Southern Heartbreaker: A Charleston Heat Novel

by Peterson, Jessica

  She feels like heaven. So wet and soft I glide in easily. I tease her like that for a minute, pumping my head in and out. Again and again, stopping once to circle myself around her clit.

  It’s raw, skin on skin, and it feels fucking fantastic.

  “Ford,” she breathes, brow furrowed, lips parted. “Baby, I like that. So much.”

  Now she’s got to go and call me baby.

  I am a dead man.

  Girl’s not shy about telling me what she likes. What she wants. I adore it, because it makes pleasing her that much easier.

  And I want to please this woman. Maybe if I please her enough, and please her well, she’ll fucking stay for longer than just one night.

  I guide myself back inside her and thrust my hips, sinking deeper. She’s tight. Perfect.

  I am never, ever going to recover from this. Since I’m already in deep—literally and figuratively—might as well go all out.

  I bracket her head with my elbows and lean my weight into her as I bury myself to the hilt. Eva’s head falls back on a gasp, eyes fluttering shut. I rock into her, slowly gaining momentum.

  I kiss her jaw, her chin, rolling my hips in a deep, rhythmic thrust. She guides her bent legs up my sides, welcoming me. Pulling me deeper. Her tits bounce against my chest. She breaks the kiss to trail her mouth over my jaw, my neck. Fingertips trailing ribbons of soft sensation up and down my back.

  She is loving me. The only way she knows how. Fully. Even though she’s scared.

  It is too damn much.

  Eva is too damn much.

  I lean down and take her nipple in my mouth. I sweep my tongue over the pebbled point. Circling my hips so I hit her clit.

  Eva opens her eyes, and our gazes lock. I slam into her once, twice, then a third time. Hurt and love coursing through me in equal measure as our bodies come together with a lewd slapping sound.

  All the while her eyes never leave mine. They’re sweet. Am I imagining they’re a little wet, too?

  My chest tightens. Did I actually hurt her?

  “No,” she says, grabbing my chin. Reading my thoughts. “This is good. This feels good. So—”

  She cries out when I hit her clit again. Her pussy flutters around my cock.

  She starts to shake. Tremors that snake their way up her sides and down her legs.

  I curl my body around hers, thrusting all the while. Covering her with whatever warmth and strength I have to give.

  She curls back into me. Arms looping underneath mine to hold me against her, fingernails digging into the tops of my shoulders.

  Trusting me, just like she said she did.

  Now I’m shaking, too.

  My immediate instinct is to keep it together. I’m always in control. Always in charge.

  But something bursts inside me. A glass that shatters. A sun that explodes.

  I just go. Sweaty and shaking, I love her back. I trust her like the lovesick idiot I am, and I give her what I have, and I take what she offers. Legs spread. Eyes on mine.

  My orgasm looms, coiling and throbbing, at the base of my spine. My balls are tightening.

  Soon.

  But first, Eva.

  She’s always first.

  I take her hand in mine, fingers tangling, and guide it to her pussy.

  “Remember what I want.” I lift my hips a little to give us better access. “I want you to come when I’m inside you.”

  Eva nods. Guides my fingers over her clit. I pull back. Thrust forward. Circle my fingers. Her walls clamp down around me, once. A forceful spasm.

  “Ford,” she breathes, burying her face in my neck.

  I kiss the top of her head. Her ear. Our fingers circle her clit.

  “Ford.”

  She comes, her pussy clamping down on my dick. I shout. She whimpers into my neck, and I hold on for dear life as her shockwaves rock us both. I go still, letting her grip me. The waves keep coming and coming and coming until I can’t breathe.

  My orgasm is close. I feel it rising up to meet me. But somehow I hold it off until she’s done, body going limp. She falls back onto the pillows, bottom lip caught between her teeth. Eyes still closed.

  “Where do you want me to come?” I ask.

  She rolls her hips, keeping her eyes closed. Curling into me, warm and soft and vulnerable. “Wherever you want.”

  “Look at me when you say that.”

  Eva opens her eyes. They’re clear. Wet. Soft.

  “Whatever you want, Ford, I want you to have it.”

  I look at her. The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.

  “I want you.”

  “Then have me.”

  With a grunt I pull out of her, catching my dick in my hand just in time. I come on her stomach. Her tits.

  She watches me the whole time. No judgment in her eyes. No flicker of uncertainty.

  My God is her confidence a turn on. I keep waiting to hit a roadblock. Keep waiting to find something, anything that will keep me from speeding off into the suicidal sunset that is falling in love with Eva Lacy.

  Her not wanting kids would usually be one of those roadblocks. At this point in the relationship, anyway. But she was so great with Bryce today. Great with everyone, really, my parents and my friends. I loved seeing our worlds collide like that. It worked.

  I think Eva and I could work. But again, it’s not my place to change her mind about what she wants or who she is.

  I can just be good to her. The way she’s been good to me.

  Speaking of being good—I’ve wanted to talk to her a little more about our breakup. Explain myself. Maybe I can do that tomorrow over breakfast.

  Goddamn, we get to have breakfast together. I can’t wait.

  I collapse on top of her with a groan and kiss her long and slow. We’re sticky and sweaty, but I could care less. I got my girl in my bed and nowhere to be. Nothing to do for the next twelve hours except fuck and sleep and laugh.

  It’s like the adult version of Christmas morning.

  I wrap an arm around her waist and pull her to me, rolling us onto our sides so I can look at her face. Her eyes are closed. I tuck her hair behind her ear, and she smiles, curling her fingers into the smattering of hair on my chest.

  Reaching down with the other hand, I smear my cum across the underside of her breast. Her breath hitches.

  “Let’s wash this off you,” I say. “How do you feel about a shower?”

  She blinks her eyes open, lazy and sated. My heart swells.

  I did that.

  Me. The tirelessly responsible parent. Practical, profit-focused business owner. I satisfied this woman so well and so thoroughly she’s boneless.

  Still got it, y’all.

  “You came all over me just for that, didn’t you? Just for the shower sex that would inevitably ensue?”

  I give her ass a playful slap. “Yep. If memory serves we were pretty damn good at shower sex.”

  “You sure you’re up for another round so soon?” She arches a brow.

  “Told you I make health a priority.” I climb out of bed and reach for her hand. She laughs when I pull her to her feet. Pull her against me, nicking her throat with my teeth. “I’d like to think I’ve got as much—if not more—stamina than I did back in college.”

  Eva reaches around to pinch my butt. The head of my dick twitches against her belly.

  “Cocky.”

  “Nah. Just honest.”

  Eva’s smile grows wistful. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s true.”

  “So let me be honest about how glad I am you stayed.” I cup her ass cheeks in my hands and press her against my growing half-chub. “’Cause I’m real glad, honey.”

  “Please tell me you have a removable shower head.”

  I grin, feeling suddenly wolfish. “I do. It’s got several settings, depending on how intense you like your…water pressure.”

  “Pressure sounds fun.” Eva’s full on smiling now, eyes lit up. Happy. She grabs one of my hands and twines our fi
ngers together. “I’m glad, too, Ford. That I stayed.”

  I give her palm a squeeze. Imploring her—imploring myself—to live in the now. To not think about whether or not we’ll be glad we did what we’re doing in the morning.

  It’s just difficult not to skip five steps ahead when it comes to Eva. I’m old enough to know you can’t have Saturday nights like this every weekend.

  But how sweet would it be to make this a regular thing?

  How sweet would it be if she stayed every night?

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Eva

  Ford is still asleep when I wake up the next morning.

  Judging by the light, strong and bright, coming through the windows, it’s got to be late. For me, anyway. Nine or ten if I had to guess.

  I lost the ability to sleep in like this somewhere in my twenties. But when you stay up way past your bedtime having shower sex, and against the wall sex, and delicious 2 a.m. sex, it makes sense you’d sleep later than usual.

  I start to stretch but immediately recoil with a small hiss. I’m sore. In places I didn’t even know existed. Tiny muscles in my hips and along the sides of my spine. Ford and I ran a sexual marathon last night, and I am feeling it today.

  But if I’m being honest? I could go for more. The sex—it’s so good it’s existential.

  For several beats I just look at the man snoozing peacefully beside me. He’s on his stomach, head turned toward me. Arm curled under the pillow. Cheek smushed against it. His enormous bicep—the thick vein that punctures the bulbous muscles there—and his smattering of tattoos make him look every inch the adult entertainment star he proved himself to be last night.

  But the smushed cheek, and the way his hair falls carelessly across his forehead, makes him look boyish. Sweet.

  Poor guy was absolutely beat yesterday. I’m glad he’s getting some rest. He needs it.

  I’m glad I was able to take care of him. The way he’s been taking care of me.

  My heart twists at the same moment flutters erupt in my belly.

  Yeah. Yeah, I think it’s safe to say I’m falling for this guy. Hard. Fast.

  I climb out of bed with a wince. I tiptoe to the bathroom before ducking into Ford’s neatly organized closet. I can’t resist walking my fingers down the rows of gorgeous suit jackets and pressed collared shirts.

  The smell of Ford’s body wash, fresh and male, rises off my skin as I shrug into one of his shirts. Plain white, starched to within an inch of its life. Rolling up the sleeves, I notice the right cuff is monogrammed with his initials.

  I run my thumb over the careful embroidery. FLM. Ford Langston Montgomery.

  I smile at the memory that pops into my head. Ford’s parents got him a monogrammed dopp kit for Christmas junior year. When you’re raised in the south, you know there are several ways you can do a monogram. One of them is putting the initial of your last name in the middle, making the letter larger so it stands out. That’s how the dopp kit was embroidered—FML. Fuck my life.

  For months Ford and I laughed every time he’d reach for that dopp kit on his way to the men’s restroom on the second floor of our dorm building. Fuck my life, I have to go shower in that science experiment of a bathroom. Fuck my life, why does my professor suck so much?

  Fuck my life exam week is the pits, so come fuck me and make me feel better.

  I’m starving, a caffeine headache already starting to kick in. Figure I’ll make us some coffee and breakfast here instead of going out to eat. That way we can maybe squeeze in another round or two before Ford has to pick up Bryce.

  I head downstairs, careful not to make any noise as I close the bedroom door behind me. I want Ford to get the sleep he needs.

  Before heading to the kitchen, I give myself a little tour of his house. It’s old, with great historic details typical of the South of Broad neighborhood, but impeccably restored.

  It’s also pretty big. Understated but no doubt expensive. Just like the guy who owns it. The rooms are large and have high ceilings, but whoever decorated the place made them feel cozy. Homey. Lived in.

  It feels a lot like my parents’ house. Maybe because it’s a real family house. Comfortable and pretty but practical, too. Everything is child proofed. Bryce’s toys overflow from baskets in corners. Her artwork is framed above the mantel in the dining room.

  My pulse picks up pace when I see a series of picture frames on the bookshelves beside the TV in the family room. I pick one up. In it, Ford is with a pretty brunette woman. She’s holding a newborn wrapped in a swaddle dotted with pink hearts.

  I set it back on the shelf, heart twisting. I cannot imagine that kind of heartbreak. Bless him for being open to another relationship at all. For opening himself to the possibility of getting hurt again after losing the woman he loved. The mother of his child.

  As if he couldn’t be any more excellent or inspiring.

  I want to be with him. That much I know now. I just don’t know how yet.

  I can’t stop thinking about what would my life be like if I was with Ford. Maybe being a stepmom isn’t a trap. But what if I’m terrible at it?

  What if do like it, but I find balancing motherhood and my career too overwhelming? My career—my passion for cooking and writing—is essential to my happily ever after. That’s something I’m not willing to compromise on.

  And I can’t just dip my toe into parenthood; I can’t become a part of Bryce’s life and just ghost if I decide it’s not for me. I mean, I guess I could if things got really bad. But at what cost? I wouldn’t be breaking just Ford’s heart. I’d be breaking Bryce’s, too.

  The thought alone kills me. We bonded big time yesterday at the tasting. I can only imagine how much more attached we’ll get when we spend more time together. Which I’d really like to do.

  But before that can happen, I have to make my choice. I have to decide whether I’m going all in, or if I’m out. Because I refuse to string this beautiful little family along.

  I’m feeling all kinds of things as I move into Ford’s beautifully renovated kitchen. I’ve been cooking in my apartment’s rinky dink galley kitchen. This is a real chef’s space. Professional gas range, multiple ovens, a big island that doubles as an excellent spot for food prep. You could make a meal for twenty in here, no problem.

  Then there’s the walk-in pantry. It’s well stocked—again, family house—so I’m able to whip up migas with a side of peaches and cream French toast. Something savory, something sweet. Because who knows which one Ford will want? After the athletic evening we shared, I imagine he’ll wake up just as ravenous as I am right now. And I want him to have exactly what he wants.

  I feel better—more certain—as I cook. I like cooking for people. But I haven’t cooked for my people in forever.

  I haven’t cooked for people I love. Which I got to do yesterday, and now again today.

  Feels good.

  Really, really good. I may not know what I’m doing when it comes to Ford and his family. But I do know my way around some comfort food.

  By the time I’m sliding a rimmed baking sheet of French toast slices into the fun little warming drawer I discovered beside the ovens, I’m humming. I head over to the coffee pot and pour myself another cup. Turning, I almost have a heart attack when I see Ford standing on the other side of the island. Quietly watching me.

  He’s leaning one shoulder against the doorway. Arms crossed, one leg bent. He’s wearing black sweats and a broken in t-shirt. Scruff, bed mussed hair, bare feet.

  But it’s his expression that turns my knees to jelly. There’s an intensity to his gaze I haven’t seen before. A pensiveness.

  Like he’s feeling it all—the weight of what’s going on here—all at once, too.

  “I like this look on you,” he says. His voice is rumbly with sleep. “My shirt.”

  I grin. “Couldn’t resist.”

  “It smells fucking amazing in here.”

  I nod at the plate, napkin, and silverware I set out on the
kitchen table. “Sit. I’ll pour you some coffee. Still like it with milk?”

  Ford pushes off the doorway and stalks toward me. A pulse of heat hits me squarely between the legs, making the soreness there ring.

  “I can pour my own—”

  “I know you can.” I put a hand on his chest. “But I want to do it for you. Sit.”

  He looks at me. I expect a twitch of his lips. A flash of naughtiness in his eyes.

  Instead, those light brown eyes soften, and so does everything inside me.

  “Okay,” he says after a beat. Then he leans in, bending his neck, and kisses my mouth. The kind of lazy, scruffy, pre-coffee kiss that smells like toothpaste and tastes like heaven.

  Oh my.

  Oh my.

  My hand is still on his chest. A futile way of protecting myself.

  Like I could ever, ever push this man away.

  He’s quiet as I make him his coffee and fill up our plates. I set one in front of him.

  “Holy shit, E. This looks insane. Thank you.”

  “Kinda random, but you had most of the ingredients, and I didn’t know whether you’d want savory or sweet, so…”

  He grins. “So you made both.”

  I lift a shoulder. “Figured the leftover French toast might appeal to Bryce, too. I know I loved it when I was little.”

  “You made extra.” His grin fades. “For my daughter.”

  “Does she not like it?”

  “She loves it. Especially with this whipped cream stuff. Don’t tell me you—”

  “Made it from scratch? Of course I did.”

  I can’t read his expression, and it’s killing me.

  “Let’s eat. I’m starving,” he says at last.

  I sit beside him. We eat in silence that grows more uncomfortable by the minute.

  “I took a little tour of your house,” I say. “Ford, it’s gorgeous. Cozy but really beautiful.”

  “Thanks. I bought it after Rebecca passed away. Figured it was best if Bryce and I had a fresh start, you know?”

  I swallow my migas, wiping my mouth on my napkin. “I get it. I’ve been searching for a fresh start of my own—one of the reasons I moved back to Charleston.”

  Ford stacks several bites of French toast onto his fork and puts them in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. Then he looks at me.