Carolina Blues by Virginia Kantra

walk, following the movement of Lauren’s smooth, round butt beneath her short, snug skirt. No lines.
    She wasn’t his usual type. Before he met her, he didn’t consider himself the kind of guy who was in the market for a casual hookup.
    But his dick didn’t care.
    The sunlight struck glints in her dark hair like charcoal sparks. She glowed with life and perspiration, warming him in places that had been dead cold a long, long time. She appealed to something dark and animal inside him, a darkness he usually hid, an animal he was doing his damnedest to control.
    At least until they got into the house.
    Anticipation surged through him, heavy and thick. His skin tightened.
    She didn’t use the back door—the family entrance. She led him around to the shaded porch on the side of the house instead, where the inn guests sometimes took breakfast or sat at the end of the day. Inside the French doors was a butler’s pantry with a coffee service and refrigerator for guest use. Through the access on the other end, he could see the Fletchers’ kitchen.
    Lauren stretched to open a glass-fronted cabinet above the counter, her little top riding up to expose a narrow band of pale skin and ink, curling lines following the sexy lower curve of her back. A rush of heat slammed into him, blinding him with lust like a teenage boy. He wanted to press his mouth to the base of her spine, to trace her tattoo with his lips.
    She turned, holding two glasses. “Drink?”
    Hell. He’d figured the drink was just an excuse. A ruse. Like inviting somebody up for coffee after a date. But what did he know? He hadn’t been on a date in years.
    She was dehydrated, he reminded himself. And maybe it was better if he didn’t fall on her like a pit bull. He didn’t know if this was a one-off thing for her or if there was going to be a repeat performance. If he wasn’t going to get a second shot, he wanted to make this last.
    “Sure.”
    She smiled—
right answer
—and turned away again, reaching into the mini fridge. When she bent over, her skirt and top separated again, revealing the vulnerable bumps of her vertebrae and that lick of ink against her skin. He crossed his arms over his chest and settled back, determined to take this at her pace.
    She straightened, a bottle of wine in her hands. “White okay? Or would you like a beer?”
    “Wine’s fine.”
    He wasn’t planning on drinking anyway. He didn’t drink in the afternoon. Not anymore.
    She turned back to the counter to open the bottle.
    With another woman, he’d figure she’d pulled out the alcohol to relieve her nerves, to ease the awkwardness of sex with a near stranger. But Lauren didn’t look nervous. Maybe the wine put a gloss of civility over the whole thing. Maybe she was making a point to him or to herself that he wasn’t just here for the sex.
    He felt a twinge of . . . something. Conscience? Which was stupid. He’d been honest. They both had.
    I’m just telling you how it is.
    You’re probably ready for a rebound relationship.
    They were both going into this with their eyes open. But her hands on the corkscrew weren’t quite steady. So maybe she was a little nervous after all.
    Tenderness uncurled inside him.
    He came up behind her as she poured the wine and rested his hands at her waist, his thumbs riding that half inch of warm, exposed skin. She jolted, gripping the bottle, and then released it to relax against him, her muscles loosening, yielding. He loved that, that she yielded. To reward her, to indulge himself, he bent his head to her throat. Her hair brushed the side of his face. Her scent was warm and musky like sex. Opening his lips, he pressed his mouth to the soft hollow of her neck. Her shudder rocked them both.
    His fingers tightened on her waist. He had enough control to do that, to keep his hands from sliding to her breasts. His erection lodged against her bottom. She made a soft, assenting sound. Turning in his hold, she twined her arms around his neck