The Southern Comfort Series Box Set

by Clark O'Neill, Lisa

  Slipping into the nightgown blooming with daisies that Max had given her for Mother’s Day – along with a handmade card and a pretty rock – Tate flipped off the bathroom light and made her way into her bedroom. Max and her mother were both long asleep, the last of their overnight guests checked in and settled. But Tate was restless, edgy.

  The air around her seemed expectant. Like the calm before a storm.

  “Get a grip,” she told herself, rolling her eyes as she turned down the covers. She’d become embroiled in a criminal investigation, all but witnessed the abduction of a young girl, and – ending a record drought – had met a man she liked well enough to take to bed. A man who mere hours ago had given her an unqualified no, thanks.

  Of course she was edgy.

  But feeling the pinch of tension, she wandered down to check on Max.

  So innocent, she thought, watching him sleep, purple bear tucked beneath one arm. How could anyone ever look at a child, and want to strip that innocence away? But she knew that there were those who did – she’d seen it firsthand.

  She hated to think what that poor girl had gone through to wind up in a shallow grave in the woods.

  And given that particular train of thought, jumped when she heard the doorbell.

  Likely one of Murphy’s patrons, she mused as she headed down the back stairs and through the kitchen. She’d have to call a cab, because their guest rooms were totally booked.

  It was only when she had her hand on the knob that she realized she’d neglected to put on a robe. Her nightgown was summer weight, and short. She was considering going back to retrieve something a little more modest when the bell chimed insistently again.

  “Alright already.” She swung the door open.

  And came face to face with the last person she expected to see.

  The man was gorgeous. Blond. Smelled an awful lot like a brewery.

  And was clearly none too steady on his feet.

  “I have no idea why I’m here,” Clay admitted, taking pains to enunciate each word. “I told myself this wasn’t going to happen, and I tried to stay away. I really did. And your cousin wasn’t supposed to let me come over here. We had a deal.”

  Narrowing his eyes, he shot some irritation in the general direction of the bar. “But I suspect some kind of set-up.”

  Tate folded her arms across her chest. “You mean, like I asked one of the twins to get you drunk and send you over here?”

  “I’m not drunk. Precisely.”

  Tate arched a single brow.

  “You’re wearing your nightgown,” he pointed out, obviously figuring it was in his best interest to redirect the topic. “You shouldn’t open the door to a stranger looking like that. Hell, you shouldn’t open the door to me looking like that. And I meant that Rogan set me up, not you. Although to tell you the truth, it might have been Declan that sent me packing. They look an awful lot alike when one’s been drinking. Are you going to let me in? Cause if not, I can just go sleep in my truck. Or call a cab. Because Justin’s at the hospital. Poor guy needs to get a life. You know…”

  He gestured grandly with his arm, and Tate pressed her fingers to her lips to keep from laughing.

  “…that’s really very unhealthy. It leads to burn out and all kinds of stress. I should know because I’ve recently lost my mind. God you’re pretty. I just want to bury myself inside you until nothing else matters.”

  As propositions went, it was rambling and not all that cohesive. He looked like something a cat had mauled and then left on Tate’s doorstep for inspection.

  Still alive, but twitching and severely impaired.

  And the really sad thing?

  She still found the man absurdly appealing. She was either crazy about him, or more hard-up than she cared to admit.

  “Come in.” She sighed, pulling the door wider. A cloud of late night heat and bar fumes entered behind her guest. She’d have to get him cleaned up and then put him in her bed. She could always sleep with Max.

  He scratched behind his ear, looked charmingly sheepish. “I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t get you out of bed.”

  “I just got out of the shower. Bed was next on the agenda.”

  “You smell like peaches.” He sniffed the air.

  “I wish I could say the same.”

  Grimacing, Clay looked down at his clothes. “I, uh, bumped into something. There was spillage.”

  Amusement edging out irritation, she stroked a finger over a splotch on his chest. “Best get you out of your clothes, then.” Too late, she realized what she’d said. “And boy, did that not come out right.”

  “Oh, I think it did.” His eyes went hot, desire burning off the chagrin. His intention to kiss her was clear, and Tate took a step back.

  Clay stalked slowly forward.

  There were so many reasons not to do this. Hadn’t he turned her down just a few hours ago? And now here he was in her entry, not precisely drunk.

  But when his hand snapped forward, winding into her hair, she allowed herself to be drawn in.

  “I need you.” He breathed it, smelling of the mints he must have grabbed at the bar. The tempest she’d been expecting broke in a shower of electricity between them. “It scares the hell out of me, Tate, because I’ve never needed anyone so much.”

  And it was what she needed to hear.

  Winding her own hands until they met at his nape, she pulled his head down to hers.

  He licked his way into her mouth with way more hunger than finesse. She tasted mint, the mellow grain of beer, the tang of something spicy. And under, maybe through it all, the sweet punch of arousal. It had been so long since she’d felt like this.

  Maybe she’d never felt like this.

  When he lifted the edge of her gown, drew her closer, she gave herself up to the storm.

  Hands streaking under the cotton, Clay groaned when he encountered skin. He plied the ins and outs of each of her curves, learning her with his fingers.

  Tate’s breath caught when he grazed the undersides of her breasts, brushed his callused palm over her nipples.

  And when he eased a finger down, slipped inside, she was already slick with wanting.

  “Ah, Tate.” He said it reverently, like a prayer. And pushed another finger into her.

  “Clay… we need…” The words stuttered out between searing kisses. The response he made was incoherent, and his muscles tightened beneath her hands when she grasped his arms. But she pushed him back with just enough force to let him know he needed to stop.

  “Not here,” she gasped when he lifted his head, the warm chocolate of his eyes unfocused. “I can’t make love to you in the hall.”

  Clay pulled his hand from beneath the gown, slipped it around hers. Tate was startled by the wetness there, and even more surprised that it heightened her arousal.

  She started to move toward the stairs, but Clay caught sight of the sofa in the front parlor.

  “This is quicker.” He pulled her with him.

  “Clay, we can’t –”

  But he moved with single-minded determination, leading her toward the Victorian settee. It was an antique, hard and uncomfortable, and had been in Tate’s family for years. Clay didn’t seem too concerned. He closed the door behind them.

  “Clay….mmmpf.”

  Tate found herself pressed against the smooth wood of the door, much as she had the night he’d fought the mugger in the alley. Only instead of his hand, his mouth covered hers, and instead of fear, her veins pulsed with excitement.

  From somewhere beside her, she heard the lock turn with a soft snick.

  His hand manacled her wrists, stretched her arms over her head so that she was well and truly pinned. Hot and hungry, he clamped his teeth against her neck.

  “Oh God,” she breathed, suspecting that if he wasn’t holding her up, she’d just slide right down the wall. When his other hand, impatient, pushed inside her panties again, Tate marveled that she didn’t simply dissolve.

  “We… oh.
” Suddenly her feet were off the ground, her legs wrapped around his hips.

  “We what?”

  “Huh?” she said as his teeth found her ear, his tongue the sensitive spot just behind it.

  “You said we need to do something.”

  She could feel him, the shockingly hard length of him, pressing against her center. “We need to hurry.”

  He made a noise, something guttural, then strode across the room. Shoving aside the toss pillows, he dumped her on the settee.

  And muffled her gasp of surprise by closing his mouth over hers.

  The kiss exploded into frenzy.

  Open-mouthed, hot, wet – it wasn’t the least bit polite. Tate felt the rasp of beard stubble against her chin, and shivered at the rough thrill. This was Clay, defenses down. No more cool-eyed agent or charming player.

  He was raw. Open.

  Hers.

  For however long it lasted.

  “Clothes,” he breathed, when they had no choice but to come up for air. Grasping the edge of her gown, he pulled it over her head. “You’re wearing entirely too many.”

  And at the sight of her bared breasts, feasted like a man starving.

  Everything in Tate went hot, fluid and rushed toward the promise of more. She clasped his head, heart swelling as she gave herself over, because she knew that this was right. This night, this man, hell, even this sofa felt like the most natural thing in the world.

  Until the elastic of her panties yielded to Clay’s fingers with a resounding rip.

  “You… tore my underwear.” She twisted around, watched the ice blue nylon fall to the floor.

  “I’ve lost the ability to be civilized.”

  When she looked back, she saw he was right. His tousled hair, the feral gleam in his eyes, gave the impression of something untamed.

  And something a little wild, a little untamed in Tate knocked against the gate of her desire. “Guess I better go get my whip.”

  With a strangled sound, Clay practically ripped open his pants. She barely had time to appreciate the sight when he pressed forward with his hips, pushing the tip of his erection against the entrance to her body.

  “Condom.” He strained the word through gritted teeth. Fumbling his wallet from his back pocket, Clay tossed it aside, opened the foil wrapper with his teeth, then hastily covered himself.

  Before she could touch him, kiss him, say his name, do something to add to the proceedings, he drove into her so fast and hard that she had to bite her lip to keep from screaming.

  CLAY held himself still as Tate’s liquid heat surrounded him, trying not to weep with gratitude.

  The noise she’d made when he entered her nearly made him explode.

  He wanted to take it slow, wanted to do everything exactly right, but she felt so good and he craved her like air, and he thought he might die if he didn’t start moving.

  So he pushed her legs wider and drove himself deeper, again and again, giving into his baser instincts.

  It was so unbelievably erotic – her totally naked, still damp from her shower; him totally clothed and smelling vaguely of sweat. He couldn’t slow down even if he’d wanted to. She was…

  Light, and goodness, and beauty.

  Everything that had been missing from his life.

  It was… mind blowing.

  With the certainty that he was only going to last maybe three seconds longer, he reached down between them to help her join him.

  That was all it took – just his touch in the right spot – and she proceeded to shatter around him.

  It triggered his own personal explosion.

  He saw lights. Hell, he saw stars.

  He saw Tate, head thrown back, damp hair spread like black silk against the brocade cushion, eyes closed tight against the surfeit of pleasure, and gathered her into his arms as he climaxed inside her.

  He never – never – wanted to let her go.

  Spent, he collapsed on top of her.

  When he came to his senses, he was pretty well embarrassed, because he’d lasted all of about two minutes. It was a personal all-time low. Hell, he’d even performed better in Sara Carlson’s bedroom closet when he was sixteen.

  Way to make a first impression on the lady, Clay. Tie one on, ravage her in her living room, and then barely make it worth her while. He lifted his head, met her dancing eyes, and was relieved to see her smiling.

  “Sorry,” he said. Mortified. “I’m not entirely sure what happened.”

  Tate tilted her head to the side and ran her fingers through his hair. “I’m pretty sure we just had sex. You know – tab A goes into slot B?”

  “No.” Clay shook his head, loving what she was doing to his hair, loving the feeling of still being inside her. “That was more like spontaneous combustion. I’d like to blame it all on the alcohol, but I’m pretty sure it’s actually your fault.”

  “My fault?” One perfect brow arched heavenward as a lazy smile curled those lips.

  “Yep. Your fault entirely. You’re just too damn sexy for your own good.”

  She laughed, and Clay found himself smiling. He could listen to her happiness forever.

  “I’m also very, very naked. Dicey, when there’s a houseful of paying guests upstairs. Speaking of which, you’re fresh out of luck, Speedy. The only bed currently left unfilled is mine.”

  “Well now, it seems to me that that’s actually quite convenient. You’re naked and you have a bed. What more could an inebriated traveler ask for?”

  “So you think you’re going to just sweet talk your way into my bed, all drunk and smelly?”

  “As a guest, I could offer to pay you for the pleasure, but you might find that offensive.”

  Tate shivered as he kissed her, made a little mmmm in the back of her throat, and Clay felt like a king.

  “We should probably go upstairs,” she whispered.

  Looking around, Clay realized how very badly he’d behaved. Some king. This was the public parlor, for heaven’s sake. He shifted his weight so that Tate could scoot out from beneath him.

  Suddenly the smell of his own sweat didn’t seem quite so erotic. “I could use a shower.”

  “No kidding.” Casting her gaze around the floor for her nightgown, Tate scooted over to pick it up.

  Clay divested himself of the condom, admiring the view of Tate’s backside as she leaned over the couch.

  When he considered taking her again, just like that, he could only shake his head. More like the court jester.

  He put the condom in his pocket. It wouldn’t do to have a guest find it tomorrow. Not to mention Tate’s mother.

  Or Max, God forbid.

  “Clay?”

  He looked up.

  “I could use another shower. Unless…” she let the word drag out.

  “Unless what?”

  “Unless you’re too not precisely drunk to try that standing up.”

  His crown had been reinstated. Clay decided it was good to be king.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “OW. Shit.”

  Bright morning light seared Clay’s eyes, lids scraping like sandpaper as he dragged them open. He slammed them shut, hoping his other senses kicked in so that he could discover the source of the incessant buzzing. But when the bed revolved and his stomach dipped, he cautiously forced one back up.

  And determined he’d gone colorblind overnight, because the room he was in was pink.

  Fuchsia, he guessed you called it, screamed at him from the walls, while a lighter shade laughed amongst the white and yellow flowers rioting on the tangled sheets. Confused, cautious, he sat up gingerly and held a hand to his head.

  Which pounded like the entire Marine Corps band was using his brain as a bass drum.

  When the buzzing started again he vaguely recognized it as his cell phone, probably still lodged in the pocket of his pants.

  His pants – as with the rest of his clothes – appeared to be MIA.

  Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, which c
aused the whole room to spin a slow circle, he peered down toward the floor, locating a pile of discarded clothing. His pants were lying in a crumpled heap under a small pile of colored confetti. The kind of confetti that came lubricated and ribbed.

  Bringing memory flooding back in a rush.

  Well. At least he’d proven that he was capable of providing more than a scant minute’s worth of entertainment.

  And Rogan – damn him – should be pleased to note they’d used protection.

  Memories, both hot and lovely, drifted in and out of focus like an old reel of film.

  Tate, in the shower, laughing as he took her against the tile.

  Tate, moving beneath him, whispering words he didn’t deserve to hear.

  Tate, warm against him, feeling like salvation in his arms, while the air went soft with dawn. Sometime very early this morning, he’d finally fallen asleep, and she must have slipped out to see to her responsibilities.

  Speaking of which, he reached down to grab his phone.

  “Copeland.”

  “I take it your lazy butt is still in bed?”

  “It’s in bed all right, but I can assure you it’s been anything but lazy.”

  Spotting a glass of water on the nightstand, Clay snatched it up, trying to dispel the boll weevils that had knitted a fine new sweater for his tongue. Tate – bless her – obviously predicted how he’d be feeling. He popped the analgesics she’d left for him before attempting to read the clock.

  There were several more digits than necessary, but he was pretty sure it read six forty-five. When Kim had said first thing in the morning, she apparently hadn’t been kidding.

  Through the silence on the other end of the line, Clay could practically hear the wheels turning. “Think a little bit louder, Kim. My supersonic auditory prowess is a little impaired this morning.”

  Kim laughed, and he knew it was because he’d finally gotten into the swing of his vacation. “Are you alone,” she asked saucily, “or do you need to call me back in a few minutes?”

  “I’m good to talk,” he assured her, casting his gaze about in search of his shorts “as long as you do so in dulcet tones.” Giving up on underwear, he pulled his pants up off the floor, wincing as the smell of alcohol hit him like a bare-knuckled punch. “Your people are evil,” Clay informed her, thinking of Rogan and his insidious drink. “It’s no wonder the Irish need so many patron saints.”