Southern Player: A Charleston Heat Novel

by Peterson, Jessica

  “You hungry for me, too?” he says.

  I let out a breath. A scoff. Of course.

  In reply, he takes himself in his hand. Gives himself a lazy, lewd tug.

  And just like that, he’s hard.

  My pussy floods with heat. Nipples tightening to points.

  His eyes flick to my chest. I’m not wearing a bra, so he can see exactly what’s going on.

  Reaching for the towel at his feet, he runs it over his body. Tousles his hair with it.

  Then he tosses it over his shoulder and strides toward me.

  His footfalls are quiet on the wood, still bright blond from being so new. Eyes never leaving mine.

  The lust in them is hard and hot.

  A tremble moves through me. Why do I still feel so overwhelmed by him? I made my choice last night. I chose brave. I chose to show the fuck up.

  Now here I am. Shaking. Need slicing through me again and again and again.

  There’s just this ferociousness about the way he wants me. About our connection. It’s scary and it’s sweet, and I never, ever want it to end.

  Because if it does—

  It’s gonna hurt.

  Luke stops in front of me. He smells like clean water and fresh air. He takes my face in his hand and captures my mouth in a soft, slow kiss.

  “But the coffee,” I say, pulling back. “I must taste—”

  “Nu-huh. That ain’t keepin’ me away, honey. You taste like you. Just right.”

  My heart pounds violently against the confines of my breastbone. Shoving everything else, all my other organs and feelings and fears, out of the way.

  I have a wild thought that love should do that—it should shove you with the same violence with which it saves you. Shove you in the right direction. Kicking and screaming if need be.

  Love—real love, the kind I read about in romance—should make you want to let go of the bullshit you piled on in previous lives so you can step into the truth.

  Your truth.

  The beautiful, violent, terrifying truth of who you are and what you want.

  Love is a calling to account.

  That’s what being with Luke has done—it’s called me to account.

  I’m so glad it did.

  I’m overwhelmed with gratitude. Gratitude, and arousal.

  Luke’s eyes are searching mine. He touches his thumb to my chin.

  “You okay?” he asks. Voice husky.

  “Let me give you something,” I whisper. My eyes flick to his cock, standing straight up between us. “I want to make you feel good.”

  As good as you’ve made me feel.

  He looks at me for another beat. I see the question in his eyes. You sure?

  I nod.

  I’m sure.

  Without another word, Luke kisses my mouth. Hard. His scruff catching on my skin as his lips tug at mine. Tug and tease and claim. He kisses me deeply, tongue working my mouth open, nose brushing mine. It’s the kind of kiss that has me rising and falling all at once. He’s pulling me up. Pulling me under.

  Taking. Without a thought for gentleness. He lets his need, fierce and fiery, burn through the caress.

  His bare belly is warm against mine. His dick presses into my groin. He lets out a growl, and then he pulls back a little.

  “Get on your knees,” he murmurs, taking the mug out of my hand. Putting his other on my elbow.

  I do as he tells me and kneel in front of him. The wooden slats bite into my knees.

  My skin feels stretched tight. Need blaring between my legs.

  He hands me the mug, and I set it on the dock beside me.

  Luke slides his hand into my hair and gives it a little pull to tilt my head up. I meet his eyes.

  I see reverence there. Pain.

  Love.

  He takes his dick in his other hand. Takes a half step forward. He thumbs the head down so it meets with my lips. Eyes still on his, I open my mouth a little wider.

  He guides himself into my mouth, sinking slowly. Quietly. His breath coming in hot spurts through his nose. He moves his hips, a gentle thrust, fisting my hair in his hand when he meets with the back of my throat. He tastes clean, like water.

  His skin is hot and smooth.

  “All the way in, honey,” he says. “Show me how good you are at makin’ messes.”

  I am. I am good at that.

  He’s huge, and my gag reflex threatens, but I don’t care. I take him as deep as I can on a swallow. I need to show him how much he means to me.

  I need him to know just how much I appreciate everything he’s done to get me to this place.

  A muscle in his jaw twitches. His eyebrows snap together, surrender softening the hard edges of his desire.

  “Honey, you—God, you do this right. Just fuckin’ right.”

  I put my hands on him. Palms sliding over the broad muscles of his stomach, his hips, his ass. I feel the muscles there flex as he pulls back and thrusts, more forcefully this time. Making my eyes water as he goes deep.

  I take him there with a moan, curling my lips over my teeth so I don’t hurt him.

  “I want you to move,” he says, pulling my hair so that my head bobs. It hurts. And it’s hot. “I wanna watch you suck this dick like I know you can. Move.”

  I do. I bob my head, pull him out, take him deep. Do it over and over again, a little deeper each time. His eyes never leave mine. His words are obscene. But his eyes—they are full of worship.

  The dock sways gently. I realize that we’re the ones making it move.

  Me.

  He’s groaning now, these short, intense gusts with every thrust I make.

  My hands move to his thighs.

  They are trembling.

  I give them a squeeze. You okay?

  “Don’t you dare fuckin’ stop,” he says, guiding my head up and down, up and down. “I’m the one who tells you when to stop. You listen to me. Only me. Only me. Only me.”

  The only thing ruder than those words is the fierceness with which he says them.

  His stomach caves as he struggles to catch his breath. His thumb is on my lips again.

  “Gracie.” It’s a plea. His hips jerk.

  He comes in my mouth with a shout.

  I swallow. His grip softens in my hair, and he gently smooths it away from my face as he watches me. His eyebrows coming together, softening his expression.

  He pumps his hips slower. Slower still.

  When he’s done, Luke guides himself out of my mouth.

  He wipes at my lips with this thumb. The gentleness of this gesture—the way he’s looking at me—how fucking full I feel—

  There’s a sacredness to it.

  The sex. The seeing.

  I’m hit by the sudden urge to cry.

  So I do. Tears spilling out of my eyes, fat and hot.

  Luke’s expression morphs into one of panic. He’s reaching down and pulling me to my feet and thumbing away my tears.

  “Did I hurt you? Fuck, Grace, I’m—”

  I loop my arms around his neck and pull him into a hug. Holding him close with the same fierceness I felt earlier. Burying my face in his neck.

  His skin is warm.

  “Not hurt,” I murmur in his ear. “Healed. Well, healing. Moving in the right direction.”

  He hesitates for a second. Not quite sure what to make of that.

  But then he’s wrapping his arms around my waist and holding me tight, too. Pressing a kiss to my hair as his fingertips dig into my shirt. His shirt.

  “I’m glad,” he says softly.

  “I am, too.”

  Luke kisses my temple. Lets out a breath.

  I pull back to look at him. Morning sun catching on his irises. Making them look almost green.

  He’s scruffier than usual. Little purple marks underneath his eyes.

  He looks as tired and happy as I do.

  “Come with me,” I say. “To the opening.”

  “For Holy City Roasters? ‘Course I’ll be there.
Wouldn’t miss it, Gracie.”

  “I mean as my date. My boyfriend. Come.”

  Luke looks at me. Half a heartbeat.

  Why do I get the feeling that he’s hesitating again? Isn’t this what he asked for? Isn’t this what he wanted from the beginning?

  But then he’s leaning down. Kissing my neck. My mouth. Pulling at me just how I like. I suck in a breath, my head falling to the side.

  “All right,” he says against my throat. “But first, lemme return the favor. Lemme have you, Grace. All of you.”

  Like he even needs to ask.

  I nod. Yes yes yes, I tell him.

  He takes me home and lays me down and doesn’t let me go until the very last minute.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Luke

  There is no routine for Gracie and I to settle into over the next week. We’re both busy as hell. I’ve got the farm to look after, research to do, half a dozen meetings—venture capital folks, marketing teams, my insurance agent. Gracie’s running around prepping for the grand re-opening on Saturday.

  But I’m heartened by the fact that we somehow make it work. There’s only one day we don’t see each other.

  The rest, we do.

  Gracie drives out to Wadmalaw a couple times. Answers emails from my kitchen table while I fix us some dinner. I meet her downtown for lunch one afternoon after wrapping up some meetings. Another night I meet her at Holy City Roasters. We take a meandering walk back to her place, where I tear off her clothes and fuck her right there on the table in her entry hall because I’m an animal and I cannot for the life of me keep my hands off her.

  That’s also the night we finally check that anal line item off her list. I’m pleased to say Gracie enjoyed it. A lot, if her multiple orgasms were any indication.

  We’re together as much as we can be. Sleepovers. Showers. Pre-dawn oral sex marathons.

  And still I hunger for her. All day. All the time. When she’s not with me, I feel like a piece of me is missing. Like I’m down a lung or a leg or something.

  It’s a sickness.

  It’s exactly what I asked for. I finally understand what Gracie meant when she said she was ravenous. That’s how I feel about her.

  It’s strange and wonderful. So wonderful I stop thinking about that damn Venn diagram—the one that shows just how different my world is from Gracie’s. Yeah, I don’t really see all that much of her world over the course of the week. We’re too busy devouring each other to socialize much.

  But we are making it work. We’re finding a literal middle ground between Wadmalaw and downtown. Makes me think when the time comes we’ll find some social common ground, too.

  Because I want that. I want it so bad I ache with it.

  Maybe those dreams of babies and farmers’ markets and forever aren’t as far off as I was starting to think they were.

  * * *

  Still.

  I’m feeling some nerves as I head into town for Gracie’s grand opening. Nerves I haven’t felt since I was on the bag back in my major league days in Chicago.

  But those were good nerves. These—

  These don’t feel so good.

  It’s a beautiful summer night. Sky wide open as I cross the Ravenel Bridge. I picked up Mama and Gwen from their place at the beach, and they insisted on taking the bridge so they could see the sun set over Charleston Harbor.

  View is nice. Water lit up like fire, horizon painted a bright rainbow of reds and pinks that fade to purple at the edges.

  I got Trisha playing. Hoping it will ease these nerves. I just got this bad feeling—

  “So you and Gracie,” Mama says, nudging me with her elbow. “Y’all are makin’ it official tonight, huh?”

  I tug a hand through my hair. It gets stuck. I forgot I used some product to tame it tonight—don’t usually do that anymore.

  I untangle my fingers. Change lanes. Exit’s up ahead.

  “I guess so,” I reply. “We been official for a bit already.”

  “We love her,” Gwen says.

  “Love her,” Mama adds, clapping her hands before rubbing them together. “I’ve been waiting years for y’all to get together. I don’t mean to put pressure on y’all or anything—”

  “No pressure,” Gwen says.

  “—But I would love me some grandbabies. Has she put your zucchini in her muffins yet?”

  I jerk the steering wheel a little too hard, making my truck shudder.

  “My—what?”

  Mama and Gwen share a knowing glance.

  “Yeah she has,” Gwen says.

  “Oh yeah. Bet she loves his produce somethin’ fierce.” Mama puts her hand on my arm. “Baby, I’m so glad we decided not to get you circumcised—”

  “Y’all, please stop,” I say, taking the Morrison Drive exit ramp. Leave it to my mamas to steer a nice conversation in the direction of dicks. “My produce and Gracie’s…baked goods are none of your business. She’s my girlfriend, I care a lot about her, and I want tonight’s opening to be everything she’s dreamed of and more. Which means y’all can’t be running around makin’ everyone feel uncomfortable with your vegetable innuendos, all right?”

  Mama and Gwen just look at me. Blinking.

  They’re both smiling.

  “He’s smitten,” Gwen says.

  Mama nods. “Bless his heart, he’s in love, isn’t he?”

  “Aw, yeah he is.”

  “We won’t say a thing, baby,” Mama says, doing a zipping motion across her lips.

  “And we’ll be on our best behavior.” Gwen nods. “If tonight’s important to you and Gracie, it’s important to us. We’re just happy to be a part of it.”

  Gracie, being the awesome, thoughtful human being she is, somehow managed to remember my mamas in the midst of her chaotic week. She called Mama and personally invited her and Gwen to the opening.

  Now it’s my job to make sure Gracie doesn’t regret that decision.

  “We’re happy for you,” Mama says. “I could tell there was somethin’ different about you ever since we ran into Gracie down at the farm the other night. You’ve been…”

  “Smiling more.”

  “Laughing.”

  “You’re happy,” Gwen says. “You’ve always been a kind, easygoing soul, Luke. But we can see it in your eyes, son—you’re downright joyful.”

  They’re right.

  I know they’re right. Everyone’s commented on the change. Eli picked up on it first thing Monday when I made my delivery to The Pearl. Even the guy at the carwash asked me what I was smoking and if he could buy any.

  Hanging a left onto Morrison, I take a deep breath. Let it out.

  I’m being stupid. Letting some random nerves ruin my night. This is gonna be fine.

  Gracie and I are gonna be fine.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Luke

  Flowers in hand, I hold the door for my mamas. Then I step into Holy City Roasters behind them.

  My heart seizes inside my chest. For a second I can’t breathe.

  “My word,” Gwen says. “Would you look at this place?”

  Mama’s got her head tilted back, admiring the star-shaped glass pendants hanging from the ceiling.

  “It’s magical. You know who would like this?”

  Gwen thinks on it for a minute. “Elena and Stefan.”

  “Yes!” Mama exclaims. “Can’t you just see them slow dancing underneath these lights?”

  “Until Damon comes and ruins everything.”

  “Ugh, I love when Damon ruins things.”

  Sliding my free hand into my front pocket, I can’t help but smile. “Don’t hate on Damon. He’s one of my favorite characters from Vampire Diaries.”

  Gwen grins. “You always did love that show.”

  “You know I got a thing for vampires.”

  We’re early, but people are already starting to fill the shop. Mama was right—it is magical. At least twice its original size, it’s a classy, sexy, cozy spot. You wou
ldn’t know that, forty-eight hours ago, Gracie was running around in tears because the painters accidentally painted the brick wall that was supposed to remain exposed.

  It’s a big space, done in light, bright whites and wood tones. The new counter stretches the length of the building, the pastry case beside it filled with all kinds of amazing looking goodies. I spot the cupcakes Gracie brought over—the ones with the rhubarb frosting. Guess she put them on the main menu.

  I feel a happy nudge in my chest.

  There are cocktail tables spread out across the room, with a bar back by the windows. A flurry of men and women in white chef’s jackets stream in and out of the kitchen door, setting dishes on what looks like some kind of buffet table perpendicular to the bar.

  It’s a success.

  The opening hasn’t even happened yet, and already this party—this place—is a goddamn success. Because it’s so Gracie. I see her everywhere. In the funky decor. The cafe tables that are big enough for her laptop-loving customers to spread out on. The smiles on the faces of everyone I see.

  The detail. Nothing overlooked. Not a thing out of place or out of touch.

  Still can’t breathe.

  I am so damn proud of my girl I cannot fucking breathe.

  Gwen slips her arm through mine.

  “She’s a keeper,” she whispers. “Don’t let this one go.”

  “Should we get a drink?” Mama asks, motioning to the bar.

  I follow them across the room, looking for Gracie.

  I find her by the far side of the counter. Giving instructions to someone wearing a Holy City Roasters apron.

  I don’t want to interrupt. So my mamas and I sip on the evening’s signature cocktail while I wait for Gracie to finish.

  I don’t rightly know what a signature cocktail is, but I do know it’s delicious—an espresso-infused bourbon milk punch.

  When Gracie does finish, she immediately looks around the room.

  She’s looking for someone.

  Her whole face lights up when she finds me.

  She greets the three of us with a dimply Hey, y’all!, thanking my mamas for coming. She’s gracious and beautiful and for several heartbeats I can only look at her, wondering what good deed I did in this life to deserve someone like her.