Southern Player: A Charleston Heat Novel

by Peterson, Jessica

  She kisses me back. “I heard your rhubarb was especially potent.”

  “I only grow the best,” I say. “C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Luke

  “I don’t got coffee,” I say, switching on the kitchen lights. It’s gotten dark since we were downstairs earlier. “But I do have plenty more beer if you’d like one? Water?”

  Gracie leans a hip into the counter, crossing her arms. Damn does she look good all rumpled and shit. Just fucked hair, swollen, pink lips. Pink cheeks.

  That light in her eyes—the one that was missing—it’s back.

  Y’all. I did that.

  My chest swells with pride.

  I did that, and now I am fucked. Because I wanna keep that light there. For good.

  “Water would be great, thanks,” she says, glancing at the clock above the stove. “I gotta drive back to town, so…”

  Right.

  She’s gotta drive back because she’s not staying the night. Because this is just a hook up. She came up to my bed for one thing and one thing only. An hour. Maybe two.

  But I want more than that. I want Gracie’s entire night. Her morning, too. Lordy, how great would morning sex with her be? Her all soft and warm from sleep, making these quiet sounds as I put her on her side and slip into her from behind. Afterward, she’ll make coffee, I’ll make breakfast, we’ll make love one more time before we start our day.

  The swelling in my chest contracts.

  I just have to keep doing what I’m doing. Keep giving her what she asks for, keep drawing her out. If we’re meant to be, we’ll be.

  I really, really want us to be together.

  “Of course,” I say.

  I make two ice waters and set them on the counter. Gracie pulls thirstily on hers while I open the pastry box. It’s white, stamped with Holy City Roasters’ name and star logo. Reminds me I still need to pick Gracie’s brain about my grits. Right now, I’m just selling what I have to Eli. But as I ramp up production, I’d eventually like to package them for retail—sell them at specialty food markets, grocery stores, that kind of thing.

  As I open the box, I’m greeted by the sweet smells of sugar and butter. Four good-sized cupcakes are nestled inside, smeared with heaps of decadent-looking frosting that’s tinged pink—gotta be the rhubarb.

  Rhubarb that I grew.

  Despite the ache in my chest, I find myself grinning. I’m damn proud of my produce. And touched that Gracie would go to such lengths to show it off like this.

  “Gracie, these are beautiful,” I say, looking at her. All this looking. “Seriously. I like the pink. Reminds me of you.”

  Her cheeks burn a deeper shade. “Any part of me in particular?”

  “You know the one.”

  I reach over and tear a sheet off the roll of paper towels beside the sink. Then I pick up a cupcake and put it on the paper towel, passing it to Gracie.

  “Thanks,” she says.

  Holding my cupcake in my hand, I watch her peel back the wrapper and take a big, messy bite.

  She catches me watching and giggles, once, ducking her head. It smears frosting all over her face, bits of sweet potato cupcake sticking to it.

  “You have something here,” I say, touching my finger to the side of my mouth.

  “Shut up. I know,” she says around a mouthful of cupcake. She tries to wipe her face with the edge of the paper towel, but it only makes the situation worse. “Did I get it?”

  “Nope. Now you have some here, too,” I say, pointing to the other side of my mouth.

  She tries again. And again she just gets frosting and cupcake everywhere.

  She looks so damn adorable I want to bite her face and fuck her for a week straight.

  Instead I take a neat bite of cupcake. “Still there.”

  “Goddamn it!” She’s wiping furiously at her face. “Now did I get it?”

  The cupcake is good. Really good. The sweet potato really comes through—gives it an almost carrot-cake like flavor. Add in the cream cheese frosting—that hint of rhubarb is unexpected but yummy—and it is damn delicious.

  Shaking my head, I take another bite of cupcake. Watching Gracie squirm is fun.

  “Ugh! I’m hopeless. I’m gonna need a shower at this point.”

  “I’d be happy to hose you down.” I casually tilt my head toward the window. “Got a spigot out back. You’ll have to take off your clothes, though.”

  Gracie looks at me. Fire in her eyes. A laugh on her lips.

  “Hell no,” she says. “If anyone’s getting naked, it’s you.”

  And then she shoves what’s left of her cupcake in my face. Chunks of it fall onto my shirt.

  A startled laugh erupts from my belly. What the fuck is this? Second grade?

  I’m in.

  She’s laughing now, laughing so hard she’s bent at the waist.

  I gather what I can of the cupcake off my face in one hand. With the other I grab Gracie, looping my arm around her middle so she can’t escape.

  Then I’m smearing frosting on her cheeks, her lips. Her chin. She’s shimmying against me, her breasts pressed to my chest as she tries to wiggle free.

  I let her twist around so she’s facing away from me. I use the momentum of her movements to lift her off the ground, tightening my grip on her torso.

  “Don’t you dare!” she wheezes. Her shoulders curl up to her ears and she turns her head. Just enough for our gazes to catch.

  “What?” I lean in to lick some frosting from the side of her mouth. “Don’t do what, Gracie?”

  “I’ll bite you!”

  “I like the sound of that,” I say. I spin her back around and tilt my head, offering her my neck.

  Her arms are trapped between us. But that doesn’t stop her from rising up on her toes, a sly smile on her lips.

  She licks my throat first. Then she bites it, this rough, sharp little thing. My cock takes notice.

  Gracie takes notice of my cock taking notice.

  “You’re really out to beat your tractor tonight,” she says when she falls back. Eyes flashing. Dimples so deep I could swim in ’em.

  She’s in my arms, cuddled up close. The scent of her shampoo filling my head.

  “I’m out to beat somethin’.” I reach down and use my finger to swipe some frosting from the tip of her nose. I put that finger in my mouth. “And it sure as hell isn’t my tractor.”

  Her gaze follows my movements, landing on my lips.

  “You’re good at dick jokes. Almost as good as your mamas.”

  I grin. “Like Mama says—I only inherited the good stuff from her.”

  “Your character? Charisma?”

  “My looks and my pervy sense of humor, clearly.”

  “Clearly,” she says, her dimples deepening as her gaze softens.

  My heart softens, too. Even as my dick goes full mast.

  I reach down and tuck her hair behind her ear. “I had fun tonight. I hope you did, too, Gracie girl.”

  She blinks. Blinks again, several times. Like the weight of everything we’ve done tonight—of all the territory we’ve covered—is just hitting her.

  She looks a little crushed by it.

  My heart clenches, even as I get it. I get that this is bewildering. Me holding her like this in my kitchen, both of us smeared in cream cheese frosting and post-oral satisfaction.

  This is my best friend’s sister we’re talking about here. The girl I was never allowed to touch.

  The girl I’m touching all over.

  It’s one of those moments you have as an adult when you stop and think wait, wait a damn second, I really get to do this? I’m not fifteen and I’m not gonna get my ass beat because I’ve engaged in some heavy petting with my friend’s sister?

  I give her a small squeeze. “Tell me.” What you’re thinking. When I can see you again because I think I’m addicted to you.

  “It was perfect.” She looks me in the eye. “What you did f
or me tonight—what you did with me—Luke, it was so good I’m struggling not to pinch myself to make sure this isn’t all some kind of super arousing dream brought on by the romance novel I’m reading.”

  “You really like your romance, don’t you?”

  Gracie nods. “Love it. Romance happens to be one of the most feminist, most interesting, and yes, most stimulating genres out there. I mean that in every sense of the word. As a matter of fact, you have romance to thank for my quest for sexual liberation.”

  My pulse skips.

  “That’s right. You were tellin’ me how My Deal With the Duke gave you the idea. I mean, if romance inspires you like that—hell, I just became a romance fan myself.”

  Gracie bites her lip, eyes going all squinty with pleasure. “In the book, the heroine, Lady Jane, feels trapped by her life. Everyone thinks she’s too weird. Too quiet. But she has all these secret desires that are burning a hole in her pantalettes—”

  “Please tell me that’s what they called thongs back then.”

  Gracie’s head tilts back as she laughs, tapping the outside of her fist against my chest. “For simplicity’s sake, sure. Anyway. She’s got all these desires but no one to help her explore them. Until her best friend’s older brother, Max, shows up at the manor next door.”

  “Aw yeah,” I say, nodding. “I see where this is going. I’m him in this scenario, right?”

  “If you’re a well hung Duke who owns half of Northumberland and fills out a pair of breeches quite nicely, then yes, you are him.”

  I consider this for a moment. “I’ve got the well hung part down. And I do own thirty acres on Wadmalaw. I don’t rightly know what breeches are, but I’d like to think I got enough junk in my trunk to make ’em work.”

  Gracie untangles her arms from between us to reach around, looking up as she moves her hands over my ass. Eyes on the ceiling, like she’s concentrating real hard as she kneads and squeezes and generally drives me up a fucking wall.

  “Oh yeah,” she says, biting back a laugh. “You got a real nice bubble butt back here. Do I have baseball to thank for that?”

  “You sure do. Baseball butt is a real thing.”

  “Yeah, I’d say your baseball butt would do breeches justice.”

  Her mouth looks so fucking kissable right then. She’s lit up and laughing, and in this moment, she is completely mine.

  “I want to do you justice,” I say, taking her face in my hand.

  “If that means doing me, then I’m on board,” she replies.

  “Look who’s cracking the pervy jokes now.”

  “I learned from the best.”

  I tighten my grip on her, making her head bob gently back and forth. Our eyes meet. Looking at her, wild hair and hope and hunger, I can’t breathe.

  “You’re beautiful,” I say.

  Her smile softens, and so does my heart.

  “You’re excellent,” she says.

  A beat of heated silence passes. Heat I feel in my body and inside my chest, too.

  Anticipation blooms between us. Heat is there, but this—this line of silent, honest communication—it transcends the sexual.

  By just standing there, her body pressed against mine, lips parted, she’s showing me something true.

  I stay still. Terrified that if I make the wrong move she’ll run.

  Slowly—slow enough that I am aware of every agonizing heartbeat that passes—Gracie rises up on her toes and kisses me. She loops her arms around my neck and kisses me. Mouth slanting over mine with intention and care. This isn’t the crazed kiss we shared earlier.

  This is a kiss kiss. A romantic one.

  I melt into it, thinking the whole time that I am so in over my head here.

  I don’t scare easily. But the way this kiss makes me feel?

  That scares the shit outta me. Not because I’m afraid of falling in love. But because I know I’m falling fast for a girl who is afraid of forever. Who’s afraid of losing herself if something like that were to happen.

  Maybe that’s why my body takes over. My brain short circuiting and my heart panicking but something inside me refuses to stop. Leave it to Gracie Jackson to reveal the masochistic side I didn’t even know I had.

  I grab Gracie’s ass and lift her up and she wraps her legs around my waist, my hands on the backs of her thighs. Moans.

  I claim the kiss, the world slowing to a standstill as I pour myself into her mouth. As I say to her all the things I can’t actually say out loud.

  There’s a universe inside this kiss. One I want to get lost in.

  I lose grip, and the kiss gets heated. Gracie curls her hips into mine, grinding against me. I groan, my dick throbbing. How the hell am I this hard after coming, what, ten minutes ago?

  She’s reaching down my back and fisting my shirt in her hands, tugging it up. She bites the corner of my lip. Breathes my name.

  Luke, please.

  I know this old song and dance.

  She wants to fuck me.

  Lord do I want to fuck her, too.

  Just not like this.

  She’s rolling against me, soft and ready, hot, so hot for me. My dick is hard and my heart is overflowing with admiration for this woman. I don’t want to stop.

  But our first time isn’t going to be some quick and dirty fuck against the wall in my kitchen. She isn’t going to walk out of my house five minutes after I’m inside her. Not knowing if I’ll ever be able to have her like that again.

  That’s not how I want this to go down.

  Pulling away is a total dickpunch. But I do it. I grit my teeth and I break the kiss. Gracie makes this noise—it’s a question and a complaint.

  “No,” I growl, squeezing my eyes shut because I don’t trust myself to look at her. Instead I touch my forehead to hers. Breathing hard.

  “Too far?” she says.

  “No. That’s—Gracie, I just don’t want it to happen like this is all. Our first time.”

  Her breath catches.

  “Oh. Oh, okay.” I can tell she doesn’t quite know what to make of this.

  So I lift my head and look her in the eye, pressing a kiss to her lips.

  “We got all the time in the world. I told you I ain’t rushin’.”

  Gracie searches my eyes. Brow furrowed.

  “I bet that Duke made Lady Jane wait,” I continue. “He did, didn’t he? ’Cause he knows that sometimes the anticipation is as sweet as the act itself. And he wants it to be sweet for her. The sweetest and most intense she’ll ever have.”

  Gracie blinks. The grooves in her brow deepen. “He does. Yeah. How’d you know?”

  “I told you I’m a romance fan,” I reply breezily. Even though I feel anything but. “Let me make it sweet for you, baby. It’s sweet right now, isn’t it? The tension. Excitement. Knowin’ we’re a real good fit and that we have so much left to explore.”

  I wait an eternity for her to reply. I can’t read her expression. Can’t tell what she’s thinking.

  Finally her brow smooths.

  “Right. I should get going anyway.”

  I set her down. Body still screaming. “When can I see you again?”

  She swallows audibly. “Um. Well. I have a busy week. Okay if we play it by ear?”

  I look at her. She looks back. Equal parts scared and hungry.

  I want to keep pushing her. Make her nail down a date.

  I just want to see her again is all. Sooner rather than later.

  But I don’t want to push her too hard. We already covered a lot of ground tonight. No doubt she’ll be back for more.

  “Okay,” I say.

  I put Grace in her car. Close the door behind her and rap on the hood, once, before shoving my hands in my pockets and stepping away.

  She rolls down the window.

  “Text me when you get home?” I say.

  “Okay.” Her eyes glimmer in the darkness. Shit I wish she were staying. “Goodnight, Luke.”

  “’Night, sweet girl.”
>
  I watch her drive away. Stand there long after her taillights disappear, the quiet around me ringing with her absence.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Gracie

  I float into Holy City Roasters the next morning, high as a kite despite my five A.M. wake up call.

  A persistent little ache nudges me just beneath my breastbone. I can’t tell if it’s a good ache or a bad one. Good because I just had the best hook up of my life with a hot, dirty talking farmer.

  Bad because now I can’t stop thinking about said farmer, feeling all gooey and sticky every time I do, and somewhere in the swirl of my thoughts I recognize how dangerous that is. How that could lead to me losing myself all over again, to me getting my hopes up only to be crushed.

  He’s a player, for God’s sake. Do I really believe he’s ready to hang up his proverbial cleats for good?

  Do I really think I can have more with him and still be myself in bed? Still explore my fantasies without regret or reservation?

  I need to stop thinking about him, I know. But I can’t.

  My God, the way the man kisses—

  My lips throb at the memory as I dump my bag onto the desk in my makeshift office at the back of the building. Today I’m working another shift behind the counter. When we first opened, I was working the register and pulling espresso shots right beside my baristas seven days a week. But as Holy City Roasters has grown, I’ve taken on a more managerial role. Now the bulk of my time is spent on the business side of things—paperwork, finances, meetings galore. I love most of that stuff. It utilizes a different part of my brain. But I also love keeping in touch with our regular customers and my employees, too. So I make it a point to be behind the counter at least once or twice a week.

  Doesn’t mean I can neglect other business on those days. So I race through some emails and go through voicemails left overnight. Groan when my contractor tells me in a voicemail he left at eleven P.M. that the plumbers found lead pipes in the bathroom—yay for old buildings—that will have to be replaced at extra cost. Groan again when I read an email from the local roasting company we buy our beans from, detailing a price increase on my favorite Arabica blend. I’ll have to rework our budget. Which means arranging meetings with my store manager and my accountant.