Beauty From Love

by Georgia Cates

  She does and I move to the bed, depositing her in the middle. I begin at her ankles and kiss my way up her body as I crawl over her. Her body still looks amazing after three babies. She occasionally voices a concern about the stretch marks she got with the twins but they’re low on her abdomen and minimal. I don’t see them when I look at her. She’s perfect to me.

  I push her slip up when I get to her hips and look at the tiny scrap of knickers covering her in the front. I put the heel of my palm against her pubic bone and lower it. The lace at her crotch is warm and already wet, so it takes every bit of strength I have to not shove it over and bury myself deep inside her.

  I glide my fingers under the elastic waistband and tug. She lifts her bum and I bite the red lace triangle with my teeth, dragging it down her legs. “Oh God.”

  I toss her knickers and migrate up her body slowly. When we’re face to face, I cradle her cheeks with both of my hands. “I love you, pretty girl.”

  “And I love you, caveman.”

  She brings her legs up around my waist and wiggles beneath me until I’m positioned at her drenched opening. “I was planning to go down on you.”

  She shakes her head. “Later. Right now, I want you inside me.”

  She squeezes her legs to coax me closer and I glide in slowly. I push her legs back, bending them out and she tilts her hips. I thrust in and out several times and she meets each one, bringing me deeper inside her. “Oh, L. This is where I love to be—buried so deep we become one with no beginning and no end.”

  I move my hand to where we’re joined and briefly enjoy feeling myself sliding in and out of her before I seek out her clit. We may be making love instead of fucking hard, but I’m still making sure my girl comes.

  She moans when I find the spot and I circle it with my fingers. “Does that feel good?”

  “Oh yeah,” she moans. “Right there. Don’t stop.” She still says that after four years, although she knows I never stop until she comes.

  She tenses and squeezes her legs tightly, signaling the onset of her climax, and then I feel that magnificent way her body squeezes my cock. That, combined with the knowledge of knowing I’ve brought her to orgasm, ignites the onset of my undoing. I thrust a few more times and then drive deep inside her, emptying all of myself. I love coming inside her even when we’re not trying for a baby.

  I’m blanketing her with my body while I remain inside. I kiss her forehead and lift my head so I can see her face. “Hi.”

  She smiles and giggles. “Hi.” She releases her legs from around my waist and they go limp beneath me but I’m not ready to pull out.

  I lower my face to hers and gently scrape her with my whiskers. “You’re going to take my first layer of skin off with that, caveman.”

  “I’ve been thinking of shaving it.”

  “No way! It’s sexy as hell and I love the way it feels when you go down.”

  “Then I’ll keep it for you because I want my girl happy.” I plant a quick kiss against her mouth before pulling out and rolling to my back. I reach to take her hand in mine, lacing our fingers.

  We lie motionless and I decide it’s a good time to bring up the making-a-baby talk, although we agreed we wouldn’t talk about kids. Technically, this child I want to talk about doesn’t exist so it doesn’t fall under the forbidden-discussion category.

  “I understand if you’re not ready for another baby.” She doesn’t say anything and I wonder what’s up with her—why she isn’t agreeing.

  She moves her hand to my chest and circles the endless infinity symbol, signaling that she’s thinking hard about what I’m saying. “Your hands are full with the three we have so we can wait. Maybe we can think about trying when the twins are two. That would make them three when the new baby is born—that would be a good space between them, right? I’d be thirty-five—much younger than I expected to be by the time we had our fourth.”

  She brings her hand to her forehead. “Can we have a confessional session? We haven’t had one in a while and I think it’s time.”

  I’m surprised. That’s not at all what I was expecting to hear. “Sure. Same rules as always?”

  “Yes. No discussions. No explanations. No grudges.”

  “Okay. Three minutes?”

  “No timer for this one.”

  Oh hell. I always depend on the timer to stop the train before it runs out of control. “If you’re sure.”

  “I am, but I want you to go first.”

  “Okay.” I briefly think and say the first thing that pops into my head. “I love our kids but sometimes I feel like our marriage takes a back seat to them.” I’m grimacing on the inside because that was a rough way to start.

  “By the time I get the kids bathed and ready for bed, a lot of times I’m so exhausted, I don’t feel like having sex.” That’s not a confession, that’s a fact—but I’m glad she’s at least willing to admit it.

  “We came here to get a break and take things slow since we don’t often get that luxury, but once you’ve had enough of that, I’m going to fuck you ninety-nine different ways.” I’m thinking about turning over to start with way number one.

  “You should probably enjoy fucking me ninety-nine different ways while you can since you’ll only get to do it for about seven or eight more weeks before I’m put on pelvic rest again.”

  “What?” There’s only one reason she’d be placed on pelvic rest.

  “I know I just killed our confessional time but … surprise.”

  I rise from the bed so I can see her face. “You’re pregnant again?”

  She nods. “I am.”

  I put my hand on her belly and don’t detect any change in it. “How far along?”

  “I’m guessing around six or seven weeks.”

  “Oh, L … I’m so happy.” And I am but then I remember her telling me she wanted to wait a little while longer when we discussed having another one. “How do you feel about it?”

  “Well, I was shocked at first, maybe a wee bit upset, but I’ve had time to get used to it and now I’m really happy. I’m not exactly sure how I’m going to handle a newborn with a three-year-old and a set of twenty-month-old twins, but I’ll figure it out.”

  “What about Healing Melodies?” I’m so proud of L—her work to create a foundation using music as therapy and expression for children of addicts is nothing short of miraculous. But she has so much on her plate since she refuses to stop composing. I don’t know how she’ll juggle all of it. Perhaps we’ll revisit the discussion of hiring a part-time nanny or maybe Nanna and Pops will take her up on the offer of coming for an indefinite stay. They seem to be warming up to the idea since Jolie is gone on the road with Jake most of the time.

  “I’m not sure. Maybe I can talk Addison into helping. She’s expressed some interest but there’s plenty of time to figure that out.”

  “I haven’t told you yet, but I’ve decided to sell some of the vineyards so I can spend more time at home with you and the kids. I haven’t decided which ones or how many, but I’ve been discussing it with Ben. I figure giving my brother-in-law first pick is the right thing to do. I’d rather help him get established here so he doesn’t relocate my sister to California. I don’t think Mum could take that, especially before their baby arrives. And I’m thinking of making a proposition with Zac after I know what Ben wants to buy.”

  She rises from the bed and throws her leg over to straddle me. “I can’t tell you how happy that makes me. The kids and I need you at home with us.”

  “And that’s the only place I want to be—with you and our swarm of kids.”

  This has been an amazing year and I couldn’t possibly publish this book without a word of thanks to the incredible people that helped make it possible.

  I thank my family for their love, support, and patience while I hibernated in my writing cave, forcing them to eat
takeout more often than anyone should. I won’t forget your encouraging words or the treats you brought me when you thought I needed a break or a sugar rush so I could push onward.

  My agent, Jane Dystel. You’re the best. Thank you for being the one I can run to.

  Readers and bloggers. I can’t do this without you. You’re the butter on my bread.

  My word and grammar ninja, Jennifer Sommersby Young. You are the cat’s meow and you make me (appear) smarter than I really am.

  My dear friend, Ani Markarian. Thank you for your words of wisdom and encouragement when they’re much needed. I adore you.

  My Aussie advisor, Sharon Luth. Thank you for steering me out of the wrong and into the right when I don’t know my ass from my elbow.

  Beauty from Pain Support Group. I can always turn to you. Thanks for loving Jack Henry and Laurelyn as much as me. I love your enthusiasm.

  Emily Beach Thomas. Your legal advice was invaluable. Really. That whole Blake scenario would have sucked without your help.

  I have a ton of author friends that have offered love and support this year. I can’t possibly mention them all but there’s a handful that hold a special place in my heart. Amy Bartol. Shelly Crane. Samantha Young. Michelle Leighton. Katie Ashley. Raine Miller. I’m so happy to call you my dear friends.

  Trish Brinkley. You’re one classy lady. Thank you for all of your hard work. I adore you.

  The Brian Jonestown Massacre • Anemone

  Dixie Chicks • Not Ready to Make Nice

  Elton John • Blessed

  Elvis Presley • Can’t Help Falling In Love

  Emeli Sandé • Next to Me

  Gotye • Somebody That I Used to Know

  Imagine Dragons • Demons

  Jay Ollero • The Man I Want to Be (feat. Tyrone Wells)

  John Legend • All of Me

  Katy Perry • Unconditionally

  Norah Jones • I’ve Got To See You Again

  Plumb • My Sweet, My Lovely

  Plumb • In My Arms

  Plumb • My Child

  Sleeping At Last • Light

  The Swell Season • The Moon

  Georgia resides in rural Mississippi with her wonderful husband, Jeff, and their two beautiful daughters. She spent fourteen years as a labor and delivery nurse before she decided to pursue her dream of becoming an author and hasn’t looked back yet.

  Connect with Georgia

  For the latest updates from Georgia Cates, stay connected with her at:

  Georgia Cates’ Blog

  Facebook

  Twitter

  Goodreads

  It has been such a pleasure corresponding with some of you via Facebook, Twitter, Goodreads, email, and by my blog. I love being in touch with my readers so don’t hesitate to contact me at any time. I love you all and thank you for your support through this journey.

  Young Adult Books by Georgia

  Blood of Anteros

  The Vampire Agápe Series Book 1

  Blood Jewel

  The Vampire Agápe Series Book 2

  Blood Doll

  The Vampire Agápe Series Book 3

  Going Under

  A Going Under Novel #1

  Shallow

  A Going Under Novel #2

  Adult Books by Georgia

  Beauty from Pain

  Beauty Series - Book One

  Beauty from Surrender

  Beauty Series - Book Two

  Beauty from Love

  Beauty Series - Book Three

  Excerpt for Must Love Otters

  by Eliza Gordon

  Hollie Porter is the chairwoman of Generation Disillusioned: at twenty-five years old, she’s saddled with a job she hates, a boyfriend who’s all wrong for her, and a vexing inability to say no. She’s already near her breaking point, so when one caller too many kicks the bucket during Hollie’s 911 shift, she cashes in the Sweethearts’ Spa & Stay gift certificate from her dad and heads to Revelation Cove, British Columbia. One caveat: she’s going solo. Any sweethearts will have to be found on site.

  Hollie hopes to find her beloved otters in the wilds of the Great White North, but instead she’s providing comic relief for staff and guests alike. Even Concierge Ryan, a former NHL star with bad knees and broken dreams, can’t stop her from stumbling from one (mis)adventure to another. Just when Hollie starts to think that a change of venue doesn’t mean a change in circumstances, the island works its charm and she starts to think she might have found the rejuvenation she so desperately desires. But then an uninvited guest crashes the party, forcing her to step out of the discomfort zone where she dwells and save the day … and maybe even herself in the process.

  Buy links:

  Amazon US

  Amazon UK

  Amazon Australia

  Barnes and Noble

  iTunes

  Kobo

  Get in touch!

  www.elizagordon.com

  Facebook

  Twitter

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  Chapter 1 - Batman Jerry

  “911, what is your emergency?”

  “My husband … he’s not breathing. He’s blue. His lips are blue. Jerry, wake up! Wake up!”

  “Ma’am, did he choke on something? Tell me what’s happened so I can help you.”

  “I think it’s his heart. He has a bad heart. He didn’t take his pills today. Or maybe he did, I don’t know. This doesn’t matter! Help me, goddammit!”

  “I’m trying to help you. Where is your husband right now?”

  “On the bed. He’s on the bed,” the caller says.

  I look at the clock. Sixty seconds since the call started. Nineteen minutes until my shift is over.

  “Okay, an ambulance is on its way. What’s your name?”

  “Linda.”

  “Okay, Linda, I’m Hollie. Before the ambulance gets there, we need to do a few things. Can you listen to his chest or feel if his heart is beating?”

  “I can’t. Oh, his lips are so blue.”

  “Why can’t you listen to his chest, Linda?”

  “Because … he has a chest plate on.”

  “A chest plate?”

  “He’s dressed up. It’s Batman night.” Excellent. Oh, Batman. Your timing is impeccable. I’ll have to do yet another karmic inventory to see where I screwed up. I hear my father’s voice: It’s not all about you, Hollie. Guilt squirts into my gray matter.

  “Listen to me, Linda. Check his neck. Two fingers alongside his neck.”

  “His chest plate goes up his neck.”

  “We gotta get the chest plate off so you can check for a pulse and maybe start compressions.”

  “Hang on … I gotta put the phone down.” Shuffle, shuffle, grunt, curse. “I can’t get it off.”

  This is bad. If we can’t get to his chest, dude’s gonna die. If he’s not already floating to the bat cave in the sky. “Linda, can you cut through it?”

  “He’ll kill me if I ruin this costume. He paid a fortune for it.”

  I want to tell her that he probably won’t ever know because at this rate, his brain is guano. “Linda, listen to me. We need to do CPR. You said he’s on the bed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you drag him onto the floor?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “He weighs 300 lb.! I can’t lift him,” she shrieks.

  I’m supposed to be in control here, but that flash of powerlessness never goes away. Unless you’re Les and then nothing bothers you because your soul oozed out of your pores years ago and that mass in your chest formerly known as a heart is now nothing more than an algae-encrusted river rock. With boogers.

  “Linda, did he take any drugs tonight? Did he drink anything? Anything I
can tell the medics so they’ll know how to help?”

  “Umm … Viagra. And some scotch. It’s Batman night …” Linda starts to cry.

  Despite the fact that Batman night is over—abruptly—I feel bad for Linda. “I want you to put the phone down and try to do chest compressions.”

  “But the chest plate—”

  “Work with me, Linda. He’ll forgive you for wrecking the costume if you save his life. Okay?”

  The rest of the call does not go any better. I do hear later, however, that Batman Jerry (deader than a fruit bat in the vegetable aisle) had a stiffy that would make Zeus jealous. Details I don’t need. Note to the world: Viagra + scotch + heart condition = dead with a boner.

  That disgusting feeling of I just listened to somebody die washes over me. It’s gross. Been at this job for two years, eight months, sixteen days, since disappointing my union-loving nurse father—yes, my dad is a nurse, so get your jokes out of the way now—and leaving school early secondary to questionable financial management. I am the only person in the family who faints in the presence of blood, an unending source of ribbing at those insipid annual family gatherings. Whatever genetic predisposition to medicine that runs like plague through my family? Yeah. It skipped me. Working 911 was the easiest compromise—I sit in a room and listen to blood, but I never actually have to see it.

  But dead people never get easier, especially the ones who are already dead when the call starts. Aneurysms. Heart attacks. Strokes. Embolisms. Mother Nature is a clever, clever girl.

  I lean back in my chair and slurp on the remnants of a long-ago melted iced coffee. Les is staring, those beady little eyes fixed on me. I know he’s going to do it when I see his hand move to the chest pocket of his ugly brown flannel button-down. The mothballs and Old Spice piggyback a puff of recycled air.

  I shake my head no.

  Don’t do it, Les. Don’t pull it out.

  He does. The Black Book of Death. He’s going to put a goddamned checkmark next to my name. Again. To show that I’ve killed someone else.