He’s only gotten better with age. He moves his lips gently but insistently over mine. Just a hint of heat. The seam of his mouth finding mine, opening me, encouraging me to rise up to meet his caress. Scruff catching on my chin.
He holds my head in his hand all the while, as if to say, I’ve got you, I’m here, I’m feeling this too.
I lick my tongue into his mouth, using the tip to caress the inside of his lower lip. He groans, a low, quiet thing that makes my nipples pebble, and returns the favor. He laps at me slowly. Sipping me like we’ve got all the time in the world, even though he’s got approximately seven seconds until he’s late relieving his sitter.
Ford rolls his body into mine, trapping my bent arms between us. I feel surrounded by him. The two of us the center of the whole universe, the world spinning faster and faster around this fixed point. The one where our mouths meet.
I feel lifted up by him. By this kiss that deepens by dizzying degrees, until we’re full-on swallowing each other whole. Heads turning, breaths coming in pants.
Heat coils between my legs, heavy and thick, and for a second I wish more than anything that I could go home with this man. I don’t know what it is, exactly, that I’m desperate for. But whatever it is, he’s giving it to me. In spades.
His hand caresses one side of my neck while he ducks down and nips at the other side with his teeth. I draw a sharp breath, sensation spiking through my liquefying center.
My God, the way this guy touches me. The knowing energy in his fingertips, the flashes of fiery want in his insistence.
Oh, I shouldn’t. I can’t. I can’t do this again.
By sheer force of will, I pull away, breaking the kiss. My lips are burning.
Everything is burning, and I need to go home before—
Before what?
Ford arcs his thumb over my cheek as he meets my eyes. My heart turns over at the look in his. That bewildered, bare, hungry look I dreamed about for years after we broke up.
I’m suddenly filled with that ache. The one I felt at the shower. This delicious, sweet, fraught feeling that I haven’t experienced since the last time I was in Ford’s arms.
Jesus, I’m an idiot. I know better. I just—
I can’t pull away.
For several beats we just look at each other. I have no clue what to say after a kiss like that. Judging by his silence, neither does he.
Feeling swims between us. I’m drowning in it—my lungs are burning, I need to come up for air—but I can’t pull away.
“Answer when I call you,” he says at last. His voice sounds like sandpaper.
He leans in, surrounding me in that woodsy smell again, and covers my mouth with his. Pulling at me. Quick and hot.
One of my knees buckles.
Everything inside me buckles.
I watch Ford climb into his fancy Uber wearing his fancy suit and fancy shoes. A pulse of want moves through me, settling in my stomach like a brick.
One night together, and I already want this heartbreaker so bad it hurts.
Shit.
Chapter Eight
Eva
Sophie looked up at the creak of the door. Giving her hair a quick toss, she squared her shoulders.
She would break through His Lordship’s icy demeanor come hell or high water. He may have played the haughty, detached aristocrat. But as he’d swooned in her arms—and yes, he’d definitely swooned, no matter his protestations to the contrary—she’d glimpsed an entirely different creature. It’d been his eyes that had given him away. Falling on her face, they’d been warm.
Interested.
Vulnerable.
His Lordship bowed to her from the threshold. Heavens, did he look handsome in his breeches and waistcoat. Hair clubbed back with a black ribbon. He appeared neat and tidy and in control.
Oh, she would make a mess of him yet. She had a feeling there was a beast beneath that polished veneer.
“I have come to perform my duties as your husband,” he said, voice carefully even. “I shall be quick so that you might enjoy the rest of your evening in peace.”
Why was he so determined to keep her at arm’s length? She would find out.
Climbing out of bed, she approached him. He made a noise—something like a groan, or a growl, or a growly groan—when his eyes fell on her naked body.
Eyes that flashed with that same interest.
“Madam, you are indecent.”
“What if I don’t want it to be quick?”
He was blinking, breath coming in hot spurts through his nose as she stood in front of him. He was trying valiantly not to look at her breasts, and he was failing. Her nipples hardened to aching points beneath his attention.
He groaned again.
“What if I want to take our time?” She reached up and tugged at the ribbon in his hair, releasing it about his shoulders. It was unfashionably long, lusciously thick. A muscle in his jaw twitched, but he made no move to touch her. “What if I want you to make love to me?”
He speared her with a hot look. “I told you this was no love story.”
“What is this vendetta of yours against love?” She ran her fingers through his hair. His jaw was jumping now.
“Love is a game. A mean game that makes fools of otherwise good, decent people.”
Aha. So he was afraid. He’d been hurt—or someone he cared for had been hurt—and now he believed that love was pain. A toy. A trap.
“You’re in luck then.” With her other hand, she began playing with her breast. Squeezing the nipple between her thumb and fingers, making the need between her legs pulse hotter. “I have no talent for games.”
His eyes flickered with flames now. The ice gone.
“You tease me,” he ground out.
She shook her head. “I am merely being honest with you about what I want. No games. No artifice. All I ask is that you be honest with me in return. Tell me what you want, Edward.”
He looked at her for a beat. Then another. Expression positively murderous.
“I want to fuck you,” he said at last. “Because when I do, dearest Sophie, I shall do it so thoroughly, and so hard, your legs will be naught but jelly. And then you’ll be the one doing the swooning.”
She looked at him. Body rising on a tide of ferocious want. “You know how much I adore a good swoon.”
He growled, a low, feral sound, and crushed his mouth to hers. The kiss was deep and punishing.
She loved it.
Loved it more when he reached a hand between her legs and sunk his blunt-tipped fingers into her wetness.
“Indecent,” he said against her lips.
“Honest,” she replied.
The audiobook cuts off when my phone starts to ring.
Nothing like starting your Saturday morning off with a literal—if literary—bang.
I woke up with a headache, a gnawing stomach, and a very insistent throb between my legs. When I got home last night, I could’ve wrung out my underwear I was so turned on.
I thought I’d taken care of it, thanks to a quick, sleepy date with my vibrator. But then I woke up today still wet, and still horny as hell.
Ford working his black magic. Just the memory of his touch, his kiss, is enough to get me going in a big way.
So I figured I’d listen to a little My Marriage with the Marquess. Help me get off again. Maybe help me feel a little less lonely, too. If I can’t wake up with a real dude in my bed, a fictional Marquess who’s hung like his horse and good with his hands is not a shabby substitute.
I usually wouldn’t answer my phone this early, but it’s my mom. She tells me she was going to make breakfast this morning, but Dad left early for the restaurant—of course—and now she has a bunch of groceries but no company and no one to cook for. Unless Alex and I want to come over…
To be honest, I was just going to grab something at the coffee shop down the street so I could put up a blog post and do some work on my cookbook this morning.
With my dea
dline looming, I really have to get going on the thing. Over the past week alone, I’ve gotten a dozen emails from readers asking when it’s coming out. My gut contracted reading each one. I tell them that, as of now, we’re hoping to publish the book this time next year, if not sooner.
But Mom sounds like she’s bumming. Plus I’m still starving and slightly hungover. Now that I’m in my thirties, three or four drinks will do that sometimes. How sad is that?
I’m confused, too. Last night with Ford, and that kiss—
Ugh, it’s making me feel weird and achy and lonely. I could use some comfort. And some food.
Some comfort food.
Luckily, I’m in the same city as the woman who does comfort food best.
Mom is in the kitchen when I let myself into my parents’ house. I texted Alex, too, and she’s already here, making nuclear-grade coffee in a moka pot on the stove. The smell hits me head on. I want to weep with relief.
Gratitude, too. This is the kind of stuff I really missed living far away.
I wrap Mom in a hug.
“What time did Dad leave this morning?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.
“Before seven,” she replies.
I squeeze her a little tighter. She squeezes back, furrowing her brow when she pulls away.
“Everything okay? You look a little tired,” she asks.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Just had a late one last night.”
“Get into anything good?” Alex asks, grabbing me a mug.
“Nah,” I say, careful to keep my eyes glued to the mug as she fills it with coffee. “Hung out with an old friend. Nothing crazy.”
“Old friend.” Alex fills her own mug and picks it up, holding it to her lips. “Does that friend happen to be Ford Montgomery?”
My stomach dips.
“Um,” I say.
“Ford Montgomery?” Mom says, mouth curling into a small, surprised smile. “Second time in as many weeks that I’ve heard that name.”
I cut Alex a look. “How’d you put those pieces together?”
“Easy.” She shrugs. “You hosted that shower for Julia recently. Grey was going to be there, and I figured there was a good chance his brother and business partner would be, too. Did y’all, like, make out at a bar or something? You and Ford, I mean. The two of you always had such insane chemistry. I don’t blame you. He’s so ho—”
“We—no, Alex, we did not make out at a bar.”
We made out in the street. Because we’re classy like that.
“You’re smiling,” Alex says. “Aw, yeah, y’all definitely swapped some spit, didn’t you?”
“Alex,” Mom says, a warning. But her eyes are bright with curiosity. “What would you two like me to make for breakfast? Sounds like we have quite a lot to talk about today, so we’ll need some good food to keep us going.”
“Good food for good conversation,” I say. “I like that, mom.”
“Polite conversation,” she says, giving Alex a look.
My sister holds up her hands. “I’m out, then. I’ve been hanging around gorgeous grump too much—he’s rubbed off on me, and now I’m clinically incapable of kindness or patience.”
“Speaking of swapping spit,” I say. “You do know that you and this gorgeous grump are headed in that direction, right?”
“Food, y’all,” Mom says wearily. “Let’s focus on the food.”
I set down my mug. “Right. What about migas, or a frittata, grits…”
“I say grits!” Alex replies, heading for the pantry.
“Oooh!” I say, remembering Ford’s comment about the grits casserole mom used to make. “What about that grits casserole, Mom? The one with the sausage and cheese and mushrooms we used to have for brunch? Totally terrible for you, and totally delicious.”
My stomach grumbles at the memory. My dad is the celebrated chef in the family. But Mom was the one who did the cooking in our house. She made a variety of things, from Mexican recipes passed down from her mother to American and Lowcountry classics my sister and I devoured as kids.
She did this day in and day out. More than thirty years—and counting—of cooking for us. Just like she’s cooking for us this morning.
My throat thickens. Damn it, since when do hangovers make me emotional?
“I haven’t made that in forever,” Mom says. “It’s just been your father and I for so long—”
“Will you show us? How to make the casserole?” I say, mentally kicking myself for not asking sooner. I can tell you exactly how long to smoke pork butt, how to alter your rub so it best compliments your turkey or brisket or chicken. The best combo of wood chips to achieve maximum flavor and moistness. Best smokers for home chefs.
But I have no idea how to make any of my mom’s recipes. With the exception of her arroz con pollo—that I had her give me a lesson on because I love it so much. Otherwise, though, I know next to nothing about the meals that literally kept me alive and allowed me to grow into the semi-functional adult I am today.
Makes me kind of feel like a jerk. What does it say about me that I didn’t ask sooner about my mother’s cooking?
But Mom, being the awesome human being she is, just smiles. “I’d love to show you two. Alex, be a dear and grab a box of chicken stock. Eva, if you wouldn’t mind getting the butter, the half and half, and that block of cheddar—I think I have a block of cheddar, anyway—from the fridge.”
As Alex measures, I chop, and Mom stirs, the three of us chatting companionably about how terrible the heat is and how much we hate to love the Kardashians, I start to feel glimmers of that inspiration Ford assured me I would find.
I didn’t believe him last night. But now—hell, now I’m starting to think he might actually be right.
This is so…nice.
Don’t get me wrong, I love the intensity of tending to a smoker or a pit. But there’s something to be said for working in a kitchen alongside the people you love. Making recipes that aren’t groundbreaking or revolutionary, but that are comforting. Crowd pleasers.
As Mom whisks a lot of butter into a simmering pot of grits, the savory smell literally making my mouth water, I feel like I’m being wrapped in a big old hug. Cheesy as that sounds.
Speaking of cheese. I drop several cups’ worth of freshly grated white cheddar into the pot. The three of us ooh and ahh while we watch the grits thicken with the cheese and the butter and the splash of half and half I drop in to finish it all off.
Alex dips a spoon into the pot for a quick taste. “My God, I think I just came a little.”
“Alex.”
“Sorry, sorry. I told you, I’m hanging around the grump too much.”
“I think it’s time you found a nice man,” mom replies.
Alex sighs, and for the first time I glimpse a sense of angst in her. She’s usually so upbeat. So happy-go-lucky. This moodiness is new.
“If only I liked the nice ones,” she murmurs.
Before I can ask her what that means, Mom is requesting the rectangular baking dish I greased earlier. Alex helps her spread the grits in an even layer on the bottom using a spatula. I top it with crumbled cooked sausage, some chopped yellow and orange peppers, and then more cheese because it’s the weekend and why not.
“I have it on 350,” I say, popping the baking dish into the oven. “Half an hour? Forty-five minutes?”
“Probably closer to forty-five, I think. We want that cheese to form a nice bubbly crust on top,” mom says.
“Hell yes to bubbly cheese crusts,” Alex says.
Closing the oven, I high-five her. “Agreed.”
Half an hour later, I’m reaching for the coffee pot to refill our mugs when my phone rings. My stomach drops.
Immediately my mind goes to one name. One person.
Ford.
“Who’s calling you so early on a Saturday?” Alex asks, settling onto a stool at the counter.
I hustle over to the dining room table to grab my phone. “None of your beeswax.�
�
“Mom, Eva’s talking to a boy.”
“I am not.” I grab my phone. Yep, it’s Ford. I may or may not have saved his number last night before going to bed. Just in case.
My heart pops around in my throat as I look at his name lighting up my screen. I wish I could say I didn’t feel as giddy as I did the first time he called me how many years ago.
But I do. I feel giddy. Giggly, even.
Which is a big freaking problem.
Lust. I tell myself it’s just lust. It’s just a phone call. No need to get all existential.
Although the fact that he’s calling me the morning after we hung out—that he’s wasting no time, not playing any games—
I don’t know. Maybe he really is the gentleman he claims to be. All signs are pointing in that direction.
“Well?” Mom is asking, a small smile on her lips as she lifts her steaming mug to her mouth. “Are you going to answer it?”
Chapter Nine
Eva
My thumb trembles as I glide it across the screen. Too much coffee. That’s all. Alex always makes it strong.
“Hi,” I say. I resist the urge to wince at the naked excitement in my voice. Across the kitchen, Alex grins.
“Morning, Eva.” Ford’s voice sounds even sexier over the phone. Grumbly, gruff. “How are you feeling? Please tell me I’m not the only one who’s hungover today.”
Crossing an arm over my chest, I look away from my family’s curious gazes and smile at the front door. “Nope. I am definitely feeling it this morning. Can’t party like we used to, huh?”
“Not by a long shot,” he replies with a chuckle. “To add insult to injury, I may or may not have pulled a hamstring. When Lil’ Jon asked us to get low, I think I got a little too low. Rookie move, I know, but it’s been a while.”
There’s a voice in the background. Sweet, high. A little girl’s.
“Daddy, is Lil’ Jon your friend?”
“Ha. Well, uh, yes, bun, Lil’ Jon is my friend. Or was, until he made me hurt myself.”
Southern Heartbreaker: A Charleston Heat Novel Page 7
