Southern Seducer: A Best Friends to Lovers Romance

by Jessica Peterson

  Her pussy contracts, gripping me like a vise.

  She closes her eyes. Rises up on a thrust. A wave. I take in the beautiful lines of her body. I love how full her tits are. How her curves have filled out.

  Annabel’s always been beautiful to me. But at this moment, her movements ardent, focused, I am downright stunned by how gorgeous she is.

  Inside and out, this girl is so damn pretty.

  “Aw, yeah, honey,” I say, lifting my hips to meet her at the top of her thrust.

  She shatters, clamping down around me, and I groan, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from coming myself.

  I feel something warm dripping down the hand that cups her breast.

  It’s a silvery liquid, almost clear against my skin.

  “Is it—”

  “Yes.”

  Her eyes, still heavy-lidded, open. Her cheeks, already flushed, burn red.

  “Oh my God,” she says, grabbing the edge of the blanket. “I’m sorry. That’s so gross, I know.”

  I gently push away the hand that tries to clean up the mess. Both her breasts are leaking now, watery droplets that land on my skin and the sheets.

  “Not gross at all. I mean, think about it.” I thrust, reminding her. “I release bodily fluids every time I do this. Semen is way grosser than breast milk.”

  Bel smiles, her expression softening. She leans down. Kisses my mouth. “Nothing about you is gross. Not even your semen.”

  “Wanna put your money where your mouth is?”

  Her blue eyes flash with heat. “What do you have in mind?”

  In reply, I grab her and roll on top of her. Taking charge. I draw her knee up to her chest and I roll my hips, sinking inside her. She gasps. Our eyes remain locked as I find my rhythm. I take my time, even though I know I don’t have much of it.

  Her tits are still leaking.

  She tries to wipe it away, but I swat away her hand. Lowering my head, mouth poised over her skin, I ask, “May I?”

  Her lips part. Fingers glide into my hair. “Yeah,” she whispers. “If you want.”

  I lick. Maybe it makes me a perv. Maybe it makes Bel feel a little more at home in her new skin.

  Either way, I don’t mind it. Tastes more like water than anything else, to be honest.

  Either way, the intimacy of it makes my desire spike.

  I pull out of her, rip off the condom. Quick, quick, quick.

  My hands are sticky with lube.

  Jacking myself off one last time, I come on her stomach and tits. Ropes of thick, hot cum bead on her skin.

  She’s covered. In me. Her.

  Her eyes are closed again.

  For a second, I worry I’ve gone too far. I really have grossed her out.

  But then she’s looking at me, she’s sighing softly, she’s got this naughty glint in her eye. She takes my hand in hers, and together we touch her skin and smear together what’s there. Wet. Hot.

  I can feel the drum of her pulse inside her skin.

  She brings my fingers to her lips. The ones that are coated. She kisses them. Takes them inside her mouth.

  Tasting me, just like I tasted her.

  I hang my head. Not only is the feel of her tongue against the pads of my fingers infinitely erotic. It’s also…perfect.

  The give and take between us is so effortlessly perfect.

  We get it. I get her. She gets me.

  It’s never been this way with anyone else.

  And I know, somewhere in the space between skin and bones and soul, that it’ll never be this way with anyone but Annabel.

  Yeah.

  Fucked doesn’t begin to describe our situation.

  But what the hell can I do? I guess part of me thought the hard stop we have coming might take the intense edge off our encounters. I thought it might calm us down a bit. Keep us, I don’t know, a little more guarded.

  But she keeps giving, and I keep taking, and even though it makes me feel like the world’s biggest asshole, I can’t stop.

  So I’ll give back what I have. Love her the only way I know how. With my whole heart.

  And try my very best to pretend that the hard stop doesn’t exist.

  To: Annabel Rhodes (Annabel.Rhodes@CGCorp.com)

  From: John Beauregard (GoBeauYourself@gmail.com)

  April 4, 2018 10:09 PM EST

  Subject: Welcome to Blue Mountain Farm!

  It’s official: we have an opening date! Granted, it’s not until 2019, but hey, we have a website, so that must mean it’s real. Check it out: www.BlueMountainFarmResort.com

  Yes, the website is bougie AF. But I kinda love it, don’t you? Milly looped me in with her web developer who of course is the best of the best (with the price tag to match). The aerials of the barn and the creek are my favorite.

  I am beyond excited for you to see it. The farm has come so far since you saw it last. I had big dreams for this place, but now that we’ve actually broken ground, I can see our plans are going to surpass those dreams.

  You keep asking if you can come up here again. I’ll grab you in my car and we can take a nice ride up one day. I really don’t want you to see everything until it’s finished because right now, it’s kind of a disaster. But I’ll let you have an exclusive sneak peek.

  The offer for you to be my co-CEO still stands. Although I know how much you’re enjoying Charlotte these days, so I won’t be pushy.

  Beau

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Annabel

  Maisie and I pretty much live at Beau’s house from then on out.

  We go back to Sugarhill Cottage every so often to grab clothes or something the baby needs.

  Mom and Larry have set up their own little love nest over there. Half the time I stop by, they’re nowhere to be found. Occasionally, I’ll hear a thump or something that sounds suspiciously like muffled laughter. I pretend not to hear it and skedaddle as quickly as I can.

  But for the most part, we’re shacked up at Beau’s. It’s like my ultimate college fantasy come to life. The two of us playing house in his ridiculous mansion with my baby, who’s started to sleep through the night more often than not.

  We shower together. When we don’t, I like to peep Beau behind the glass as he works up a lather. Something about the way he moves gets me going like nothing else.

  Why is the way he ducks his head underneath the spray, combing back his hair with his long, thick fingers, so fucking handsome?

  It’s like watching a dance. A porn, but, like, a good one. Quality content right here.

  We eat good food and have great sex. He helps with the baby, and I help him with work. I draft proposals. Draft emails. Help him crunch numbers on endless spreadsheets, which he rewards by giving me the best head I’ve ever gotten.

  We work well together, Beau and I.

  The one thing we avoid? Our calendars. I ignore my phone, with the exception of fielding texts and calls from friends like Mandy and Shannon. Content to pretend that, like the end of my leave, it doesn’t exist.

  The magic of Blue Mountain makes it easy to live in an alternate universe, where the present is all that matters. Each day is more beautiful than the last. The hills are in full bloom now, a riot of green, and Chef Katie sends over heaps of the most delicious fresh produce from the garden: asparagus, zucchini, fresh peas, English cucumbers.

  I cook some nights. Other nights we order in from the restaurant. One night, Mrs. B. comes over to babysit Maisie, and Beau and I belly up to the bar at the main house for mocktails and dinner.

  I dutifully take my antidepressants every day.

  One morning—who knows what day it is—I go upstairs to get Maisie, and instead of screaming her head off like she usually does first thing, she smiles at me.

  Actually smiles, looking like a happy, hilarious little snowman in her sleep suit.

  It’s an image I’ll never forget: the way her smile bared her gums and touched her eyes.

  Gathering her in my arms for a hug, I felt all squidg
y and happy.

  Holy shit, I thought to myself. I’m crushing on my baby.

  No. I’m falling in love with her. Feels like the biggest, best crush of my life. I can’t wait to see her when she wakes up. I crave her when she’s sleeping.

  We’re sold the same fairy tale over and over again: that, as a mother, you’ll feel this immediate rush of overwhelming love for your baby the second they’re born.

  But that’s not how I felt.

  I get why people don’t say much about these things. I still feel the sting of shame when I admit, even to myself, that it took me more than four months to fall in love with my baby.

  To bond with her.

  “I just wish we talked about this stuff more,” I tell Beau one sunny morning. Our daily walks have turned into hikes as the weather’s gotten better, and today, we’re on a trail that winds up the side of a neighboring mountain. The green scent of the pine trees fills the air. “I would’ve felt a hell of a lot less alone if I knew I wasn’t the only one who really didn’t like her baby all that much in the beginning.”

  Beau’s got Maisie strapped in her carrier on his chest, and he’s holding her tiny, socked feet in his enormous man hands.

  Another image I’ll never forget.

  Those keep coming lately.

  “I give women all the credit in the world,” he says, shaking his head. “What y’all have to go through—you’re on your own for so much of it—Bel, it’s a fucking crime. But if you’re feeling this way, then a lot of other new moms are, too. Being open about it all, that’s not a trend you’re gonna start. But it is one you can participate in.”

  “I’m on it. I’ve been thinking about setting up a women’s group at the bank—a forum, maybe. Something about postpartum depression, or…I don’t know. Motherhood in general.”

  “You’d be great at that.” He looks at me. “I’ve noticed there’s a little more pep in your step recently. As much as I want to take credit—”

  “I don’t hate the sex.”

  “You’re welcome. But yeah, I can tell. The light in your eyes is back.”

  I turn my face up to the sky and soak up the warmth of the springtime sun, closing my eyes for a second.

  “The Zoloft is making a huge difference. But so is spending time with you. Exercising. Maisie’s sleeping through the night pretty consistently now, and that smile…” I open my eyes with a sigh. Beau grabs a big branch that hangs over the path and holds it up, letting me pass underneath it before following me himself. “It’s the perfect storm of good things, I guess. I’m starting to feel like myself again for more than an hour at a time. Finally.”

  “That’s awesome. I’m proud of you, Bel. You stuck it out, and now you get to reap the rewards. Remember what I said—you got this.”

  I reach for him, and he threads his fingers through mine.

  “I’m learning to give myself a little grace,” I say. “Now that I’m kinda-sorta out of survival mode, I can think about the bigger picture. Letting go of what I thought motherhood should be, and embracing what it actually is, is something I’m working on with my therapist.”

  I think about the things she’s told me over the course of our sessions. How I don’t need to be perfect to be loved, and how I don’t need to do things perfectly to be considered a good mom. How I need to go easier on myself, let up on the pressure I feel to be perfect and productive, so I can enjoy the everyday moments with Maisie more.

  “I told you, Bel. Put that perfection shit down. You’re just right, just as you are. Right, Maisie?”

  Maisie coos her agreement.

  I ponder that for a while. Later, in the shower, I give myself a little pep talk.

  Perfect motherhood. Whatever the hell that means.

  Put it down.

  Bouncing back to my pre-baby weight and shape.

  Put it down.

  Breastfeeding for a year even though I hate it and it drains me.

  Put it down.

  Being who the world pressures me to be.

  Put. It. Fucking. Down.

  The words are brave. Braver than I feel. But there’s a spark of faith in me, of light, that makes me think if I practice putting down shit that doesn’t serve me, I can kinda-sorta get there. Maybe.

  There is no such thing as mastery in this arena.

  Maybe that’s the hardest lesson of all. A lesson life keeps trying to teach me. About my career, my relationships. Love and money and friendship. That mastery, and happiness, aren’t destinations. You don’t just arrive there at thirty-something and stay forever.

  Knowledge and happiness are about becoming. Blooming, dying, trying again. Learning and unlearning. Failing. Failing again and again and again until you get it right.

  How you learn to enjoy that process, I don’t know.

  One thing I do know? Beau’s helped me get here, to this semi-normal state. His patience, his guidance, his generosity have all been wonderful. Like always.

  It’s gonna wreck me if our friendship ends when my stay at the farm does.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Beau

  On the day Bel is supposed to go back to Charlotte, I’m up before the sun.

  I make a pot of coffee and drink cup after cup of it, black, at the kitchen table. No shirt because Bel’s wearing it.

  I watch the sunrise break over the mountains.

  I’m no poet, but I can’t help but think my heart’s breaking along with it.

  I look up at the sound of light footfalls on the family room carpet. Bel pads over to me in nothing but that shirt of mine, looking as beat up as I feel with swollen eyes and lips and hair all over the place.

  I look away, too ashamed, too sad to meet her gaze.

  I move to get up. “I’ll make—”

  “I got it. You sit.” Her voice is thin. “The sunrise is pretty today.”

  Her spoon clanks against the sides of her mug as she stirs in a good pour of half and half and one teaspoon of sugar.

  I’ve made her that exact cup every morning for the past two weeks.

  The spoon clatters to the floor. I jump, and she curses.

  I hop to my feet, ignoring the twin arrows of pain that shoot through my knees.

  “I’m so sorry,” she breathes. She tries to stoop to pick it up, but I hold out my hand to stop her, and pick it up myself.

  “No biggie.”

  “I made you jump—”

  “Bel. It’s a spoon. I’m fine.” I grab her hands, not thinking. She’s shaking. “Oh, honey.”

  She’s not crying yet, but she’s about to.

  Still, she looks me in the eye, something I was too chickenshit to do a few heartbeats back, and says, “I’m going to miss you. So damn much.”

  Anguish curls around my heart like a fist. “Please. It’s our last day. Let’s not—please don’t do this. Not yet.”

  “Don’t do this?” Her voice rises with hurt. “Are you serious?”

  She’s shaking, and I’m shaking, and I don’t know what to do.

  I should be able to stay calm. Steady. I want to make Annabel feel safe.

  That’s what the good guy would do.

  But trying to be that guy has me doing things that don’t feel all that great.

  I wrap her in a hug. Our embrace is easy, worn in now: my lips in her hair, her arms low around my waist, wrists crossed, fingertips casually grazing my ass.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “I know. It doesn’t make it any easier.”

  “What can I do?”

  “Just…be you. Be with me. I’m trying to stay in the moment. But it’s not easy today.”

  My blood warms. And I can tell hers does too by the way she presses into me. If I reach down and pull up her shirt, slip my fingers between her bare legs, she’ll be just wet enough to let me know what she wants.

  Our last time.

  We haven’t said it, but it has to be. I want Bel to go back to Charlotte and move on. It’ll hurt at first, but she’ll get over
me. She got over Ryan, the man she married, so it’s only logical that she’ll get over the man she hooked up with for a few weeks during her maternity leave. She’ll find someone new. Someone better.

  My gut convulses at the idea. It doesn’t shock me, it just—

  I’ve never been possessive of a girl before.

  Lots of firsts with Bel.

  A cry erupts from the monitor in the bedroom.

  My bedroom. Her side of the bed. A baby monitor and a book on her bedside table, condoms and lube on mine.

  Guess I’ll be celibate from now on because no one’s ever gonna take that side again.

  Bel loosens her grip on me, but I’m already heading for the stairs.

  “Want me to bring her to the bed? Or do you want to nurse her on the couch?”

  She says, “Couch, please,” and reaches for her coffee.

  Everything I do reminds me it’s the last time I’m going to do it. I’ve probably been reading too much Mantel, my brain stuck somewhere in Anne Boleyn’s England. But I feel like I’m headed to the executioner’s block later today.

  Last time I wake up with Bel.

  Last time I climb the stairs and get Maisie up for the day.

  Last time she’ll smile at me from her Pack ’n Play.

  The grief is fucking real.

  Time is oily today, slipping through my fingers, making me slide and slip through the morning.

  Bel nurses Maisie, then I’m taking her on my hip, I’m showing her how to make banana pancakes for her mama, because Bel loves them. Who’s going to make them for her when I’m not around?

  We eat, the baby still on my lap. Annabel always smiles at us together. This morning, her mouth is a straight line. We make halting attempts at conversation.

  What is there to say, except the things I can’t?

  By the time Annabel takes the baby up for a nap, I’ve got a moon lodged in my throat. I wash the dishes and load the dishwasher and make pointless, frantic phone calls to the head of housekeeping, my sister.

  Anything, anything to keep from standing still. Because that’s when the axe comes down.