A Night of Southern Comfort Read Free Page B

face with wicked intent. “I begged you to keep going. That’s entirely different.”
    He considered that. Her voice, pleading in passion, was the sexiest thing he’d ever heard. His cock stiffened and twitched against his leg at the thought that he could spend the rest of the night making her beg again.
    She kissed him, scrambling his brain. Her tongue explored the inner recesses of his mouth. He groaned as she pulled away, scooting off the bed. Grabbing his hand, she tugged him from the bed and toward the bathroom.
    “Come on. It’s my turn.”
    He circled his arms around her waist, pulled her against his body, and pressed a kiss just below her ear. “Your turn for what?”
    “To make you beg.”
    Sweet Lord.
    Jack watched her saunter into the bathroom as images of what she promised formed in his mind. The sound of running water and her sultry “Are you coming?” broke him out of his stupor. He stumbled toward the adjoining room, fully prepared to beg and love every minute of it.
    …
     
    The next morning Jack woke to the sun shining through his windows. The scent of Gwyneth and sex surrounded him in the utter stillness of the room.
    She was gone.
    A glance at the empty space beside him and a note on the pillow confirmed his assessment.
    The heaviness in his chest surprised him. What was he expecting? A quick roll in the hay before parting ways? Or was it the prospect of breakfast in bed, a few lingering moments with a fascinating woman? He’d gotten exactly what she promised, and a little more, if he was honest with himself. She’d said she was starting a new life and he’d been fortunate to catch a glimpse of the amazing woman Gwyneth would undoubtedly become in her new future. It gave him hope that his fucked-up life would somehow work itself out as well.
    Reaching for the paper left on the bed, he laughed out loud as he read the neat, elegant script covering the hotel notepad:
    You never made me beg.
    No, he’d never made her beg. She’d demanded “harder, faster” and that he “do that again, please” until the wee hours of the morning, when they’d both fallen into a sated, boneless slumber. But she’d never asked him to stop.
    She’d also never told him her name.

Chapter Two
     
    One month later
    Was it possible to hate an entire room?
    Michaela observed the perfectly coordinated objects placed by her father’s interior decorator in the study of his Richmond, Virginia, mansion. Books, photographs, and awards lined the walls and shelves of the outer office, each piece calculated to present the perfect image to those Governor Eastland deemed important—or more accurately, useful to his ambition.
    When she’d walked out a month ago and moved to rural Elliott, she’d intended to never return. Her relationship with her father had never been close. After her mother passed, both she and her brother, Jeff, had been cared for by a series of well-paid nannies and trotted out like little trophies at political events.
    Her father was old-school ambitious in the tradition of the dynasties now sexily romping through history on the cable channels. Everyone and everything was kept or discarded in accordance with what would best support his perfect image. Her school, clothes, friends, and even her lovers were part of the machine. She’d had little to no control over her life. But since she refused to give speeches, Michaela had finally reached the stage of her life when she wasn’t useful on the campaign trail. She’d seen her chance to break free and struck a deal—she’d live a quiet life and do nothing to embarrass him or hurt his plans, and he’d leave her alone. The governor had agreed. When it came down to it, he didn’t give a shit about her and she was okay with that.
    The day she’d walked out of this house had been the best day of her life.
    After years of planning, hoping, and praying for the day when she could be her own person, Michaela feared the mere act of walking through the front