And, of course, there was the tiny matter of her having blurted out her sexual inadequacies while half-dressed and in his arms. Chances were pretty good it was that one.
“I thought we already decided we were going to erase that conversation from the annals of space and time.” Heat flushed all the way up to her eyeballs. “It’s not exactly my favorite memory of us.”
“But it is one of my favorite memories of us.”
A jolt of alarm moved through her, so fast it felt like lightning. Even the hair on her arm retained an upright tingle, as if the storm had no intention of blowing over. Monty couldn’t possibly be serious right now.
“Because...you enjoy watching women make fools out of themselves?” she guessed.
“No. Because I like to think there might be something I can do about it.”
Sex. He was talking about sex. He was talking about his penis and her vagina and the act of inserting the one into the other. Or so she assumed.
Since the last assumption she’d made where this man was concerned hadn’t ended well, she decided it would be better to lay it all out there. “And by doing something, you mean...?”
“I, uh...” He coughed and had to clear his throat by taking a drink of lukewarm beer—his first in the more than two hours they’d been inside this bar. “Well, if it’s not too late to take you up on your offer, I’d like to be the first man to make you experience an orgasm.”
She laughed.
Laughter was the absolute wrong response when a gorgeous man was looking at you with his piercing blue eyes and offering to rock your world sideways, but she couldn’t help it. He was so solemnly earnest, his language chosen with the same kind of care he probably used when buying a car or picking out a necktie.
He frowned. “I thought that was what you wanted?”
“It is—I swear. I do. I really do.” More laughter emerged, this time breathless and higher-pitched, the sounds of a woman nearing the edge. “I’m just not used to men saying things like that to me. I promise, it’s not you. I’m basically twelve years old and ill-equipped to deal with this sort of thing.”
“You don’t like it?” He nodded once, as if checking something off an internal checklist. “That’s okay—it’s good to know, actually. Dirty talk is off the table.”
She was even closer to careening over the cliffs of insanity now. This had to be the most surreal conversation of her life. “What exactly is on the table?”
“I don’t know,” he said, his sincerity almost as palpable as the sexual tension between them. “I was hoping you could tell me. I’ve never been the kind of man people go to for a good time—not for sex, not for anything. I wasn’t kidding when I said those things to your brother about my dating life. They really happened.”
“Those women are idiots,” she said fiercely.
“Maybe.” He looked away. “But it’s been that way for as long as I can remember. Even as a kid. Growing up, Jake was the fun one, Jenna was the adventurous one and I was the responsible one.”
“That doesn’t make you responsible for my problems,” Georgia said in some confusion. Volunteering to build houses with her was one thing. Volunteering to stick vital portions of his anatomy inside her was an entirely different one. “I appreciate the offer, I do, but—”
“I want to do this, Georgia. More than anything. And if today has proven one thing to me, it’s that I’m capable of enjoying a good challenge.”
She stopped, and her mouth fell open, though it didn’t stay that way for long. As if aware that she needed only a slight push to be sent reeling, Monty lifted a finger to the bottom of her chin and forced her lips closed.
“I overheard the entire conversation you had with Holly in the kitchen that morning. I know you’re not interested in me as a person—that the attraction you feel is physical only.” He shushed her before she had a chance to object. “That’s okay. It’s probably better that way.”
“You’re serious about this?”
“I’m serious about everything. That’s the problem. At least this way, I figure I can use my powers for good.”
He lifted her hand to his lips and bestowed a light, gentle kiss on its surface. Her poor, weathered hand with a Band-Aid on the thumb where a blister had opened up and the fingernails that had been bitten down until they were all as sharp as razors and some kind of sticky substance that had probably been transferred there from her steering wheel.
Oh, dear God. She let out a whimper.
“Excellent.” His smile was so self-indulgently charming it slayed her. “Hand kissing is something you like. I’ll add it to the list.”
Her voice, when she finally found it, came out strangled. “I wouldn’t rule the dirty talk out either. That was my first time hearing it.”
He dropped her hand and stared at her, his expression so intent she thought she might combust on the spot. Was there a time when she’d lamented his propensity to stare? She took it back—she took it all back. He could sit there forever if he promised never to blink again. “How interesting. It was my first time saying it.”
She swallowed. “Maybe you should try again. For research purposes.”
“I want to be the first man to make you experience an orgasm.” He repeated the words with the exact same intonation as before, but this time, her compulsion to laugh had been relegated to a galaxy far, far away. All she wanted to do was moan and fall off the sticky vinyl seat. “Should I keep going?”
“Yes, please.”
“Well, um, ever since we kissed the other night, I can’t stop thinking about you in those ridiculous orange galoshes.”
Okay. That was a little weird, but she could go with it.
“And I liked the way you made me feel when you were in my arms.”
“Oh, yeah?” She licked her lips. This was more like it. “And how was that?”
He paused, as if he needed a moment to gather his thoughts. “Powerful, I guess? You made me feel physically strong, but also as if I were a man worthy of your time and attention and affection—as if I mattered. I liked feeling that way. I don’t feel that way very often.”
Wait a minute. That wasn’t dirty talk. That was sad talk. That was really fucking depressing talk.
“And even though I can’t promise you much,” he continued, “I can say with absolute certainty that no man will work harder or more diligently to get you to climax. I’m good at hard work. It’s pretty much the only thing I’m good at, to be honest.”
Georgia couldn’t tell if she was more turned on than she’d ever been in her life, or if she wanted to cradle Monty to her bosom and hand him a tissue. That was not how dirty talked worked in the movies.
“Was that okay?” he asked anxiously.
“It was...” She wasn’t quite sure how to put this delicately. “It wasn’t bad, but I think you’re supposed to use more four-letter words.”
He blinked. “You mean like fuck?”
“Well, yes. Like fuck. And cunt and cock and hard... You know, body parts and stuff. And you can be more specific about all the things you’re going to do to me, if you want. I wouldn’t mind.” In fact, she’d kind of love it. In double fact, she kind of wished he’d do it right now. But as one who had been on the receiving end of sex feedback before—not her favorite post-coital moment—she ended with a compliment instead. “That part about the boots was nice.”
“Oh, good. I was hoping I might get you to wear them for me later.” He held up his hand and drew a deep breath. “No. Wait. I can do better than that. Give me a second. How about... The thought of you wearing nothing but those orange boots gets me hard?”
She almost laughed again, but thankfully pulled herself back before she ruined all of her chances—and his self-esteem. “I think maybe you shouldn’t phrase it as a question.”
“Georgia.” H
e leaned close and ran his thumb along the line of her cheek, stopping only when he reached her lips. “The thought of you wearing nothing but those orange boots gets me hard. Will you put them on for me?”
“Yes.” She’d wear them. She’d wear them every day for the rest of her life. If he kept looking at her like that—almost hungrily—she’d glue the damn things to her feet. She made a motion to rise. “I’ll put them on right now.”
He swallowed so heavily she could see the outline of his Adam’s apple as it worked up and down. Oh, how she wanted to lick him right there, where his pulse beat and the scrape of a beard began. Was licking on the table?
“Right now, right now?” he asked.
“Give or take an hour? I’m girlish enough to want to take a shower, and I’m pretty sure there are like six pizza boxes in my apartment I want to hide under the bed first.”
“Okay.”
“Okay? Just like that? You’ll show up in an hour and pleasure me six ways to Sunday?”
“Okay,” he said firmly. “Just like that. I’m going to show up in an hour and pleasure you six ways to Sunday.”
A shiver worked through her. “You’re getting better already. I really felt it that time.”
His lips twitched enough for her to know her joke didn’t go unrecognized. “To be perfectly frank, I’m hoping you’ll feel it a hell of a lot more than that.”
“That’s the first time you’ve ever said hell before, isn’t it?”
His blush was a delightful thing, so out of place on a man of his years and stature it was almost like viewing a mirage. “No, but it’s not often that I find myself saying it to women I intend to sleep with.”
“Women you intend to fuck,” she supplied helpfully.
He blushed even more. “Women I intend to—ahem—fuck.”
Chapter Eight
“Before we get started, I think we should clear a few things up first.”
“Things?” Georgia stopped in the middle of pulling open her apartment door, her expression guarded. “What kind of things?”
As Monty had requested—however inelegantly—she wore nothing but the robe from before and the orange rubber galoshes he couldn’t seem to shake from his memory. He wasn’t sure what it was about those boots that got to him, but he suspected it was how perfectly they suited her. These heavy, functional, whimsical pieces of footwear—boots no woman he’d dated before would be caught dead wearing—and she sauntered around like she was born in them.
“General housekeeping issues,” he said, forcing his gaze upward. “A few concerns I have about moving forward.”
“Do you mean my brothers?” She pulled the door open the rest of the way to usher him inside. Thankfully, she didn’t seem the least bit put off that he was discussing intercourse as though he’d just walked into a business meeting. The poor woman was probably coming to expect it from him. “So help me, if Adam called or is hiding out there in the bushes, he’s getting socks every birthday for the rest of his life.”
He laughed, relaxing as he took in the now-familiar sight of her apartment—the simple four walls that somehow managed to keep this woman contained. “No, I didn’t see him on my way up.”
“I swear on my Cracker Jack prize collection they don’t dictate every aspect of my sex life. It just looks that way. Whatever it is, I’ll take care of it. No low-rent assassins, I promise.”
“Thank you,” he said calmly, “but I’m not worried about them. Dealing with people who don’t like me is a fairly typical day in my world.”
“They don’t dislike you.”
He leveled her with a careful stare.
“They don’t want to bear your children or anything, but believe me when I say they’re warming to you. You should have seen what they did to Carl.”
“Who’s Carl?”
She nodded knowingly. “Exactly.”
Monty had no idea what Georgia was talking about. He had no idea what she was talking about at least half the time, but that was hardly a new thing for him. He was almost always a few steps behind in fast-paced conversations, and he could only be grateful she didn’t seem to take it as a sign of his deficient personality the way everyone else did.
“Well, if it’s not the Testosterone Trio, what is it? Have you changed your mind? Should I not have mentioned the pizza boxes? I threw them away, in case you’re wondering. They’re not really under the bed.”
He wished there was some sort of guide for this—or that he’d had a little more time to prepare. A real sex god would have swooped in here with his erection already primed and ready to go. A real sex god wouldn’t bother with conversation at all. It’d be all tongues and sweat, a woman crying his name as if her life depended on it.
Unfortunately, he wasn’t anyone but himself, slow and plodding, a stickler for prep work. There was no use pretending he could change now.
He took a seat at her computer desk, waiting until she settled on the bed before speaking. “I don’t mean to put you on the spot, and you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, but I’d like to get a better understanding of what we’re dealing with here. Is it an anatomical problem?”
Her mouth fell open as his meaning sank in.
I’m sorry, he wanted to say. So far from plying you with four-letter words and detailed descriptions of carnal activities, I want to talk anatomy first. Aren’t you so glad you picked me?
But she didn’t run away. At least, not yet.
“O-kay,” she said slowly. “You really want to know? It’s not...off-putting?”
He shook his head. “I think it will help.”
“Then it’s not anatomical. Not to my knowledge, anyway. The doctors I’ve seen have been more than happy with the size and shape of all my parts. One even told me I have a lovely cervix.”
“Congratulations?”
“I know. I had no idea how to respond either. Like, was I supposed to thank her?”
Some of Monty’s uncertainty sloughed away at the sound of her rich laughter, unchecked and rapidly becoming one of his favorite sounds in the world. Her laugh boosted him the same way her kisses had, inflating him with confidence and propelling his forward motion. Which was good, because the questions only got more difficult from here.
“If it’s not physical, do you think it’s a mental issue?”
“I haven’t seen a shrink about it or anything, if that’s what you’re asking. I did take a quiz once on WebMD to see if they had any insight, but they said my problem stems from the six different types of cancer I apparently have. To be fair, there is a questionable mole on my lower back.”
Now it was his turn to laugh—and also to pin his gaze on the robe that currently covered her. He liked the idea that there were things like moles and freckles to explore under there, that she was merely waiting for him to make a survey of her body. He liked the idea enough to feel the sex god rising.
“If everything else is in working order, are you saying it’s a question of opportunity?”
“What do you mean, opportunity?”
He hesitated. A man didn’t have to be a Lothario to know when he was about to insult a woman in the worst possible way. “Well, if you don’t have much experience with men, I thought that might be why—”
Georgia shot up, her spine straightening like an arrow. “I’m not a virgin or anything.”
“I didn’t think you were.”
“I’m perfectly capable of finding willing partners.”
“I’m sure you are.”
“It’s never been a question of quantity. It’s the quality that concerns me.”
“Georgia, I think you might be misunderstanding me.”
It was the wrong thing to say, as usual. She crossed her arms and glared at him. “Oh, I understand you fine. You’re as bad as Adam. You think I can�
��t get laid. You think a man has to be desperate to descend to my level.”
“I don’t think that.”
“I’m not very good at it, okay? Is that what you want to hear? I’m terrible at sex, and then I get self-conscious about being terrible at it, and then it becomes an embarrassing mess of bodily fluids. I just need to get someone in there who knows what he’s doing, that’s all.”
He felt like a jerk. He was a jerk. He should have gone with his first instinct and swept in here, commanding her to disrobe and then laying her flat with four-letter profanities. He should have forgotten the lifetime of training and education that compelled him to move slowly and cautiously, to always weigh risks before taking action.
He should have remembered what he came here to do. To give Georgia what she wanted, yes, but also to have fun. When Ashleigh told him to step outside his office and enjoy himself, she’d probably hoped he’d take up racquetball or start building wooden ships inside bottles—not begin a course of sexual exploration with his family’s oddly compelling handywoman.
But this was what he wanted. A tactile experience, a torrid experience. A chance to be the Monty no one believed existed—the one who could get in there and know what he was doing for once.
He made for the door without a moment’s hesitation. It would have been better to provide Georgia with some kind of explanation before he left, but he didn’t want to slow down or lose his momentum—like most large, immovable objects, Monty needed to stay in motion to keep going.
And he was going to keep going. Now that he’d made the first step, he wasn’t sure he ever wanted to stop again.
* * *
The last time Georgia cried, she’d been hit in the thigh by a softball coming off the bat at roughly eighty miles per hour.
At the time, when it felt as if someone had reached inside her leg and manually extracted her femur bone, the tears had been an automatic response. She couldn’t help her leaking eyes any more than she could stop herself from sinking to the ground, her legs no longer capable of holding her up.
Because I Can (Montgomery Manor) Page 11