Public Relations

by Tibby Armstrong

  “Niall, shut up,” Liam said. “Georgia’s a guest.”

  “It’s okay. I wish I’d had siblings to argue with.” Georgia opened a shortbread tin and peered inside. “Your bickering is fascinating.”

  Liam laughed. “Well, that was blunt.”

  Her conspiratorial wink made everyone laugh, even Peter. Tension diffused, Peter stood and went to the piano. He trailed his fingers over the keys.

  “You remember ‘Four Hands’?” Liam asked, coming up next to him.

  Recollections of rainy afternoons at the rec hall piano, watching Liam take lessons from Mrs. Hilly, then slogging through his own mediocre performances, drew a rueful laugh. “No. I think I forgot it on purpose.”

  “You always did hate music lessons.” Liam sat on the bench and absently picked out a tune. “How come?”

  Hands gripping the instrument’s edge, Peter lost focus on the room as memory loomed larger than his surroundings. “I felt like I should be doing something more important.”

  Liam’s fingers stopped abruptly. “Thanks, Pete.”

  “Jesus, I’m sorry.” Peter plowed a hand through his own hair. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “Yeah. Whatever.” Liam shut the piano lid and made to stand.

  Peter placed his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “It’s not like that. Really.”

  Sensing Georgia standing behind him, Peter left off the rest of his explanation.

  “Then what is it like?” His most easygoing sibling balled his fists, and his chin jutted. “Because I can’t remember the last time you were at one of the shows I’ve been in.”

  “I— Da…”

  Fuck.

  He couldn’t air his family’s dirty laundry in front of Georgia. He never should’ve come here this weekend. Scenes like these were precisely why he did his damnedest to avoid seeing his family at all. He turned away, intending to leave the room.

  “I heard him,” Liam called. “I heard what Da said to you that day.”

  Peter paused, not daring to look at his brothers or at Georgia. “It’s in the past.”

  “Not for you.” Liam stepped up behind him. “You don’t have to be the man of the family, Peter. You never did. Da might’ve lost his arm, but taking care of us wasn’t up to you.”

  Shoulders high around his ears, Peter refused to turn around. If his family didn’t need him, had never needed him, what fucking good was his life? Why had he worked so hard to make things better for them?

  “Yeah. I get it, Li,” he said. This time he did leave the room, and he didn’t look back.

  Ice pelted his face when he stepped outside and closed the back door behind him. Pulling up his collar, he ran across the yard and into the boathouse. Where a boat should’ve been. He stared at the murky water and found a mirror for his soul. Empty and dark. The door opened and closed softly behind him.

  “I’m sorry you had to hear that,” he said without turning around.

  Georgia slid her arms around him from behind. He tensed. For long minutes neither of them said anything. Eventually, with her cheek pressed to his back and the soft rhythm of her breath registering as calm and steady, he relaxed.

  He sighed and clasped her hands where they rested around his middle. He was so tired of keeping these secrets. Something about Liam’s admission had broken open the floodgates, and damned if he could muscle them closed again. Before he knew it, he was speaking.

  “Da said…”

  He drew a deep breath and closed his eyes, reliving the day his father had caught him building a balsa-wood plane for Kevin when he was supposed to be collecting his newspaper money.

  “He said if I’d spent less time screwing around and more time working, he might have his arm.”

  She gasped but didn’t offer the words of sympathy he’d dreaded. He’d deserved his father’s censure, every word of it. Though he’d never told the story before, he only did so now because she remained silent in the face of his admission. Her lack of interruption compelled him to go on.

  “I was twelve. We were on the boat, working. It was summer, and I wanted to be on vacation like my brothers.” A stiff breeze moved the water under the boathouse and made the boards creak. The hypnotic sloshing motion drew Peter further into his story. “As a consolation, and to stop my moaning, Da allowed me to bring my portable CD player. I guided the boat; he hauled in the traps. When the boat didn’t need to move, I was allowed to goof off.”

  Georgia’s thumb played over Peter’s wrist, anchoring part of him in the present while his mind drifted into the past. He could taste the briny tang of the salt spray and feel the damp fog on his face. Aerosmith pumped its wild beat into his ears as the boat bobbed.

  “I’d been daydreaming about the band Liam and I were going to form, with me playing lead guitar.” His rueful laugh cut off as memories washed over him with nightmarish intensity. “I was rocking out, and I never saw the jerk of the line or heard Da scream for help. He’d become entangled in the line.” Panic, as vivid as if he lived the moment in the present, spiked his adrenaline and increased his heartbeat. He was there, frantically peering through the fog and calling for a father he couldn’t see. “To this day I don’t know how long he was in the water.”

  Heart pounding, breath quickening, his body relived the moment when he had turned around to find an empty deck, Da nowhere in sight.

  “It would’ve been all right. He’d cut himself free but couldn’t see the boat. It was so foggy, and his voice seemed to come from everywhere.” Peter couldn’t breathe, but he choked the next sentences out. “I turned the boat around without knowing where he was. I hit him, Georgia. I did that to his arm.”

  He cried, quietly, so she couldn’t hear, but the jerks of his body gave him away. Georgia turned him to face her and cradled his head to her shoulder. Another racking sob, two deep gulps, and he was done. Done crying for the first and last time about something he was as helpless to do anything about now as he had been back then.

  Straightening, he gripped Georgia’s shoulders briefly in thanks, then turned away to dry his eyes with the heels of his hands. He cleared his throat and shook his head to dispel any lingering emotion.

  “So, yeah. He’d cut the line and was treading water. He would’ve been fine if I hadn’t…” His voice caught. He cleared his throat again. “If I’d paid attention and not panicked.”

  He moved to the stairway and sat, hunched over, with his elbows on his knees. Georgia joined him and looped one arm around his waist, settling against him.

  “Is that why you went away to school?” she asked. “To get away from your family?”

  The question caught him off guard. He recalled taking the entrance exam without his parents’ knowledge, then the acceptance letter coming in the mail. Ma’s relieved expression as he’d handed it to her with the words “I’m going away.”

  “Not really. More like I got in on scholarship and wanted to leave them with one less mouth to feed.” His answer sounded too pat, even to his own ears, so he dug deeper into the festering wound. “They didn’t want me around, Georgia. Nothing was ever the same. I was angry and a reminder. You know?”

  “Yes. I do know.”

  Where he expected sympathy and reassurances, she only leaned into him so her cheek rested against his arm.

  “You’re not going to tell me I was just a kid and none of it was my fault?” he asked, fixated on his hands dangling, loose and helpless, between his knees.

  She pulled back to stare at him. “Would you believe me?”

  He’d battle-hardened himself against those lies for so long, needing to blame himself no matter what the school psychologist had said. When he’d refused to talk about anything, insisting he couldn’t afford to miss classes, the man had let him off the hook and he hadn’t had to go back.

  Georgia examined him. Peter reluctantly met her gaze. Damp darkened her lashes, and tears moistened her eyes. Exhausted from talking, not wanting to answer her question, he moved his attention to
her lips, and he sought some comfort there. Chocolate from the cake and cocoa met the gentle thrust of his tongue. She opened, and he swept in, tasting her fully. Standing, he scooped her up. She wound soft arms around his neck, pulling him deeper into the kiss.

  His cock lengthened along his leg, growing heavy with awakening arousal as he carried Georgia up the stairs to the loft. He wanted this woman in ways he couldn’t begin to explain. He wanted her here. In the place he’d built with his own two hands. A place where he’d harbored so many dreams of family and of being welcomed back after he repurchased the home they’d lost because of him. The prodigal son. Then they’d insisted on paying him back with a mortgage through his bank.

  “Let me take care of you, Georgia,” he said, laying her on the bed with infinite care.

  Auburn hair spilling against the pillows, she leaned back and lifted one arm. More than willing to lose himself, he poised over her and gazed down. Her eyes searched his face, giving the impression she memorized him and tucked the image away for later.

  Panic peeped over the edge of Peter’s emotional foxhole. He attempted to step away, but Georgia pulled him to her. Their lips met. Her tongue sought his, and all thoughts of running away evaporated. Careful not to add his full weight to her frame, he lay on top of her. She shifted her leg, brushing against his cock as she widened her thighs.

  He took her cue and nestled between her legs. Fully clothed, he found her center and slid forward. Denim bit into his cock, increasing the pressure in his balls. He groaned as Georgia lifted her hips, adding to his sensual torture. He wanted to lose himself in this moment and forget anything else—anyone else—ever existed.

  Honey lips kissed their way along his jaw to his ear. He turned his head and was rewarded with a whispered, “I want you.”

  God, yes.

  He knelt to pull his sweater over his head, and Georgia shucked hers. Barriers removed, they came together again. Skin against skin, he pressed into her softness and drank her in with long, slaking kisses. Seating his cock more firmly against her, he applied just the right pressure for them both and captured her cry with his mouth. He thrust, and thrust again, until she wound her legs around his hips.

  “Take them off.” Georgia palmed his ass, forcing his hips down again.

  Her wish. His command.

  Balanced on his forearms, he paused. When was the last time he’d taken an order in bed? He bit the insides of his cheeks against a smile. Maybe never? He raised up so he knelt above her.

  “What?” she asked, skimming her fingers along her belly to the button of her jeans.

  He shook his head, unable to believe he was about to admit this to her. “I usually give the orders.”

  “Must be exhausting.” She full-on grinned at him, and his heart gave a dangerous lurch. “Might be good for you to take some once in a while.”

  “Oh?” He pasted on his best boardroom stare, which lasted all of three seconds before they both burst into laughter.

  Belly rippling with her mirth, Georgia grinned up at him, her full mouth begging for another kiss. First things first, however. He trailed a finger over the lace edging her bra, and she sobered as her stare took on a heavy-lidded cast.

  “Take it off,” he said.

  “You.” Her throaty demand spiked his pulse.

  Oh, she had no idea what she’d just invited. He let his gaze darken, and she sucked in a breath. One hand under her shoulders, he smoothed his way down her back until he reached her strap. She arched. Rather than undo her bra, he pulled her upward. The rapidity of her ascent forced her gasp.

  She clutched at his shoulders, and he undid the bra with one hand. With the other, he caught one of her wrists and brought it behind her back. Once it was off, the lingerie became a makeshift binding he used to tie her hands behind her back.

  When he was finished, she gazed up at him openmouthed, her exposed nipples puckered so tight they had to hurt. He lowered his head to suck one rigid peak into his mouth. The first hard pull had her crying out his name. The second made her struggle against the bondage. Oh, she was fun.

  “Not yet, sweet,” he murmured, then grazed his teeth along each peak until her pleas turned incoherent.

  And he hadn’t even touched her pussy yet.

  “Have any other demands?” he asked, raising his head.

  She stared back at him, wide-eyed, and licked her lips. He dipped to taste the moisture her tongue left behind. So delicious. To his surprise, she broke the kiss.

  “Touch me.”

  He laughed darkly. Yes. She was definitely fun to play with.

  “Where?” he teased, trailing one fingertip over the fullest part of her breast to the underside. “Here?”

  “No.” She shook her head, tumbling her hair in wild waves over her shoulders. “My pussy.”

  It was his turn to widen his eyes. Stowing away his shock—when had a woman ever asked him for exactly what she wanted unless it had involved a number and a carat?—he arched one brow.

  “Are you sure you want that?”

  She nodded, emphatic.

  He dropped his hand to the button of her jeans and held her gaze. “Very sure?”

  “Just do it.” She issued the demand from between gritted teeth.

  His cock kicked as fluid pumped up his shaft. A warning shot. He’d better get this show on the road or he’d never outlast her. God, did she have any idea what she did to him? The pop of her button registered before he realized he’d tugged the fabric. With great care, just shy of tortuously slow, he pulled the tab of her zipper downward as he skimmed her curves with his other hand.

  “You’re goddamned gorgeous,” he said.

  No stick-figure caricature, every bit of her one hundred percent real, Georgia fit to his palm as if she’d been made especially for him. Skin smooth like porcelain touched with a rosy hue, her compound curvature reminded him of the prettiest little sloop he’d ever seen. Everything about her represented the perfect woman.

  His perfect woman.

  The thought made his hand jerk.

  “Lie back.” Issuing the demand battened down a surge of unidentifiable emotion.

  “Make me,” she said, chin lifted.

  He chuckled. Nobody ever pushed back. Except her. He should’ve figured she’d be the same in bed as at work. Fingertips pressed lightly to her sternum, he pushed. She resisted. He flattened his palm and pushed harder. She leaned in and bit his lip. Hard enough to sting, soft enough to arouse.

  With a mock growl, he wrapped his arms around her middle and tackled her to the bed. She shrieked and squirmed until he flipped her to her stomach. One knee lightly pressed against her lower back, the other on her right shoulder, he held her down.

  “Any time you’re ready to get to the fucking, let me know.” He forced boredom into his voice, when he was anything but.

  He skimmed his free hand down her side until it rested on her hip. She shivered. He peeled down her jeans in a slow, sensual reveal. Panties that had ridden up during her struggles framed well-rounded cheeks and clung to the sensual pout of her labia. Heat and musk released from her skin. He groaned, practically able to taste her.

  “Can you lift your hips for me, baby?” he asked, tossing her jeans to the floor.

  Amazingly, she complied. Her breath came in shuddering gasps. Yet, he hadn’t touched her. She was so primed. So ready, he could see the damp darkening her ice-blue panties. Another surge up his shaft caught him off guard, and he pressed the heel of his palm against his cock, smoothing downward in one hard stroke to calm his arousal.

  “Touch me.” This time she whimpered the plea.

  He took pity on her, sort of, and released her bra, freeing her hands. Her arms dropped to her sides, but she kept her hips high for him and her cheek pressed to the pillow. Kneeling so he faced her hip, he hooked his left arm under her middle and grasped her waist. His right hand he ran between her shoulder blades, down her spine, between her cheeks, and to her sex. He cupped her heat over her panties, an
d she moaned. Moisture slicked his fingers through the fabric. She couldn’t be more ready for him.

  He rolled her panties to the side and slid one finger between her pussy lips. Her hips jerked, but he held her in place with his arm around her middle. Using two fingers, he opened her, separating her labia. He massaged first one, then the other, between his fingertips. Her sex was so plump it had to be aching. Yet he denied her the one touch he knew she craved.

  “Tell me what you want, baby.”

  “Inside.” She lifted her hips higher. An invitation. “Please. Inside.”

  “My finger?” He teased her, pushing only the tip of his middle finger inside and swirling it around. Stretching her, but judging by her sounds of frustration, not enough. “Are you sure?”

  She tried to press back against him, but his arm around her waist held her fast. A sweet keen started in her belly and worked its way through her chest and past her throat. When the sound escaped her mouth, he slid his finger ever so slowly along swollen tissues and into her welcoming heat. Nestled there, he hooked and pulled backward, applying steadily increasing pressure to her G-spot. He released and wiggled, released and wiggled, until her cries took on a high-pitched hum. She tensed and bucked, her walls fluttering in a telltale preamble to her orgasm. Peter applied more pressure and extended his index finger to her clit.

  Georgia arched with a shriek. He held her tight and milked every last spasm from her, alternating the stimulation between her clit and pussy. When she finally came down, her sex still pulsed against his hand. Slippery wetness coated his palm as he drew away. Georgia sagged, and he helped her roll gently to her back, where she lay panting. Lips kiss-swollen, cheeks flushed and hair wild, she looked thoroughly done in. And they were only getting started.

  Standing, Peter shucked his jeans and underwear. Georgia’s breasts wobbled in time to her deep breaths. Transfixed, he stared as his longing sharpened. He pictured gathering her breasts in his hands and sliding his cock between the rosy-hued globes. His hand strayed to his cock as he framed the fantasy and lived it out to its logical conclusion in his mind. Pumping himself, he cupped his balls. His hips jerked, and he squeezed none too gently to stay his urge to come.