Julia blinks against the late afternoon sunshine that slants across her face. I step forward so that my shadow keeps the sun out of her eyes. She blinks again, head tilting back as she looks up at me.
Her perfume—not flowery, not musky, just pure delicious poison—surrounds me. My cock throbs.
“Just sex,” she says. “Just once.”
“Just sex,” I say.
But I can’t guarantee just once.
Chapter Three
Greyson
I take off my jacket. Hang it on the back of the driver’s seat.
“Scoot over,” I say, unbuttoning my sleeves and rolling them up to my elbows.
I’m pleased when Julia does as I tell her. I slide into the backseat and close the door behind me.
Turning to her, I wrap my fingers around her wrist. Her pulse flutters against the pad of my thumb.
“Come here,” I say.
She meets my eyes. “Who says you’re the boss outside the office?”
One side of my mouth curls into a smirk. “I do. Now do as I say and get on my lap, Julia.”
Narrowing her eyes at me, she studies me for a moment.
“Then why was I the one who called this meeting?” she replies, climbing onto my lap. Thighs straddling mine.
My hands find her waist. “Because I needed your consent. Now that I have it, I’ll be calling the meetings from now on.”
“But you said just once.” She sinks lower. Face inches from mine.
Lips full and soft. Begging to be kissed.
“You said just once. I know better than to make promises I can’t keep.”
She looks at me. Touches the tip of her tongue to her upper lip.
I want to scream.
“We’ll see about that,” she says.
Thighs straddling mine, she sinks onto my groin. Rolls her hips side to side as her center meets with the head of my cock through our clothes.
Her eyes on mine the whole time. Unafraid. Wholly focused. Watching my reaction.
A bolt of heat slices through my middle.
“Fuck,” I groan, my hands kneading into her sides. She wraps her arms around my neck, shaking her waves back from her face. “Julia. Julia.”
I lean in for a kiss, tilting my head. But she catches me, placing a finger on my lips.
“No kissing.”
“What?” I pull back, crushed. I want to taste her. Every inch of her skin. Body. Everything. “Why the fuck not?”
A shadow passes across her eyes.
I’m more curious than I should be about what it means.
But then she blinks, the shadow replaced by mischief. “Because you’ll be using your mouth for other things.”
“What about your mouth?” My gaze moves to those full, pink lips. “What will you be using that for?”
“Use your imagination. Or do you not have one of those?”
I chuckle. “Already told you I have an imagination.”
“Then show me,” she challenges, rolling her hips. Even through our clothes, I can feel the lips of her pussy parting over my cock. Caressing it. “Greyson, show me how creative you can be.”
I glide my hands up to her tits. Cup them. Her eyelids get heavy when I give them a squeeze, making her nipples harden.
I groan, this time at her responsiveness.
Makes me wonder how long it will take to get her nice and wet. Soaked.
I want her soaked.
My guess is not long at all.
Hooking my finger in the tie at the neck of her dress, I undo the knot. The front falls open, and I pull it down and to the right, revealing her bra. It’s light green and lacy, the cup itself sheer. Showing her pale pink nipple.
Gaze on hers, I lean in and cover that nipple with my mouth. Suck it to a harder point through the lace.
Her skin smells so damn good.
She lets out a pant.
I move my mouth up her chest. Glide my fingers into her hair and fist it. Give it a quick, solid tug.
She gasps, her head falling to the side. Baring the tender flesh of her neck to me.
I sink my teeth into her skin. A tiny bite, followed by tongue, lips. Her hips roll against me harder now. More insistent. Needier.
With my other hand, I hike the skirt of her dress up over her hips. She’s wearing green panties that match her bra, transparent lace.
Her pussy is neatly groomed, but not completely bare.
My dick begs for mercy.
I reach down and pull her panties to the side. Her folds peek out from between her lips. I glide my thumbs between them and open them. Revealing a cunt so perfect and pretty I growl.
Literally growl.
I look up at her.
“You gotta let me kiss you here,” I say, running my thumb over her clit.
Ah, fuck. She’s already soaked. As ready as I am.
She nods, breathless.
Putting my hands on her hips again, I lift her off my lap.
“Sit up against the window. Spread your legs.”
This time, Julia doesn’t fight me. She sits, back to the window, and shimmies out of her panties. They end up somewhere on the floor.
I hope she leaves them there.
Julia is naked from the waist down now, and she’s not shy about it. Legs parted, she reaches down and touches herself.
“Don’t,” I warn. “You come without me, and you’ll pay. You understand me, Julia?”
In reply, she bites her lip. Furrows her brows. Keeps circling her fingertips over her clit.
“Then hurry up,” she pants.
It’s awkward, but I manage to half get on my knees, half lay down on the bench. Meeting her eyes, I loosen the knot of my tie.
Then I lean down. Curling my hands around the backs of her knees, I hold them open and kiss her cunt. The way I’d kiss her mouth—deeply, impatiently, well.
I’m shaking with the effort to hold back.
I swirl my tongue around her clit, and she cries out. Digs her fingers into my hair, urging me to keep going. I suck her. Nibble. Use my thumbs to play with her slick flesh while I lick my tongue inside her.
My dick presses urgently against the fly of my pants.
Her hips buck against my mouth. She’s touching her tits, touching me.
Eyes closed. Completely lost to the moment. Uninhibited. Hiding nothing. Literal naked honesty.
Jesus, she’s beautiful.
I want to keep going. More than I want my next breath. But I’m going to come in my pants if I don’t get inside her soon.
I’ve wanted her for too long.
I’ve waited too damn long.
Mouth still on her pussy, I reach blindly on the seat behind me for the condom. I find it. Kiss her clit one last time.
I fall back on my haunches and hold the condom out to her. Opening her eyes, she takes it.
“You,” is all I can manage as I unbutton my pants. Don’t even bother with my belt.
I pull out my dick and hold it in my fist, getting back up on my knees. Julia opens the condom packet with her teeth. Legs still spread—still propped up against the window—she rolls it down my length using firm, short strokes.
I’m growling again.
“I want to fuck you,” I say. Because that’s all this is.
A fuck.
That’s all this is.
That’s it.
We’re safe as long as it’s just a fuck.
She gives my dick another tug. Harder this time. Making me fall onto my hands on either side of her hips, my tie dangling between us.
“Then fuck me,” she says.
Need—I’m wild with it. My vision goes red, then blurs. I straighten, grab her by the backs of her thighs, and yank her toward me so that her back is flat against the seat.
I pull her again, closer. I wrap her legs around my waist. My dick bobs over her groin.
Taking it in my hand, I position myself at her entrance. Lean down on my other arm.
We meet eyes. Hers ar
e heavy lidded. Cheeks and chest flushed.
“Greyson, please,” she whimpers. So honest in her need.
Why does she have to be so fucking real? Why can’t she pretend or hide or fake it just once?
I rear back. Eyes still on hers.
I buck my hips and surge forward, sinking to the hilt in one rough, fast motion. Her tits bounce. Head falls back. The tiny gold chain around her neck flies up to catch on her chin.
“Yes,” she breathes. “God, that feels good. You feel so good.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. She feels better. Tight and sweet and soft.
My need overtakes me then. I hammer into her, gutting strokes that rock the car.
It’s messy and it’s fast. Backseat fucking in its purest form.
Just what it needs to be.
I reach between us and curl the pads of my first two fingers against her clit. I do it again. Again, and this time I swivel my hips while I’m inside her.
One of her legs starts to shake. Her pussy flutters around me. Her hands land on the window behind her with a thump.
She’s close.
I look at her. “You first.”
“I don’t—”
“You first,” I grunt.
Her hips surge against my fingertips.
While I rock into her, I watch her reactions. She furrows her brow, lost to her rising pleasure.
I’m lost in her.
Her hips surge again. She cries out. My balls tighten.
She comes. Clamping down on my cock, squeeze after squeeze that has me growling so loud I bet they can hear me on the next farm over, twenty minutes away. Her body arches hungrily upward, hands clawing at my shirt. Like she’s desperate for something only I can give her.
I lean down and cover her body with mine. Holding her against me as best as I can while she rides out her orgasm, cheek to cheek. My nose in her hair, strands of it fluttering as I let out one hot breath after another.
I want to kiss her mouth. My chest aches with the desire to turn my head to the side and capture her lips with mine. I want to soothe her. Taste her. Drink her in.
I thrust once, twice.
And then I’m coming, too. So hard it hurts. I empty myself in a handful of hot spurts. I suck in a breath through my teeth, my heart hammering against my breastbone. I can’t breathe. Can’t see.
Julia’s hands are clutched in my shirt at my sides.
I want to keep holding her. But I can’t.
Just a fuck.
Propping myself up on my hands, I pull out of her. The motion makes cum leak out of the condom onto her thigh.
I pause. Heart still hammering.
Her hands are still holding me tight.
I reach down. Smear a little cum across her skin with my thumb.
Julia watches me do it. I wait for her to call me out. It’s weird. Wrong. Possessive in a way I have no right to be.
But she doesn’t say a word. Just wiggles out from under me, reaching for her panties and pulling her dress down over her hips.
I fall back onto the seat. Feeling equal parts sated and fucking flattened by a new, searing sense of hunger.
I’d hoped—foolishly—that having sex with Julia would satisfy my need for her. Make this inconvenient crush go away.
Now I see it’s only made me want her more. Again. Right now.
I’m hungrier than I was before.
My hand trembles as I tie off the condom.
Whatever. It doesn’t mean anything. Probably just need some nicotine.
“Cigarette?” I say, grabbing a napkin from the center console.
Julia smoothes back her hair. “Yeah. Sure.”
We stand in front of my car, the late afternoon light catching on Julia’s hair. Her eyelashes. I light her cigarette. Light mine. For several heartbeats, we smoke in silence.
“Why did you do that?” She brings the cigarette to her lips and looks at me. Inhales. “Mark me. With your…you know.”
“I didn’t mark you.”
I take a long pull. Feel the tension in my muscles releasing.
Smoking is a shit habit. But I took it up after my divorce to help deal with…well, everything. I’ve been hooked ever since. It’s the only thing that relaxes me anymore.
That, and brown liquor.
“What was it, then?” she asks.
I shrug. “I don’t know. Felt like doing it. So I did.”
“Do you have other kinks? Or is that the only one?”
Glancing at her, my pulse skips. Of course she wouldn’t call what I did weird or wrong or disgusting.
She’d call it a kink. And be totally nonjudgmental about it.
I drop my cigarette on the ground and tamp it out with the toe of my shoe.
“I should get going.”
“Let me guess. Meetings.” She tamps out her cigarette, too. “Did I make you late?”
“I’m never late. Unlike some of us.”
She grins. “Hey. I’m juggling one and a half jobs. Cut me some slack, will you?”
We meet eyes. Hers are lit up. Lips curled into that pretty grin. Cheeks still pink.
What should I do here? Hug her? Kiss her cheek? We just fucked in the back seat of my car, for Christ’s sake. In front of a barn. What’s the post-coital protocol for that?
I don’t want to be a dick. But I also don’t want to give her the wrong idea by pulling her close when I should be keeping my distance.
I need to keep boundaries clear.
Awkward silence stretches between us.
“Welp,” Julia says at last, crossing her arms. “Guess I’ll see you around, then.”
I’m rooted to the spot. Afraid if I move I’ll just throw her over my shoulder and toss her back into my car.
“Yeah,” I say. “See you around.”
She moves past me. I hear her car door closing, her engine start.
Dust billows behind her car as she drives away.
I smoke another cigarette—doesn’t make me feel any more relaxed—and head to my meetings.
Chapter Four
Julia
Three Months Later
At first I think it’s just a bad hangover.
But hangovers don’t last a week, even in your thirties. They definitely don’t make your boobs hurt.
The inkling that something isn’t right hits me mid-week. I bury myself in my work, hoping the weird moods, nauseous bloating, and overwhelming exhaustion will go away.
It takes me nearly face planting into my laptop, narcoleptic style, on Friday afternoon for me to finally Google my symptoms.
Pregnancy is a possible culprit.
My stomach seizes at the word. A creeping sense of foreboding moves through me.
“But that’s impossible,” I blurt out loud, eyes glued to my screen as my pulse kicks into high gear.
Sure, my “just once” with Greyson has turned into a pretty regular thing. The sex is delicious, despite him being a class A-asshole. Hell, maybe that’s part of why it’s so good. Up until now, I’ve never really had hate sex.
I had no clue what I was missing out on.
He is the only guy I’ve been with.
We’ve fucked in backseats. In bathrooms and on building sites. No matter where we are, however, we always, always use condoms.
I do regret not being on some kind of birth control myself. My body didn’t respond well to the pill. I should’ve gotten an IUD inserted at that point, but because I’m a lazy idiot, I kept putting it off. That fills me with such regret now—not being more intentional about keeping my uterus baby-free. Stupidly thinking that trusty (heh) old prophylactics would do the heavy lifting. To my credit, I remember reading somewhere they’re 98% effective or something crazy like that.
I Google condoms. They’re 98% effective when used correctly. I run through every encounter I’ve had with Grey in my head. As far as I can remember, there’s never been a snafu.
Although I cringe when I think about our first hookup—the one whe
re I ripped open the condom packet with my teeth. That wasn’t the only time I did that, either.
Still. 98% means there’s a 2% fail rate. Are we really that unlucky?
The chances that his sperm somehow snuck through all that latex are slim. Then again, this is Greyson Montgomery we’re talking about. If anyone has take-charge-son-of-a-bitch sperm, it’s him. And now that my mind—really, my anxiety—has caught on the possibility, I know I won’t be able to relax until I know for sure.
I take a brisk walk up to the Walgreens on Coming Street. I practically run home. Heart pounding so hard I feel dizzy as I look down to make sure I pee on the test strips and not all over my hand.
A single blue line immediately appears on both tests. Not pregnant.
I let out a breath.
I set the timer on my phone for the recommended three minutes.
Turns out my relief is short lived. Less than a minute later, the second line appears in one screen, then the other, each one forming a cross.
Pregnant.
I start to shake. Hard. Throat swelling. I read the instructions over and over again, hoping that I missed something, that the lines are too faint.
Nope. Even a faint second line—and mine are definitely not faint—means you’re knocked up.
“You idiot,” I say, addressing myself and Greyson and maybe God too. “You big, stupid idiot.”
I throw the cover on the toilet and fall down on it, hard, hand on my head. A hundred emotions slam into me with the force of a hurricane. Shock screaming loudest.
The kind of shock that rocks you to your core.
I’m shaking, full body tremors. My hand slides to my mouth.
It’s not a sure thing, a voice inside my head says. The tests could be wrong.
But I know—in my gut, I just know—that I’m pregnant, and that my arrogant, dickhead boss is the father.
* * *
“Julia, sit down,” Gracie says, brow furrowed as she pulls out a chair at a table toward the back of her coffee shop, Holy City Roasters. “You look really pale. Are you okay?”
I nod at the chair across from mine. Swallow the lump in my throat.
“You’re gonna want to sit for this too.”
“Uh-oh.” Eva cuts me a glance. “The last time you said that, you were calling to tell me you’d met a French footballer at a discoteca and that the two of you were running away to live, and I quote, ‘that fancy as fuck David Beckham life.’”
Southern Gentleman: A Charleston Heat Novel Page 3