Heather laughed and slid an arm over her shoulder. “You snuck right under her guard, and we’re all so glad you did.”
Georgia whimpered, adding pathetic to her tally of ineffective responses.
One of Liz’s girlfriends had climbed onto the stage. The two women flanked Damon as if he was a pole they could dance. Someone had taken the beer and the cigarette from him and he had a hand each on Liz and her partner in sexual aggression. They got his shirt right off and there was a roar of approval with a high female note of hysteria to it. But maybe that was just her and Heather, they were both adding their voices to the madness, though Heather was cheering and the sound coming out of Georgia’s mouth was more like what happens when a cow plays chicken with a semi-trailer.
She did not like this at all. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t safe, and Damon was absolutely rocking it. He’d lost the bemused expression he’d worn when Liz arrived and he was working this for every beat, every riff, every groove there was.
He was growling in the mic, being free with his hands. He had a smile as wide as an airstrip. She felt like bursting into tears for no good reason. He was having fun. The audience was into it. The rest of the guys were playing up to it: Jamie on his knees, strumming his fingers raw in front of Damon, Taylor imitating the bump and grind with a bloke she’d plucked from the audience, Sam laughing like a loon.
“Georgia, girl.” Heather’s hand on her arm. “That’s just fun. If that man was any more into you it’d be a natural disaster warning.”
Georgia dropped her head, closed her eyes against a useless teenage flood of emotion. Heather was right and there was no suspense, no unanswered question about where she was with Damon, but she was twenty-nine years old and still naïve in love and its shadow plays. She’d had one serious boyfriend, one marriage gone bad, one chance at an affair not taken, and years of suppressing her feelings and denying her desires. She was furious with Liz and her friend. She had a bilious green case of jealousy and she wanted to slap Damon so hard he never touched another woman again.
“Go get him, girlfriend.”
She tried to breathe out the dragon that’d coiled inside her. The place was full of movement, a standing ovation, a run on the bar for last drinks. The guys were unplugging for the night. Damon was surrounded. All of Liz’s posse grabbing at him. Taylor managed to give him his shirt, and he got it back on, but he didn’t need Georgia, he was well looked after.
“Look at him. Really look at him,” said Heather.
She looked, frowning, and then she saw. He wasn’t enjoying this. The show was over and he wanted out, but he was stuck. He needed his cane or someone to help him off the stage. Jamie was hovering, unsure what to do, looking out at the bar as if for rescue. He wasn’t leaving Damon, but he couldn’t exactly manhandle the women away from him.
She moved across the room, weaving in and out of tables, cutting between people, skirting around big groups until she got to the edge of the raised platform that served as a stage.
Jamie said, “Thank fuck,” when she stepped over the kick plate. “Get him out of there.”
Up close, Damon’s expression told her how much her sixteen-year-old fears were a waste of headspace. How could the women not see his discomfort at their pawing, but they were drunk and high on each other and the fact that he was hotter than salsa and their captive. She couldn’t very well manhandle her way to him either.
For a second she imagined shouting, “Hands off. He’s mine,” before diving in there to haul him out, but she’d be hard pressed to be heard above the laughter and he wouldn’t be able to tell her touch from anyone else’s.
Except for the one touch that would tell him someone who understood was standing by. He might think she was Taylor, but that didn’t matter.
He wasn’t touching anyone, except to bat grabby hands away. Some woman had her hands over his butt, another was trying to smooth his hair. She tapped the nearest woman on the shoulder and said, “Excuse me.”
The blast of polite was shock enough to make the woman step away, with a quick, “Sorry,” and a hot blush. Georgia tapped another shoulder and did the same thing, and then she was close enough to put the back of her hand against the back of Damon’s.
That’s all it took. He flipped his hand and grasped hers, his head snapping around. “Georgia, baby.”
She didn’t know how he knew it was her, but it made the other women instantly invisible. “I’m here.”
He said, “Thank Christ. Get me out of here,” turning so he could take her arm. “Liz, Bron, ladies, glad you enjoyed the show. See you next time. No driving. Ask them at the bar to call you a ride home.”
They peeled away; satisfied they’d had their fun, their piece of him, cackling and calling goodnight.
“Love you, Damon.”
“Night, Captain Vox.”
“Sweet dreams.”
“I know mine’ll be dirty.”
Georgia got him off the stage and into the green room, giving Jamie a wave before they got inside. The whole episode had probably only taken five or six minutes. Another man would’ve simply disentangled himself and walked away, or turned it into something more.
She pushed the door closed and Damon hugged her from behind. “Georgia on my mind. You’re late.”
Trent was letting her sit in on production meetings for an all girl group who’d stumped up their own cash to record an album. It ran later than expected. She’d normally be here before Damon went on.
She could smell salt sweat and alcohol on him, it was rock hero appropriate. She turned into him; the heat coming off his torso was distracting. “You were being groped.” That came out half accusatory, half amused.
He cocked his head, trying to read her. “What can I say?”
“You’re sozzled.”
He grinned, it had swagger in it. “That I am.”
“What’s the occasion?”
A shrug that pulled her attention to the fact there were no buttons on his shirt. “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“And now?” She slipped her arms under his shirt, around his back.
“Now it’s time you shut up and kissed me.”
She had something so much better in mind and he deserved to be tortured just a little. “No, I don’t think so.”
His swagger fell in a heap. “You’re mad with me.”
She pulled away, checked the door. No lock on it, just the latch. That might cramp her style; as confident as she’d become, she was no exhibitionist.
“Georgia.”
She left him standing there and pulled a chair out of a stack against the wall.
He spun around to follow the sound. “Babe?”
She scoffed. “Babe! You do know it’s me?” She set the chair in the middle of the room, facing away from the door.
“You’re my baby. My girl. My love. Those other women are nothing.” He was swaying as if the music was still in him, or his balance was shot. “Don’t be mad with me, I’ll make it up to you.”
He would, in squirms and pants and enough frustration to make up for her missing the moment his shirt got ruined. She went back to him and took his hand. He made a grab for her, but his aim was off, the drink starting to slow his usual unerring accuracy in assessing where he was in relation to people close to him. “What do you want? Whatever you want, it’s yours.”
She wanted all the things those other women would never get. She wanted him desperate and dependent on her in all the best ways. She wanted his self-control shredded and his mind blown. She led him to the chair, moved it so the back of his knees made contact and he sat.
“What are you up to?”
“No damn good.” She glanced at the door over his head. Any of the guys could come through it. Maybe she couldn’t pull this off.
Damon made a purring sound, big caged cat. He shifted his hips, leaned back harder in the chair and his legs sprawled out in front. He said one word, “Bring,” and she forgot about the outside world.
&n
bsp; “I’m wearing lingerie.”
“Haah.” His chin tipped up, his face to the ceiling, arms hanging at his sides. It was game on.
“Red and black, lacy, edged in satin.” She pressed a finger to her lip. Was this going to work?
“More.”
Apparently. “The bra is connected to the panties by a lace panel, but everything else is bare. I’ve got suspenders.” Inspired, she flicked the strap of her bra under her dress and it slapped on her skin.
His smile was crooked, wicked. He brought his legs under him and sat forward. “More.”
“Black stockings, lace top, a red bow on the garter clip. There’s a seam up the back of the stocking, very straight.”
“I want my hands on that seam.”
“You’ll keep your hands to yourself.”
His eyes popped at her tone. “Yes, ma’am.” He tipped an imaginary hat, somewhere near his nose.
“I have red heels on, very high. My hair is up, but there are pins and if you’re good you might get to pull them out.” That at least was true. He liked undoing her hair.
“The bra is a little small. It pushes everything up.” She said that in a pouty voice and he groaned, elbows on his knees, hands clasped, eyes closed. He was in the moment so easily and so was she now. If anyone tried to come through that door they were getting an earful.
“The panties are g-string style.”
“Hot.” His voice had gone smoky. “More.”
She went for it. “Crotchless.” Did that combo even exist? By the look on his face it didn’t matter.
“Fuck.” His thigh muscles flared as he put weight onto his feet. “I want to touch you.”
“You keep your very fine arse in that chair.”
He grunted and sat upright, one hand reaching for her. He said, “Mercy,” as Roy Orbison in Pretty Woman, all growly, lusty goodness.
“Poor baby, want me to stop?”
“Fuck no.” The same growl in his own voice.
She had him swearing. Bonus points. He was only an occasional swear word user, because he could never be sure who was around to hear him and he didn’t want to offend.
It was time to up the tension. If only she was wearing something remotely similar to what she’d described. She’d had basic everyday comfy underwear on, a simple black dress and flatties. She circled around him thinking about where to take this. If she let him touch her would the fantasy come undone? If she described a striptease, would he?
“I’m going to touch you. But you can’t touch me. If you try I’ll leave you here all alone and you don’t want that, do you?” He knew she’d never do that so it was safe to say. He shook his head while trying to track her movements. She stood behind him, pushed her hand through his hair and dragged his head back. “You let someone rip your shirt open. Someone who wasn’t me.”
His hands came up defensively. “You were late.”
She tightened her grip and he squeezed his eyes closed. “Excuses. I’m the one who gets to do that. No one else. Understand me.” She shook his head and breathed on his face. She had no idea where all this was coming from.
He lifted a hand higher, trying to find her arm, and she broke contact and stepped away. “Slow learner. I warned you.”
“Georgia!”
She circled him again and he tracked her, turning his head about. “You can’t be trusted, Damon Donovan.”
“I can. I promise.”
“Hands to the base of the chair. Let go and it’s all over.” He shut his mouth with a snap of teeth.
Georgia slapped a hand over her own mouth. She’d messed this up, shifted it from fairly tame live in person phone sex to something darker, but Damon complied immediately, hands gripping the edge of the seat either side of his thighs.
She relaxed, coming to stand in front of him. “Good boy.” He was still hers to play with and this little show planned for him was starting to get to her in a big way, in a sweet ache between her legs way.
He bounced a heel on the floor, a beat like the pulse in her body. “For you, always.”
She nudged his knee aside with hers. He made room for her to stand between them, but was careful not to let his legs touch hers. He wanted this as much as she did.
“How did your shirt get ripped?”
“Taylor.”
“Don’t lie to me.” Good God, if her engineering career ended maybe she could find work as a phone sex worker.
“No lie. Taylor did it. They were shouting, get it off. I didn’t know they meant me.” He shrugged. “She did it to me, just part of the show.”
“That’s all right then.”
He cleared his throat, coughed out the words with a dollop of surprise, “It is?”
“Yes. I’ll allow that.” He was telling the truth and it was a Taylor thing to do. She trailed a hand over his shoulder, staying on the damp cotton of his shirt. “But no one else touches you like that.”
He cleared his throat again, turning his head away, rather than using a hand to cover it. “No, ma’am.”
“I’d kiss you, but I don’t think you deserve it.”
Head tipped up to look at her, seeing something that wasn’t there, but liking it anyway. “Please.”
“All those women groping you and you didn’t try to get away.” She bit her lip. That was a little unfair, he wouldn’t have risked knocking someone over, or pushing them off the stage and she was harping, she needed to move this along or she’d break the spell.
“I was waiting for you to rescue me.”
“I did rescue you.”
“And then you brought me to hell.” He lifted a heel and slammed it back on the floor in punctuation. “This is hell. Fucking kiss me, now.”
She put her hands on his bare chest and he hissed, jumping from the sudden contact. She leaned in and nuzzled his cheek. “No.”
“What do I have to do?”
“You’re not doing anything. I’m the one doing.”
He laughed. “Well, shit, get on with it then. Make me any harder and I might not be responsible for what happens.”
She looked straight at the front of his jeans. Dear Lord. She was a genius. She put her hand over him and he jerked, his chin lifting, one foot coming right off the floor. “Christ, Georgia.”
She almost praised him again; he’d kept hold of the chair, but better to keep him guessing. She moved her hand over his length. “Listen to me and no more talking.” He grunted an acknowledgement. “I’m going to let you take my hair down, but if you try to touch me anywhere else, this stops. Nod if you understand.”
He nodded, looking directly at her, seeing her as his demanding lingerie-clad mistress. She moved her hand and stepped out from between his knees and he groaned at the loss of contact. She hitched her dress up and told him to bring his knees together then straddled them, sitting safely on his thighs, laying her forearms over his shoulders.
He brought his hands up, cheating in a way she couldn’t resist letting him get away with. He could’ve gone to her head with an orienting touch or two, but he started with hands on her thighs, scooting under her dress, palms hot and sliding, then around, over her underwear, he took two hands full of her butt and squeezed, forcing a gasp out of her. He stared into her face and ran his hands slowly back outside her dress, to her waist, over her ribs and around to cup her breasts, making her eyes flutter and her body hum, before he stepped his hands one at a time to her head.
He didn’t have to say anything; everything he felt was in his face. He loved her, he loved her, he loved her. Right now, that’s what he was drunk with.
He pulled the hair stick out and found the pins in her twist easily. They pinged on the cement floor as he dropped them. He made her feel like she was the wanton sex kitten she’d described. When the last one was out she shook her head, shaking her hair out over her shoulders and letting him tunnel both hands through the tousled strands to her skull, pulling her to him, stopping when their noses bumped and their panted breath collided. Oh God.
Technically he was in breach, practically she was shattered and he knew it, her whole body was trembling. She could not have stood if the building was collapsing. But she could shift forward and press against him, filling the room with their moans. He gave her long seconds to decide who was in control and then he decided, bringing their lips together for one of those kisses to end all kisses that stopped time and rewrote history. Rewrote hers for certain. She was heart and soul, past, present and future his.
He tasted of the beer and the smoke and the need he had for her, and the kiss was deep and long and tangled with emotion, but pure like the finest alcohol is distilled to its essential elements. They were earth, air and fire. He was shelter, belonging and esteem, and she was her best self in this life with him.
“Fuck, Georgia, fuck,” he said raggedly against her neck, where he coughed heat and breathed tension. And then his lips were on hers, his hands rolling her hips, working to turn her into liquid and burn her off like fuel. But this was supposed to be for him. She broke the kiss and took it to his neck, his throat, his chest, scooting back on his legs to get her fingers to his zipper.
“Jesus, baby.” His hips lifted to her hands and she unhooked the stud. His eyes slammed closed and his chin tipped up, and the door opened.
Angus said, “I’m getting a tattoo tonight and you’re coming with me.” He locked eyes with Georgia in shock.
Both men said, “Fuck.” Damon through clenched teeth.
Angus added a sorry, but he kept coming towards them. “No sex in the green room, unless it’s a free show.”
Georgia pressed her face into Damon’s neck to hide. She was hot, her whole body aflame with arousal and embarrassment. Damon folded around her, trying to catch his breath.
Heather was behind Angus saying, “No, you’re not.”
“I’m not that drunk, I’m getting a tattoo,” Angus said, reasonably. Though it was utterly unreasonable he was in the room at all. She shifted to stand, but Damon wasn’t letting her go. He relaxed his grip on her enough so she could pull her dress down.
Incapable (Love Triumphs Book 3) Page 22