His breathing steadied, the last tremors of release fading into the warm Charleston morning.
His eyes opened and locked onto mine, dark with fresh hunger and a raw, possessive edge that made my pulse stutter.
The sun filtered through the live oaks in soft golden shafts, warming my face. The harbor breeze swirled around us—thick, salt-laden, carrying the clean brine of the water below and the faint, sweet bloom of jasmine. It lifted strands of my hair, cooled the sheen of sweat already forming at my neck, and tasted faintly metallic on my tongue when I licked my lips.
“Up here. Now,” Grant growled, voice still rough from his orgasm.
His hands slid under my arms, lifting me effortlessly from the grass. He pulled me onto his lap astride the bench, my knees sinking into the sun-warmed wood on either side of his hips, pants shoved down. The bench was solid beneath me, its grain smooth and heated by the morning sun.
The promontory felt dangerously alive. Spanish moss swayed overhead in the breeze, casting dancing shadows across Grant’s chest. Below us, the harbor water lapped lazily against the bluff—soft, rhythmic, indifferent. And I thought I heard distant voices drifting from nearby, close enough to remind us anyone could round the curve of live oaks and see everything. The risk sent liquid heat flooding between my thighs.
“Anyone could walk by,” I whispered, even as my hands braced on his shoulders.
“Let them,” he said, the words dark and filthy against my mouth.
He yanked my panties aside with one hand, the other guiding his cock—still thick, still slick from my mouth—to my entrance. I sank down in one slow slide. The stretch burned so perfectly I gasped, the salt air filling my lungs as he filled me completely. Warm sunlight kissed my bare thighs and the exposed curve of my ass; the breeze teased higher, cooling the slick heat wherewe were joined and making my nipples tighten against the thin fabric of my top.
“Fuck, Louisa,” he groaned, head falling back against the oak trunk behind the bench, jaw tight. “So wet. So goddamn tight.”
I started to move—slow rolls of my hips at first, savoring the thick drag of him inside me, the way the sun-warmed bench and his body heat melted together beneath us. The harbor breeze grew bolder, licking across my skin like a third lover, carrying the briny taste of the sea and the faint sweetness of moss. Every thrust upward from him met my downward grind, the bench creaking softly under the rhythm, the slap of skin muffled only by the distant lap of waves.
His hands gripped my ass hard enough to bruise—possessive, claiming—guiding me faster. One slid up to pinch my nipple through my top; the other stayed at my clit, thumb circling with ruthless precision. “Ride me harder, babe. Let me hear you say my name.”
The thrill of exposure pushed me higher. Distant footsteps crunched somewhere on the path—maybe a stable hand, maybe Hallie Mae—but the oaks hid us just enough to make it electric. I rode him frantically now, the warm sun beating down on my back, sweat trickling between my breasts, the breeze cooling it instantly and sending shivers through me. Every slide of his cock hit that perfect spot inside; every pass of his thumb on my clit wound the coil tighter.
“Grant—oh, God, I’m?—”
“Come,” he ordered, voice gravel and command.
I broke. The orgasm crashed through me like the harbor tide—violent, endless—my walls clamping down around him as I cried out into the salt-heavy breeze. The sun seemed brighter, the air thicker with brine and sex. He followed with a guttural groan, hips snapping up one last time as he spilled deep inside me, hot pulses that I felt in my bones.
We clung together, chests heaving, the harbor breeze now cooling our sweat-slick skin while the warm sun still bathed us in golden light. The distant voices faded; the water kept lapping below.
We sat like that. The harbor below us. The oaks overhead. The morning doing its patient, salt-scented work around us.
"You know," he said, after a while. His voice was rough and content, the voice he had after. "We're absolutely going to get caught one of these days."
"I know," I said. "Izzy will think it's funny."
A short, genuine laugh. "Yeah," he said. “Maybe she will."
I leaned back enough to look at him. The jaw, the eyes. The man who'd been named for a general because his father could see the stubbornness coming.
"You okay?" I asked.
He held my gaze. "Yeah. Better than okay."
"Good," I said.
"There's—" he paused. The careful pause of a man choosing how to begin something large. "There's more I need to tell you. About last night. About what Wyatt?—"
"When you're ready," I said.
He looked at me.
"I'm not going anywhere," I said. "Tell me when you're ready. There's no rush."
Something moved through his face. The gratitude again.
