“Lean against the wall, hands above your head,” he commanded.
Without thought, she obeyed, and he soaped his way down her belly and around her hips as she stared down at him. When he reached the backs of her knees, she giggled.
He smiled up at her, water droplets beading on his lashes. “Ticklish there?”
She nodded.
His hum was noncommittal, but she knew he tucked the information away for later. The thought that there might be a later—more than one time—with this man who guarded his heart behind an iron fortress made her blood sing.
Peter slipped his hands down her calves to her instep. Gentle pressure lifted her foot from the floor to the shower bench, opening her to him. She swallowed hard and steadied herself with the hand on his shoulder.
“One thing about me and payback?” Hands at her hips, he pinned her in place and murmured against her sex. “I like to take my time…and I can afford the interest.”
Thank God they were in the shower. Otherwise, the flood of moisture that slicked her sex at his sultry threat would’ve mortified her. As it was, she knew he tasted her juices when he slipped his tongue into her center. She moaned and let her head fall back. Hands threaded in his wet hair, she held on as he breached her again.
The slow, sensual tongue fuck renewed the shaking in her limbs. Tension gathered in her clit as Peter spread and raked her sensitive inner tissues again and again. Lingual gymnastics were this man’s forte, and he applied his best routine to her, sucking and pulling at her outer lips and spreading slick heat back to her edges. When her knees sagged, he balanced her thigh on his shoulder and forced her to stand. She rolled her head side to side against the hard tile. Please. He had to touch her. Had to make her come.
“Sh, baby.” The hum of his voice against her sex made her hips spasm.
Releasing her leg, he stood and lowered his forehead to hers. Water cascaded down his skin, spattering her with the overflow. “You warmed up?”
She nodded, too breathless to speak. He kissed her, the salty-sweet taste of her juices on his mouth.
“Good,” he said.
Another kiss, this one accompanied by a lightly pressured bite, then he placed his hands on her shoulders and gently turned her to face the wall.
“No.” She stiffened and looked at him over her shoulder, remembering the last time they’d had sex—how she’d wanted to watch his face as he came. How she’d wanted him to kiss her after. “I want to see you.”
He nuzzled her ear. “I didn’t realize you had such specific tastes. I hadn’t planned to spank you there, but if you insist…”
Georgia gasped, bringing her head up. Peter was quicker, pinning both her wrists above her head in one of his own as he smoothed the other down her thigh and lifted her leg onto the bench once more. She breathed so hard her breath came in little gasps. Arousal and fear coiled together and tightened to form a knot.
He cupped her pussy, and she stared at him with a mixture of trepidation and desire. God, the things this man did to her. She sagged, and he tugged on her wrists, holding her upright as he slipped one finger along the seam of her sex and dipped inside. The hardness of his cock against her belly registered as a sensual promise. Vibrations shook her.
“So wet,” he murmured. “So sweet.”
The first slap of his hand, light and full, landed against her mound with a wet thwap. She jumped and gasped his name.
“That’s right.” He tugged her ear between his teeth and growled his approval. “Feels good?”
She mewled, both dreading and inviting the next love tap. The full contact to every heightened nerve ending forced another cry from between her lips. Nothing outside the spray of water and the heat of Peter’s body and breath existed between each fall of his hand.
“This what you wanted?” He tapped a staccato rhythm with his fingers, without lifting the heel of his hand from her pubic bone.
Frissons of electric pleasure snaked from Georgia’s clit to her belly. Her hips jerked. This was not at all the sort of spanking she’d pictured. It was oh so much better. Peter had her dancing on the head of a pin. His angel to command.
“Please.” She begged, thrusting her hips forward, too far gone to feel shame.
“Since you ask so nicely…” He pushed two fingers inside her and curled them against the place where pressure built the most. A series of harder shoves nestled his palm against her clit and raked her G-spot in quick succession.
She keened as her knees buckled. Only his hands held her up, one at her wrists and the other at her apex. The sound of her breath rushing in and out and the pulse of blood rushing to her core overtook her awareness. Nerves fired, and her hips jerked as she cried out with her orgasm. Peter’s palm and fingers continued their rapid-fire rhythm, forcing her orgasm to unimaginable heights until there was no oxygen left to feed her cries.
He brought her down with soft kisses and murmured reassurances as he removed his fingers from her body. She felt empty without him, but languid limbs and lack of adequate breath discouraged any protest. The water turned off. He lifted her from the shower, carrying her to the bed, where he dried her on his lap.
One arm looped over his shoulder, she let him take care of her before he tucked her between the covers and smoothed back her hair. A kiss to her forehead encouraged her lids to flutter closed.
When she roused from her catnap, she sat up, clutching the blankets to her chest, and looked around. The loft was empty. She was alone. The fire crackled in the woodstove, telling her Peter couldn’t have been gone long. She reached up to pat her hair. Still damp. Her hand fell to her side.
Damn. He’d done it again. Loved her and left her. Fists clenched, she stalked to the bath, where she found a brush. Yanking the snarls out of her hair, she silently cursed. How could she be so stupid to read what they’d done as lovemaking? To believe he might be falling for her? She lowered the brush slowly as heat rushed to her cheeks. Staring at her reflection, wide-eyed with kiss-swollen lips, she shook her head.
“You are in trouble. Deep, deep trouble.”
She flung the brush to the counter, applied light makeup, and found her clothes. Dressing, she rehearsed what she’d do when she saw Peter in a few moments—no doubt he’d gone across the way to his parents’ house. The girlfriend thing was all an act, so she’d play the part. To the hilt. He wanted no strings and easy? He’d get it.
Not bothering with a jacket, she trudged across the yard and burst into an empty kitchen, where she took off her damp shoes. Sounds of laughter and the first few notes of a piano drifted from the next room. Georgia caught the honey-dark notes of Peter’s voice as he said something she couldn’t quite hear. Suddenly shy, she paused, one hand on the swinging door.
“‘Silent Night’?” Liam asked.
“‘Twelve Days of Christmas’!” Niall chimed in with his preference.
“No way. You always take the part of Miss Piggy on the five golden rings line.” The scowl in Liam’s voice was apparent even through the swinging door separating Georgia from the living room.
“Boys, it’s Peter’s birthday. Why don’t you play what he wants?” Brenna said.
Georgia widened her eyes. Oh bugger. His birthday? She glanced to the counter and saw a chocolate-frosted layer cake with Happy Birthday, Peter in white piping on top. How could she be his PA or his girlfriend and not know? Apparently father and son shared birthdays close enough to one another and to Christmas that the family gathered in the week before to celebrate the season and the occasion.
The first notes of “The Little Drummer Boy” floated from the living room. The males in the family chimed in, Peter’s voice reverberating clearly in their midst, proving him too good to be true. No one man could be so magnificent. Georgia pushed the door open, intending only to peek. Peter stared directly at her, his voice lifted in song, his siblings and parents gathered around him.
Wearing a charcoal wool sweater and red turtleneck, he appeared the picture of sin and saintlin
ess. Around the room, boxes of ornaments lay scattered, some with their lids off. Christmas cookies, chocolates, and candied nuts formed a buffet on the coffee table. Georgia took in all this along with the sound of Peter’s voice and his family’s easy togetherness, and swallowed down a lump of coal Santa would’ve been proud to bestow on the surliest of children.
Overwhelmed, she tried to step back. Peter caught her gaze once more, ensnaring her where she stood. He broke from the family group and greeted her with a lingering kiss that tasted of rum and nutmeg. Eggnog. The song came to an end, and someone coughed. Peter pulled away and drew her into the room by one hand. Shyness, an emotion she hadn’t struggled with since grade school, stole over her.
“Did you have a nice nap?” Brenna met them, offering a mug of cocoa.
Georgia grasped the mug and smiled. “I did.”
“Have the eggnog instead of cocoa, Georgia.” Niall flopped onto the couch and stretched out his long legs. “Kevin’s flat notes sound better if you’re sloshed.”
Georgia giggled into her mug.
Lips pursed, Brenna glared in warning at her youngest son.
“What, Ma?” Palms up, Niall feigned innocence. “She’ll hear for herself in a minute.”
Taking the cushion next to his brother, Kevin toed Niall’s ankle. “Shut up, Mouse.”
“Mouse?” Georgia chuckled at the nickname.
Peter made a funny noise in the back of his throat, close to a laugh. “Yeah…Mouse.”
“Shut up.” Sinking into the couch, Niall seemed to diminish by one-third his size.
Liam averted an argument, swooping in with the “Jingle Bells” refrain. Fingers flying over the piano keys, he added flourishes to the song, while Ronan’s deep voice melded with his son’s. Brenna, humming along, opened a box of ornaments.
She held one out to Georgia. “Care to help us trim the tree?”
“Yes, please.” Georgia took the delicate ornament and stared at its handblown colors and quaint imperfections.
Peter lifted more balls from the same box. Similar in size, the ones he chose were coated in white and silver glitter. Georgia approached the tree and studied the barren spaces between already hanging decorations. Colored lights and a string of gold beads were the only consistent element tying together the jumble of mismatched ornaments. Each one, she bet, had a story. Hesitating, she looked for a space to hang the ornament she held. Was there any right or wrong method to this activity?
“You look as if you never hung an ornament before,” Peter said, his focus on the higher branches where he deftly hung first one ornament and then the next. When she remained quiet, he looked down at her, the smile fading from his face. “You have decorated a tree before?”
Georgia shook her head so slightly she knew only Peter caught the movement.
Peter stared down at her. “Never?”
Certain she’d waded into emotional waters way over her head, she fought back visions visited on her by the ghost of Christmases past and tried to focus on the moment.
“Here,” he said softly, reaching for her ornament and giving a demonstration. “You loop it over any empty branch and pinch the wire a little like so.”
He brushed the branch, releasing the scent of pungent spruce. The ornament bobbed, and she drank in the sight of Peter doing something so normal and homey as decorating a Christmas tree.
“Thank you.”
Leaning down, he kissed her. Just a peck. When he lifted his head, he brushed his thumb along her lower lip. “I guess we all have stuff we miss out on.”
“Guess so.” Looking around the living room stuffed with family and overflowing with memories, she couldn’t imagine that he’d lacked for anything. Not now, or ever.
If only this dream bubble weren’t guaranteed to burst, she’d have willingly given up every cent of her inheritance to have a fairy-tale happily ever after with Peter. To never have to leave this family and the home they represented. Instead, she’d go back to her tower, and he’d ride off with some five-thousand-a-night evil stepsister. Didn’t it just figure? She’d jumped feet first into the Brothers Grimm version of her life.
Chapter Fourteen
Peter couldn’t remember ever being so relaxed, especially around his family. He should’ve been itching to check his e-mail on his phone, or at least reporting in with his executive team to see if there were any fires requiring his personal attention. Cookies and cocoa weren’t the anchor keeping him moored in the moment. Nor his family. It was Georgia who captivated.
Each time she reached for a sugar cookie or an ornament, he let his eyes linger on her curves. He longed to know her full breasts and the swell of her hips by heart. The softness of her belly and the taste of her pink nipples.
Georgia swiped at Peter’s cheek with her thumb, yanking him off a path best left untrodden.
“Glitter,” she said, holding up two fingers covered in sparkly residue.
His stomach wobbled with warm, gooey emotions. Perhaps the eggnog gave him Dutch courage, but rather than retreat, he smiled. “Thanks. If Niall had seen it, he’d start up with the Tinkerbell jokes.”
“Tinkerbell?” Niall shouldered between him and Georgia to hang an ornament. “Nah. You’re more Captain Hook.”
Peter gave him a “what the fuck are you talking about” frown, and Niall gave Georgia his customary shit-eating grin.
“Who does that make me?” She voiced the question with the bite Niall deserved. “Wendy?”
Niall lifted a Santa cookie from the platter and casually examined its gaudy icing.
“Well, Peter’s last name sure as hell ain’t Pan.” Niall snorted. “So that’d have to make you Smeed.”
“Um…” Georgia jerked her thumb in the direction of the kitchen. “I’m going to heat my cocoa.”
As Georgia left, the warm glow broke, spraying icy drops of anger in its wake. Peter stiffened his spine, all thoughts of Christmas spirit relegated back to the box he’d long ago labeled Crock of Shit.
“True.” Peter rounded on his youngest brother. “How could I forget you’re the resident expert on never-never land.”
“You’re just pissed because I didn’t need your charity to make something of my life. No matter what they think, unlike everyone else here, you know I never took your handouts.”
The skin beneath Peter’s eye twitched. He fisted his hands and reminded himself he wasn’t twelve and this argument couldn’t be won. Not when his brother was an immature, puffed-up prick.
His mother hovered close, talking with Georgia by the kitchen door, so he lowered his voice. “If you ever make Da feel like a charity case, I’ll take you out. So help me.”
Biting the head off his Santa cookie, Niall stared Peter down. Chewing, he asked, “Did I tell you they let me pay off the house last month?”
“What?” If there’d been a chair close by, Peter would have collapsed into it. He’d been trying to get them to let him pay off the remainder of their debts for years. They’d always insisted on paying him back for everything he’d done. Every last cent. Even the boathouse.
Everything he’d worked for—all he’d ever wanted to do—had been to take care of them and keep them safe. Only Kevin and Liam had accepted his help in any permanent way, each funding their educations and starting their careers with the financial assistance Peter had willingly provided.
Niall grinned, his mouth stuffed with the rest of the cookie. “Not bad for a Lost Boy, eh?”
“Fuck you.”
The music faltered, and Peter realized he’d spoken the words a little too loudly. He glanced over Niall’s shoulder, and his mother’s gaze skittered away. Even she wouldn’t take him on in this temper. Georgia, however, tilted her head in silent question. Was he okay? He looked away, unable to answer, because he really didn’t know.
“We should cut the cake!” His mother placed one hand on Georgia’s shoulder and shepherded her into the kitchen.
Peter went to his father’s side, leaving Niall alone by t
he desserts. “Want to open our presents together, Da?”
“Opened ’em last night after you went to the boathouse.” The elder Wells glanced in Niall’s direction. “Niall’s couldn’t wait or it’d spoil.”
“Oh.” Peter cleared his throat around a sudden restriction. “Sure. I’ll, um, yeah. Open mine then.”
They hadn’t said a word about the travel package he’d had Emma book for them to the Caribbean. His parents loved the beach, so he pretty much got his father the same thing every year. Maybe that wasn’t a good idea? Did he even like the gift? He’d always thought he and his mother had, but now he wasn’t so sure. About anything.
By the time they’d finished cake and presents—Niall had conveniently forgotten to bring one for him—Peter’s mood had dropped to an all-time low. His family clustered around the coffee table on the sofa and the chairs they’d dragged from the kitchen. God, he wished his parents would let him put on an addition for a dining room.
“Thanks for the sweater, Ma.” He leaned forward to give her a peck on the cheek. “I’ll wear it in Aspen.”
“I’m so glad, dear.” Empty cookie plate in hand, she stood and went to the kitchen. Never good with small talk, his father followed her.
“Oh! I’ve always wanted to go to Aspen.” Georgia smiled extra bright. “I hear it’s lovely skiing.”
Kevin played with the gift-wrap leavings, twisting a bow into new shapes. “Peter has a really nice place there.”
“You’re not taking Georgia?” Niall raised both brows.
“I, uh…” Caught out, Peter glanced to Georgia with an automatic “help me out here” expression.
Pink, then red, stained her cheeks, a prelude to her lie. “I’m seeing my father that week.”
“So?” Niall’s smile was tight. “Peter can afford to put you all up. It’s not like he’s shy about strong-arming people to his plans.”
Peter jerked forward, ready to throttle his youngest brother, but Liam intervened. A press of his hand to Peter’s sternum forced him to remain seated.
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