Southern Seducer: A Best Friends to Lovers Romance

by Jessica Peterson

  Keeping my finger there, I use my other hand to guide my dick into the cleft at the center of her slit.

  “Let me know if it’s too much,” I say.

  She nods. “I’m ready. Please, Beau.”

  I sink into her slowly. My cock and my finger, inch by inch, as slowly as I can go. The effort to hold back is making me shake harder.

  “You feel so fucking good, Bel. So sweet.”

  “You do, too,” she whispers, eyes closed.

  “Honey, I need you to look at me. I need to know you’re okay.”

  She glances at me over her shoulder again with heavy-lidded eyes. The minute our gazes lock, I lose it.

  We speak without saying a word.

  She wants, so I give.

  I glide all the way in, just my cock, and her lips part.

  I need, and she allows me to take.

  She lets me draw out, then slam back in, my balls slapping against her. All the while, I play with her asshole with my finger halfway in. I feel myself move inside her as I thrust, each one harder than the last. Thanks to the generous amount of lube we’re using, I go in and out smoothly. It allows me to set the pace at a punishing rhythm.

  Bel moans, brow creased, and then she smiles. Dimple and all.

  This is fun.

  When was the last time I had fun fucking someone? I’ve had good sex. Sweaty sex. Interesting sex and ambitious sex, too.

  But fun sex?

  It’s new, and it’s awesome.

  Blood gathers in the head of my cock as I slam into Bel again and again. My balls tighten even more.

  Before I can even warn her, I come. I take my finger out of her and grip her ass cheeks for dear life as my body rocks in time to the shockwaves. I’m shouting, I’m cursing, and Bel is still smiling as genuine pleasure softens the hot edge in her gaze.

  She’s taking pleasure in my pleasure.

  Another first.

  I’ve been used before, which I didn’t always mind because I wasn’t exactly a saint myself. I’m not proud to admit that I’ve used people, too. Guess it was a weird way of protecting myself and my heart. I saw so many guys lose so much to people who took advantage of them, and I swore up and down that would never be me.

  It worked. But it made for a very lonely existence.

  A selfish one.

  But sex with Bel feels anything but selfish. On both our ends. I care more for her pleasure than I do for mine. By far.

  From the look in her eyes, she feels the same.

  It’s like getting thwacked in the chest by an errant foot, cleats and all.

  “You okay?” Bel asks.

  I didn’t even realize I had a hand on my chest. I’m practically wheezing.

  “Chest pains. Heart attack, maybe.” I wave away her concern. “Nothing to worry about.”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  “Jesus, Bel, I may be crotchety for my age, but I’m not that old.”

  Laughing, she pushes up onto her hands and leans forward, guiding me out of her slowly. Then she turns around and stands up.

  She wraps me in a hug. Face in the crook of my neck. Arms around my waist.

  She holds me.

  I let myself melt into her embrace. Exhaling, I feel so much—satiation, joy, despair—that I just decide to feel flattened and leave it at that.

  I hadn’t realized how much I’d held myself back with Gretchen. Not until I felt so free to be myself with Bel. I can be fun and naughty and a mess, and she wants me anyway.

  Resting my chin on the top of her head, I close my eyes and revel in the feel of her hair against my skin and the press of her nipples against my chest. The soft sound of her breathing, and the just-there feeling of her heartbeat.

  It’s an exercise in self-flagellation.

  My mood descends to flatness.

  Depression.

  It happens this way sometimes. You open the door just a crack, and a bad mood—a sense of hopelessness—comes rushing in like a wall of water, Titanic style.

  It’s the worst kind of letdown there is.

  “Hey.” Bel digs her fingers into the furrow of my spine. “You’re tensing up. What is it?”

  I decide to be honest.

  “Weird mood just kinda hitting me. My depression at work.”

  She tightens her arms around my waist. “I know what that’s like. What can I do?”

  “Nothing. Just have to ride it out. Maybe I’ll hit the gym or something. Sometimes that helps.”

  Bel shakes her head. “Fuck the gym. We already got our workout in. How about I ride it out with you? I’ll grab Maisie and the fifteen thousand things she’ll need and the three of us will snuggle on your couch. Watch trash TV or, I don’t know, a Disney movie or something. Because I have a baby now, and I guess that’s what you do with babies and TV.”

  I pull back and look down at her. “You sure?”

  “Yeah.” She shrugs. “I mean, don’t get too excited. Maisie’s been super gassy today, so…yeah, she might not be the best company. But she is cute when she’s not farting, or screaming, or blowing out her diaper…”

  I laugh.

  Bel doesn’t. “Let us just be with you, Beau. Whatever mood you’re in, I don’t mind it. All I know is when I’ve hit one of my lows, it helps to have people around. The loneliness, often that’s the worst part of it.”

  Fight, a voice inside my head says. Fight for her the way her dickhead husband never did.

  I wish I could.

  “Sounds nice,” I say.

  My mood persists. I half expect Bel to leave, rolling her eyes at my moping, my quiet.

  But she stays.

  The baby keeps us busy, which helps. I get a first-row seat to life with a four-month-old. Lemme tell you, it ain’t for the faint of heart. If Bel’s not nursing Maisie, then I’m burping her. If we’re not changing her, then I’m putting her down for a nap. If she’s not napping, she’s screaming, and then the whole rigamarole starts again.

  It’s chaos. It’s hard. More than anything, it’s exhausting. I can only imagine how much the monotony of it, day in and day out, takes that exhaustion to an unfathomable level.

  But part of me enjoys it all. The chaos. The action.

  Maisie’s little coos and smiles.

  “Thank you,” Bel says, flopping on the sofa after our seventeenth attempt to get Maisie down for an afternoon nap. “For your help. I know you didn’t sign up for this today. I can do it on my own—”

  “Stop.” I put a hand on her leg because I can. I can touch her the way I’ve always wanted to. “I like it. Learning your schedule. I like staying busy. It’s nice having people in my house. The only other time that happens is Sunday supper.”

  “You and the fam still do that every week?”

  “Yep. How about we put on Men in Tights and have some wine?” I tilt my head toward the kitchen. We went down to my cellar earlier, mostly so I could show it off to Bel, and she picked out a couple bottles of red to bring upstairs.

  “I’ll have a sip or two.”

  I open the best bottle, a fruity Amarone from Italy, and give us each a scant pour in the enormous crystal wine glasses I like to use for special wines.

  Handing her one, Bel smiles. “Cheers. To parenthood. Have you ever been so glad to be childless in your life?”

  I touch my glass to hers and smile back. “She’s looking more and more like you these days. Big blue-green eyes. The dimple.”

  “The smile is pretty cute.”

  “So are the giggles.” I settle on the sofa, intentionally pressing my leg to Bel’s, and sip the wine.

  It’s good. Very good. Flavorful and juicy. Bel must agree, because her eyes roll to the back of her head as she sips.

  “You and the fucking wine. I’m ruined for life. I can never go back to my cheap grocery store shit after this.”

  The offer to send her home with a few cases of the good stuff is on the tip of my tongue. But that’s an unwelcome reminder she’s eventually going to le
ave.

  I don’t want to think about that. So I don’t.

  Instead, I invite her to Sunday supper tomorrow.

  I’ve already shown Bel everything. The farmhouse. The way I touch her. The reasons I shouldn’t. What’s one more thing? Letting her leave is going to kill me, whether I invite her to Sunday supper or not. And I want to see her with my family.

  I want my family to meet Maisie, too.

  One perfect night, when our worlds and our families overlap. One night when I can pretend they’re all my family, the one I was born to and the one I created.

  Bel's smile is a little shy. “I’d love to.”

  “You can’t judge me for the things my siblings say. Or do. That’s my only condition.”

  “Beau, I’ve been judging your siblings for the things they say for over fifteen years now, and I’ve stuck around. You have nothing to worry about.”

  We talk and we flirt, and she even lets me finger her, teenager-in-a-back seat style, at the tail end of Maisie’s nap. We sing along to Aladdin (the animated version, we both agree the live-action one is garbage in comparison) and comment on George Clooney’s perfect salt-and-pepper look in Ocean’s Eleven.

  I order dinner from the barn. Grits this time, the best in the South from Rodgers’ Farms on Wadmalaw Island in South Carolina. They’re topped with short ribs done in this pecan-bourbon sauce that is out of this world, with a side of collards and a dessert of homemade vanilla bean ice cream sandwiched between Bel’s favorite chocolate chip cookies.

  We eat it on the couch like the sloths we are, Maisie watching us from her makeshift play mat on the floor.

  I realize, halfway through my ice cream sandwich, that while I’m not feeling great, I am feeling much, much better than I had been earlier.

  Having people around, not just around in the general sense, but around, in the house with me, helps.

  It helps a lot.

  Maisie yawns and rubs her eyes. Bel stands, grabbing our empty plates from the coffee table. “I’ll clean up. Maisie and I need to get going. I’d blame it on her bedtime, but I’ll be honest, it’s almost my bedtime, too.”

  I get up with a grunt. My hamstrings are tight as hell after sitting for the better part of the day. I try to grab the plates from Bel. “I got it.”

  “Let me—”

  “Absolutely not. You’ve already done plenty today.”

  “Like let you touch my butt?”

  I let out a bark of laughter, then lean in and kiss her nose. “I did more than touch it, honey.”

  “We’re gonna have to try that again.” She’s biting her lip, and Lord help me, I feel my cock getting hard in my sweats.

  “You’re gonna stay, right? Please stay.”

  Because I’m in love with her and I want to touch her ass again and I don’t want to wake up alone.

  “Stay?”

  “Stay here. Stay over. You and Maisie, every night until you have to go back. We have everything y’all need, right? You brought the Pack ’n Play from Sugarhill Cottage, diapers, and her sleep sack. Extra clothes. Anything else, I can just call up to the main house, and they’ll bring it down.”

  Bel looks at me, eyes moving back and forth between mine.

  “You really want me to sleep over with a baby who doesn’t actually sleep?”

  “Maybe she’ll surprise us.”

  “Maybe she won’t.”

  “I don’t sleep all that much anyway.” I glance over her head in the direction of my bedroom door. “I’ll get shameless. I will.”

  Bel taps a finger to my chest. “How shameless, exactly?”

  “For starters, I’ll offer to put the baby down for you. Then I’ll run a bath in that gigantic tub I have in there. I’ll pour you a mocktail. We get in that tub together, you see, and I’ll touch your butt until your toes curl.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “More? Okay.” I scratch my head, pretending to think. “Then I’ll tuck you in beside me in my bed, and I’ll read to you. Something classic.”

  “Like?”

  “Wolf Hall has pride of place on my nightstand. As does a bunch of World War II stuff. I remember you saying you loved The Nightingale.”

  “You read it.”

  “I did. Loved it.”

  Bel scoffs. Only she doesn’t look like she’s laughing.

  She looks as if she’s about to cry.

  “What?” I ask.

  “That sounds perfect, Beau.” The words come out sounding like an accusation.

  I don’t mean to seduce her. It’s not my intention to get her hopes up.

  But I can’t fucking help it.

  I step back. “I’m sorry.”

  “How did we get here? You apologizing for being wonderful?”

  I swallow. “I’m not wonderful.”

  “But you are.” She flattens her palm against my chest. “I’d love to go to Sunday supper, and I’d love to stay.”

  I can see the things she doesn’t say hover in her eyes. I’d love to go to every supper. Stay every night.

  I’d love to be yours.

  I can’t make her mine for good. But until she leaves? I’ll make her mine every night until then.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Annabel

  “So Larry,” I say. “Mom tells me you’re from Tennessee.”

  He grins his Robert Redford grin, and it’s all I can do not to giggle.

  I get why Mom is suddenly interested in fly-fishing.

  I really, really get it.

  “Yes, ma’am, I am. I was born in Knoxville but went to school in Nashville. I’ll always love it there, but I wanted to try something new and see the world a bit. So I did my residency out west in Washington—”

  “Residency?” I’m a little breathless on account of the hill we’re climbing. It doesn’t help that I have how many pounds of baby strapped to my front in a carrier, Maisie’s chubby little legs bouncing in time to my labored steps. “I didn’t know you’re a doctor.”

  “Larry was a urologist in his prior life,” Mom says. She wraps her other hand—the one Larry isn’t holding—around his bicep and gives it a squeeze. “Just like I was a lawyer in mine.”

  “I enjoyed some aspects of medicine. The ability to help people, mostly. But I got burned out. So, I saved my pennies, retired early, and headed back to my happy place.” He nods at the sunset on the horizon. “The Appalachians.”

  I get that, too.

  The weather has really started to warm up since we’ve been here. North Carolina spring at its finest: warm but not humid, a gentle breeze rustling the new leaves on the trees around us. Cloudless sky for days that burns to orange at the edge, where the sun sets over mountains brushed blue by dusk.

  The air is so clean up here. Crisp. I take in lungfuls of it, my heart rate evening out as we crest the hill. Beau’s house comes into view. There are several golf carts parked out front, plus Samuel’s shiny blue pickup truck.

  I can already hear voices, raised in argument.

  I smile and take a mental snapshot of this moment. Baby is content. Cocktail hour is imminent. I’m about to share a delicious meal with my favorite people on earth, in one of the most beautiful places on that earth.

  Right now, it’s all good.

  It’s hard for a type A planner like me to keep my feet firmly planted in the present. I’m always thinking ahead, my brain always roaming for a worry to latch onto. A but or a should or a shit, I fucked that up. The depression only makes this anxiety worse.

  But I’m going to work on it. I’m going to try to enjoy this perfect night, rather than ruining it by dwelling on the heartbreak that waits for me on the other side of April.

  I glance at Larry. “Ever been to the Beauregards’ for supper?”

  “Haven’t had the pleasure, no,” he says, laughing.

  The argument has only intensified as we’ve gotten closer. I can hear Milly call someone a “dick weed jerk-off.” Hank is telling someone else to calm down. Beau is la
ughing, and the sound must make me smile harder because Mom is looking at me funny with a knowing gleam in her eye.

  “Never a dull moment in this family, that’s for sure,” she says. “I’ve never been to Sunday supper, but I have been out to dinner with all six of them. And I’m pretty sure the manager told us never to come back to his restaurant.”

  My turn to laugh. “I remember that. Parents’ weekend, right? The Italian place on Franklin Street.”

  “Yep. I’ll never forget it. I’m not sure I’ve ever laughed so hard. Or saw so much broken glass.”

  The arguing dies to a murmur. Before we’re even on the front step, the door swings open. It’s Milly and Mrs. Beauregard, and they’re holding out their arms and hugging us, gasping at Maisie’s “sweet little face” as we move inside. The rest of the family is crowded behind them in the foyer, a knot of smiles and shouts.

  It’s overwhelming. In the best way.

  “’Bout time y’all showed,” Hank says.

  “But we’re early.”

  “Not a second too soon. Milly’s madder’n a hornet at Rhett—”

  “Rhett’s here?” I stand on my tiptoes.

  “Sure am!” he calls, holding up a hand.

  I startle. The youngest Beauregard brother is rocking a full mountain-man beard. Like his brothers, he usually wears his short scruff with aplomb. But this is a beard. Add in the hipster flannel and skinny jeans he’s rocking, and he looks like a lumberjack who’s ready to go chop wood, then slam craft beers at a local brewery hotspot.

  Rhett grins, running a hand over his epic facial hair. “Super Bowl beard,” he explains. “I’m a superstitious fucker. So much so that I’m keeping it until next season.”

  Mrs. Beauregard kisses my cheek as she leans in for a hug. “Excuse my son. He’s only been home for an hour, so he’s yet to shed his heathen bachelor ways. Language included.”

  “Sorry, Mama. I’ll put another hundred in the swear jar.”

  “Mama’s gonna buy herself a whole new house with all that money we got in there,” Samuel adds.

  “Would you look at that cutie,” Mrs. Beauregard says, bending down to get a better look at Maisie. They smile at each other, and I feel a rush of pride. “I’ve had the best time watching her. I promised Beau I wouldn’t steal the baby right away, but—”