch sending shock waves clear to her soul. “I think so.” He kissed her again, tongues mating, sweeping, demanding. “Yes,” he said af
ter a long moment. “That’s definitely what we’re doing.”

  “This is crazy.” She buried her face in the strong curve of his throat, kissing and tasting and nipping her own trail toward the rock hard muscles of his chest.

  “Madness,” he agreed, his voice ragged. Despite his words, he made no move to stop her. “Should we continue?”

  “Please.” The single word was edgy with need.

  “I was hoping you'd say that.”

  She could feel the hardness of him pressing against her through the fabric of his designer tuxedo pants, and she was so very aware of how glad he was. Despite the insanity and the hundreds of reasons they shouldn’t be doing this, she wanted him … needed him.

  “God, you’re beautiful.”

  A lie, she knew, but it didn’t matter. He could say all of those little lover’s lies he wanted as long as he quenched this thirst she had for him.

  With bold fingers she went in search of the fasteners that kept him from her. Wicked things, these hooks that some designers insisted on using on their clothing. Between the urgent kisses and frantic caresses she managed to work his trousers undone and clasped him in her hand, running her finger along the satiny tip.

  He groaned, the sound nearly lost in their kiss, but he had a few surprises of his own. Not about to be outdone, he grasped the ribbed edge of her bikini briefs and pulled until the soft pink fabric gave way.

  One hand still fisted in her hair, he worked the other between them, urging her to open herself to him. She did as he demanded, relaxing her legs, allowing him the access he needed to finally, finally touch her. He slid one finger down the graceful crease, then parted her, stroking her desire-swollen core. Then she bucked against him as he pushed one finger inside her as if to see if she was ready for him.

  She was ready. Way past ready.

  “Oh, God, Malcolm.”

  With unexpected ease, he reversed their positions. One minute Roxanne had been on top and in the next breath she was beneath him, naked and writhing, silently begging for more.

  He held the upper hand, but Roxanne decided that letting him win wasn’t such a loss after all.

  Then he entered her. With one full stroke he filled her, completed her without question, doubt, or remorse. He filled her and fulfilled her in a way she never thought possible, but was more than happy to discover.