Southern Player

by Jessica Peterson

  My body rises on a wave of awareness at his proximity.

  “Why haven’t you written your list down?” he repeats, taking a sip of beer.

  I take a sip of my own before replying. I’m catching a little buzz. It feels nice. “I was too scared. Too wrapped up in other people to think about myself.”

  His eyes are fire when they meet mine. He nods at the paper, once.

  “Let’s think about you now. You wanna try anal. Write that one down.” He waits while I do as he tells me. My handwriting is awful and uneven. But I get the word down.

  I am writing my list down.

  A thrill moves through me. This is weird. And awesome. And obscene.

  And awesome.

  “What else?” he asks.

  I take a deep breath. Determined to ride this wave.

  “Phone sex,” I say.

  Luke’s lips twitch. “I’ve never actually done that.”

  “Really?”

  “Nope.” His eyes are smiling again. “We’ll be losing our phone sex virginity to each other.”

  I let out a breath. Something about that idea—that he’s new to this, too, that he’s willing to try it—makes my confidence perk up.

  Makes me hot as hell.

  “How sweet,” I tease.

  “Don’t lie. You like the idea of me bein’ your first as much as I like the idea of you bein’ mine.”

  I do like it. A lot. And that makes me feel…

  Things. Many confusing, overwhelming things.

  I write phone sex underneath anal.

  This time, Luke doesn’t have to prompt me to keep going.

  “I’d like to have sex in public,” I continue, eyes on the paper as I write. “And sixty-nine-ing is something I’ve always wanted to try.”

  Luke doesn’t say a word. I just hear him swallow as he drinks his beer.

  I write down Domination—both ways? Because why not.

  “Ever done that one?” I ask. I look up.

  My breath hitches. I find before me a man transformed. He’s glaring at me from across the table—glaring, wickedness and war in those blue eyes—nostrils flaring as he breathes in short, uneven spurts.

  He’s got both hands glued to the table. Like he’s trying very hard not to reach for something.

  Someone.

  Me.

  Like my list is the biggest turn on ever, and not some weird, lame thing that some weird, lame chick wants to try.

  He’s actually into it. Into me.

  Cue more overwhelming feelings. I was always so scared that guys would think less of me for just having this list. That I’d disappoint them somehow. Never mind what they’d think about what’s on it. These line items—they’re a bit taboo, sure, but they’re not especially racy or original or unique. I thought it would put off someone more straight-laced. Someone like Nick. Hell, it did put off Nick. Same as it would’ve bored someone more experienced. Like Luke.

  But Luke is clearly not bored.

  “Yes,” he says. The word lands like a fist, knocking the wind out of me. “That’s a particular favorite of mine.”

  “Which way? Do you like to be dominated, or do you like to dominate?”

  He narrows his eyes at me. “You’ll have to wait to find that out, too.”

  I stare at him.

  “You’re killing me,” I say.

  Luke scoffs. “You got no idea the kinda murder you’re puttin’ on me right now.”

  I blink. Breathe. Glance down at the paper in front of me.

  “Last one,” I say, willing the pencil to move. “Role play.”

  He scoffs again. I look up to see him fisting his hair in his hand as his chest heaves in and out.

  “Jesus Christ,” he growls.

  “What?”

  The look in his eyes—it’s savage and soft now. Like he’s in serious distress. The same achy hurt his acceptance and enthusiasm is making me feel.

  “You got one hell of a list right there, honey.”

  The heat in my blood spikes at the endearment.

  “Too much?” I breathe. “Not enough?”

  His gaze is steady on mine. “Just right.”

  I drop the pencil as something shifts inside me. Tectonic plates colliding. Feelings exploding. Blood pumping hot and red inside tight skin.

  He’s too damn good at this. Making me feel wanted and sexy and safe.

  Which conversely makes me feel very, very afraid.

  “Luke,” I say. A warning. Not daring to look up.

  From the corner of my eye, I see him lift his hand off the table. It edges toward mine for a second before it goes still. He drops it, his fingers curling into a fist.

  I imagine my hair in that fist. Luke would give it a quick, hard tug. Tell me not to make a sound as the fingers of his other hand slipped between my legs.

  “I’m not apologizing for wanting you the way I do,” he says.

  That makes me look up. “I don’t want you to apologize. I just want you to know that it scares me a little.”

  “It shouldn’t.” He looks me squarely in the eye. “But I understand. I know where you’re at. Just keep talking to me, okay?”

  I nod. “Okay.”

  “Communication is key here. So let’s do a little lightning round of questions before we give your list a go.”

  I feel a fresh stab of excitement-nervousness. We’re here. We’re gonna do this.

  I am going to see Luke Rodgers naked. Finally.

  I am going to be who I am in bed. Finally.

  I lean back in my chair, digging my hands between my crossed thighs. If I don’t, I’ll be reaching across the table and grabbing this Jude Law lumberjack by the collar.

  “Anything you need,” I say. “Tell me.”

  “Kissing okay?”

  My gaze darts to his lips. They’re Tom Hardy full. Beard making them look even fuller and more pink. A blush of sensation prickles through my own lips at the idea of kissing his. Of his lips kissing me between my legs, beard scraping the insides of my thighs raw.

  “I like kissing,” I say.

  “Good. What about protection? I got condoms and don’t mind using ’em. But just so you know, I get tested regularly. Last time was a month back. Clean bill of health. Haven’t been with anyone since.”

  My pussy is positively singing right now. Lust clouds my thoughts, my body taking over. I don’t know how much longer I can make it without mauling this man.

  “I got tested recently, too. I’m clean. And I’m on the pill.”

  Luke nods. “We need a safe word. A lot of this stuff is new territory for the both of us. And with the domination thing—it’s important we be able to pull the rip cord if we need to. Any ideas?”

  I’m blinking, hard. I’ve never had to have a safe word before. The idea is bewildering. And hot.

  “What about watermelon?” I ask with a grin. “Gwen was saying your melons really have some size on them.”

  Luke laughs, huge shoulders shaking as he shakes his head. “Perfect. And sorry about those two. They mean well, they’re just…completely inappropriate.”

  “I hope that never changes. You know I adore your mamas,” I say. And then I stop myself from saying I adore you, too.

  It’s up to me to draw the lines here. To let Luke know what’s okay and what isn’t. To delineate sex from serious. Blurring those lines won’t be doing either of us any favors.

  But I do adore Luke. As a friend. And now as a sorta-kinda fuck buddy, too. Where is that line? Have I already blurred it without knowing?

  I’m struck by the thought that I really couldn’t do this with a complete stranger. The level of trust it requires—there’s no way I’d feel comfortable sharing these parts of myself with someone I didn’t know.

  So I guess in a way the lines were blurred before I even broached the subject with Luke.

  That doesn’t mean I can’t keep other lines straight and clear. I have to. I want to. Because as much as this whole thing is about orgasms an
d anal and fruit-flavored safe words, at the end of the day, it’s about me being able to tell my truth.

  It’s about making myself the star of my own story. The heroine. Whether or not I’m the star of someone else’s.

  Truth, intensity, authenticity: those are the things I’m after. So those are the things I’ll focus on, rather than forever or for keeps or fervently perfect partner. I’ll keep reminding myself that it’s okay to be selfish. Because it is. As long as I’m not hurting anyone in my quest for light-filled cunnilingus, it’s okay.

  I will be okay.

  Luke tips back his beer. I watch the last of the suds slide up the neck of the bottle into his mouth. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. This assured, sensual dip I feel in my stomach. He looks so good sitting there, five sizes too big for the chair in his cozy white tee and jeans. Deeply tanned and freshly showered.

  Oooof, looking at him makes me feel things. My life is push push push. Always pushing forward. Pushing through. Pushing myself to be someone or something.

  But this? Sitting here and wanting Luke? This feels like a pull. One I have to make no effort for. I just have to allow myself to be pulled. To stop swimming upstream and let the current of his white-hot need take me instead.

  Clearing my throat, I sit up. Making my thong slide up the length of my sex. I’m wet.

  I tilt my hips, the seam of my jeans catching on my clit. Immediately my nipples harden.

  I draw a sharp breath.

  Luke glowers.

  “You all right there, Gracie?”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  He’s smirking again. “Can I help?”

  I need. Right now.

  “Any—ah, anything else you want to talk about?” I manage.

  One side of his mouth curls upward. “Nah. Naw, I’m done talkin’. You?”

  “I’m done,” I bite out.

  Luke stands. Slowly. Reaches for his bottle and mine, too. Slowly. Makes his way to the sink, and sets the bottles down inside it. Slowly.

  Like this is just another Thursday night in his kitchen. Like the sexual tension in the air isn’t thick enough to cut off our oxygen supply.

  He turns around. Slowly stalks toward me, hips and shoulders rolling. A predator with his gaze on my eyes, my mouth, my tits.

  My nipples scream against the confines of my bra.

  My eyes move to his erection. Poor guy doesn’t have a spare centimeter in those jeans.

  I put my palm on the table to steady myself, and then I press up, standing.

  I meet his gaze head on. Scared shitless and wet enough to fill an ocean.

  But still looking him in the eye. Because by doing that, I’m looking myself in the eye, too.

  No. More. Hiding.

  He stands in front of me. Tall and broad. Twice my size. I reach out and run my palm up his ribs to his pec, gathering the material of his shirt in my fist. A shudder moves through me at the solid feel of him—the warmth of his smooth, hard muscles tightening beneath my grasp.

  Holy shit I get to touch him like this.

  Luke reaches around and puts his hands on my ass. Slowly presses me into him, into his body and his dick and his heat. My breasts melt into his chest.

  It’s like pouring lighter fluid on a fire that’s already blazing. My body goes up in flames.

  My mouth falls open. I stare at him, feeling my lids grow heavy.

  He’s got me trapped. Big hands on me, eyes on my face. His body blocking any possible exit.

  And in that sense of being trapped, being surrounded, there’s also this coil of energy. It winds tighter when he squeezes my ass, gently and possessively, rolling his hips just the tiniest bit. Creating delicious, frustrating friction between our bodies.

  I roll back. Seeking.

  He ducks his head. Scruff tickling my cheek as he murmurs in my ear.

  “Tell me,” he says, pressing his lips to the hollow on the underside of my jaw. “Tell me everything, baby girl.”

  I do.

  I pull back, turning my head so our mouths are a tenth of an inch from meeting. My eyes flick to his.

  I want you to kiss me.

  A beat of heated silence. Then another.

  His eyes search mine. So blue and so hot.

  I feel my heart beat its way out of my body. Loud and obnoxious and very much alive.

  Then, letting out a small breath, Luke nudges forward. Our noses brushing just before he tilts his head and his lips capture mine.

  Because that’s what his kiss is. A capture, a claiming, a pull that has my whole body rising to meet him. His lips are soft. Mouth hot.

  I get my first hit of his saliva. His taste is clean and masculine. Toothpaste and beer.

  And the feeling of that taste—it’s like the heady buzz of cigarettes and brown liquor and late night gay porn, all rolled into one.

  It sends me spinning out in the blackness behind my closed eyelids. I pulse and I plead and I let him guide my mouth open with his slow, hot tongue.

  I make a sound. Something between a moan and a groan.

  Luke’s hands glide up my sides, nice and slow, his thumbs lazily grazing my nipples—oh—before he takes my face in his hands.

  He’s deepening the kiss, tilting my head so he can slant his mouth over mine.

  His tongue is like velvet in my mouth and on my lips. He’s biting the bottom one now, this slow, soft nibble that makes the heaviness between my legs pulse brighter.

  Aaaaand now he’s rolling his hips again, cocking them so his erection rubs lengthwise up and down my pussy as he kisses me senseless.

  I fist his shirt tighter. Goddamn you.

  How dare you.

  More. Please. Now.

  I’m wild. But he’s still moving slow. Taking his time.

  He is going slow with me, and I want to fucking kill him for it. Hug him, too.

  Because it makes me feel treasured. As silly as that stupid word sounds. It makes me feel like I can do no wrong. That whatever I want, whatever I do or whatever I say, it’s the right thing.

  It makes me feel free.

  The exhilaration of this sensation—so foreign I hardly recognize it at first—makes me smile against Luke’s mouth.

  “I want you to keep tellin’,” he murmurs, feathering his lips across mine one last time before pulling back. Eyes on mine. “But I just want you to do it in my bed. C’mon, baby girl. We goin’ upstairs.”

  I notice both his voice and his accent have thickened.

  “Luke,” I breathe. “You okay?”

  The look in his eyes darkens, like banked embers on the verge of flaring to sudden life.

  “I’ll be better when I got you naked. You gonna spread those long legs for me, honey? You gonna let me see your cunt? See how pretty it is before I fuck it with my tongue?”

  Jesusssssssss.

  Other guys have talked dirty to me. I wasn’t into it. Came off as cheesy and forced.

  But this—this turns me on so bad it makes me panic.

  “I’m dying,” I say.

  “I’m here,” he says.

  And then he laces his fingers through mine and leads me to his bedroom.

  Chapter Nine

  Luke

  Adore. Worship. Conquer.

  Pretty much sums up my approach to Gracie and her bucket list.

  Adore her so she feels comfortable enough to be herself with me.

  Worship her so her body is satisfied and her doubts are put to bed.

  Conquer her list, one line item at a time, so I might conquer this misbelief of hers that satisfaction in bed and satisfaction in a relationship are mutually exclusive concepts.

  Above all else, I want to encourage her to share herself. The real parts. The hurt ones.

  All her parts—I want ’em.

  If I can do that—if I can make her feel safe enough and adored enough to make that happen—I think the rest will fall into place. Gracie is a smart, down to earth girl. She values authenticity, same as I do. If w
e can be our authentic selves together, who knows how far we can take this thing?

  Because damn do I want this girl. In a way I haven’t wanted someone in a long, long time.

  And I’m gonna try my best to get her to want me that way, too. The thought of her wanting another guy—of her being with another douchebag who will no doubt undo all the careful work I’m about to undertake—

  “Luke. Luke, hey—”

  I blink. My thoughts scatter. We’re in my bedroom. Gracie is standing beside me. The apples of her cheeks bright pink. Eyes sharp, lids heavy.

  My heart thuds inside my chest. I may not know any foreign languages. I may not have a degree.

  But I did this. I’m the one who’s got her so worked up she’s fucking bewildered by it.

  “Yeah?”

  “My hand. You’re squeezing it.”

  Immediately I loosen my grip, dropping her hand.

  “Sorry. I’m sorry, Gracie. Did I hurt you?”

  She manages a tight grin. “I’m fine. Horny as hell. But fine otherwise.”

  “Here. Make yourself at home.” I gesture to the bed. “I’m gonna go grab a few things from the bathroom.”

  Gracie turns her head to look around the room. It’s surreal, having her here. How many times did I think about her when I was alone in my bed? How many times did I fantasize about having her in it with me, my hips bucking when I came into my hand?

  Her eyes meet mine. She smiles, a brilliant, feminine flash of white teeth and comely lips, and I feel it like a bullet straight to the chest.

  “It’s so cozy in here,” she says. “I love it.”

  “Thanks. It’s my favorite room in the house. There’s another bedroom downstairs—bigger—but I liked this one more. The light is real pretty first thing in the morning with those east-facing windows. And I think the eaves give it some character, too.”

  She takes in the sharp angles of the roofline above the bed. The ceilings up here are low—barely eight feet—but that’s part of the appeal for me. It’s a cozy spot that invites you to take off your clothes and stay a while. The shiplap walls are painted a dark, moody green. I wanted to put a big old four-poster bed in here, but we couldn’t fit one up the narrow staircase. So I settled for a king-sized iron frame instead. Linens are pristine white and clean, just how my mama taught me to keep ’em, with a fat duvet at the bottom of the bed. I keep the house as cold as I can when I sleep.