by Silver James
“Georgie? I fixed one of your Starbucks vanilla latte things. Do you need milk or sugar?”
“Thanks, but no. It’s good just the way it is, Clay.”
Her voice wafted in from the living room and he breathed in relief but made a note to restock his fridge and pantry. He carried the mug out and handed it to her with a caution. “It’s hot.”
Dropping to the ottoman, Clay reached for Georgie’s feet.
“Wait! What are you—”
He slipped off one shoe and started massaging the ball of her foot, effectively cutting her off as she let out a whimpering moan that went straight to his groin. “Want me to stop?” She whimpered again, and he chuckled. “Drink your coffee, Georgie. You did me the favor of coming to the dinner tonight at the last minute. The least I can do is rub your sore feet.”
“Mmmhmmm.” Her eyes closed as she relaxed against the back of the couch.
Divesting her other foot of its shoe, he rubbed them both simultaneously, using his thumbs to massage the balls of her feet. He had to stop when she almost dropped her cup. Clay snagged it and set it aside then went back to work. In moments, she was all but purring. He continued for a few minutes, stopping only when she struggled to sit up.
“Keep doing that and I’ll be asleep in moments.”
“Can’t have that happening.” He shifted, lightning-fast, from ottoman to couch, gathering her onto his lap. He teased his finger around the neckline of her dress, from one shoulder across the swells of her breasts to the other shoulder, and back again.
“Clay—”
“Georgie.”
“We shouldn’t be doing this.”
“Maybe.” He buried his nose behind her ear and nibbled the soft skin he found. “Want me to stop?”
He continued to kiss her, nuzzling along her jaw to her mouth. Full lips. Soft. Sweet. Just like the woman. He deepened the kiss, waiting for her to open for him.
“Georgie?” He murmured her name against her lips.
She leaned back and stared at him, looking helpless and unsure.
“Sweet pea? What is it?”
“I’ve wanted this...you... I’ve dreamed about it...but...”
“Shhh, darlin’. This is good. We’re good.” And it shocked him to realize he spoke the truth. This wasn’t a simple seduction. He liked Georgie. As a person. And was just now discovering how truly sexy she was. Coming into a relationship from this direction was a revelation. “We’re more than good, Georgie.”
He recognized her surrender in the way her eyes softened and went unfocused, in the way her arms crept around his neck, in the way her lips sought his and her body pressed against him. “Will you stay with me tonight, Georgie? In my bed?”
At her sighing yes, he gathered her into his arms and stood up. She gasped and her arms clutched around his shoulders and neck. “I promise not to drop you.”
Her green eyes flared with something he’d never seen there before—desire. And trust. “I never thought you would.”
A soft light came on as he pushed the bedroom door open. He should thank Hunt for installing the motion sensor. Clay gently lowered Georgie to her feet. Cupping her cheeks in his palms, he kissed her. He wanted to strip her and take her right there, but his practical side poked him. Once he started making love to her, he wanted no interruptions, no distractions.
“Contacts?”
She blinked up at him, bemused and dreamy. “Oh. Um...”
“Your bag?”
“Oh. Yes.” She seemed to give herself a mental shake and smiled. “Yes. Case and drops.”
“If you need to...ah...” He waved toward the set of French doors on one wall. “The bathroom. I’ll be right back.”
“Clay?”
Something in the tone of Georgie’s voice stopped him dead in his tracks. “Yeah?”
“Can you...uh, will you...unzip me?”
He turned around and schooled his features. Even in the low light, her face flamed. He wanted to be the one to strip her out of that gorgeous gown, but he could see the impracticality of that. And bless Georgie, she was always practical. “I can do that.” Damn. Was that gravelly rumble his voice? He swallowed hard and returned to her.
She turned her back to him and he futzed with the hook at the top then pulled the zipper to reveal some sort of... His brain drew a blank. Red satin and lace did that to a man. Bustier. That was the word for what she wore. Oh, yeah. He could strip her out of that. It looked like a hellava lot more fun than her dress.
“Um... Clay?”
“Mmmm?”
“I...need to...uh...you know...go?”
Embarrassed, he released her. When had his hand curled around her waist? When had his mouth dropped to kiss the nape of her neck as his other hand cupped her breast? “Yeah. Me, too.” He needed to go somewhere. He did his best to focus. To the living room. That was it. To get her bag. So she could take her contacts out. He pivoted and trotted out because if he stayed, he would have watched her step out of the dress, would have followed her into the bathroom like a stray dog begging for a kind word.
When he returned, she was still in the bathroom. He knocked on the door, passed her purse through when it opened a crack and retreated to his bed. Damn but he felt awkward, like a pimple-faced kid in the backseat of his daddy’s Oldsmobile. Only he’d never been that kid. Ever. Not his first time, or any of the times after. Not until now.
And that was when it hit. Tonight—Georgie. This was something more, something special. She was definitely something special and he’d been an absolute idiot and blind to boot. He stripped out of his jacket, resisted the urge to rip his shirt open, scattering the studs. Instead, he studiously removed each one. Took off his cuff links. Kicked off his boots and sat to strip off his socks. He was still sitting on the edge of the bed when Georgie stepped out.
Her legs were long and muscular, with thighs rounding into her very lovely butt. Nipped-in waist, full breasts, and... Clay dragged his gaze to her eyes—blinking owlishly at him sans glasses—and hoped to hell he wasn’t drooling. He stood up, suddenly needing the extra room in his slacks. He held out a hand in silent invitation.
When she arrived, stumbling a little as she walked with one hand extended as if she was afraid of bumping into something, he gathered her against him. His hands traced up her sides, smoothed down her back. Over and over. He didn’t think he’d ever be able to stop touching her. Her forehead connected with the bare skin of his chest and he forced air into his lungs. Breathing had suddenly become overrated. Her fingers clutched his shirt plackets and he felt the shiver that slid through her.
He pulled the pins and clips from her hair and tunneled his fingers through it until it framed her face. The bustier she wore was unhooked and gone with nimble flicks of his fingers, and her red panties followed with the whisper of silk against skin.
“I want you, Georgie,” he murmured against her hair. She nodded, her silken hair rubbing across his lips. He twitched when she kissed his chest. “Ahhh, baby,” he sighed. Scooping her into his arms, he carried her to the bed and settled her toward the center. “I’ve wanted this since Arizona.”
She blushed and looked down, almost coy in her reaction. Then her gaze met his and Clay’s pulse rate tripled. The need and want on her face were as naked as she was. He climbed on the bed, still wearing his shirt and slacks, wanting only to touch and pleasure her.
* * *
Running her hands down the hard, muscular plane of his back, Georgie found the hem of his crisply starched shirt and snuck her fingers beneath. His skin felt warm, smooth, but for the feathering of hair sprinkled across his chest, which was now gently abrading hers. His muscles flexed under her touch.
She had one too-short moment to savor the sensations of hot skin and starched linen before he pushed up and slipped his shirt off. C
apturing her wrists in one large hand, he pressed them to pillows above her head. “I get to touch you first.”
She might have protested, if her brain still had the ability to form words she didn’t have the breath to utter. Wide-eyed, she gazed up at him, watched his mouth curve into a predatory grin, his amber eyes looking almost feral. He simply watched her, touching her only with his breath, her hips pinned by his, her wrists still shackled.
“So pretty.” His expression shifted from wonder to possessiveness. “And now mine.”
Clay released her wrists but she didn’t move, captured in his heated gaze. He pushed away, sat back on his knees between her legs. His gaze roamed over her, as visceral a caress as if he’d stroked his palm across her skin.
She shivered uncontrollably, not from cold, but from the heat building up inside her. He made her feel hot, crazy with need, all common sense scattered into the shadows of his bedroom. Now that she had given in to the desire, all she wanted was to touch him, to feel his weight on her, to know what he felt like buried deep inside her. Only that would satisfy her now.
Georgie didn’t know where her feelings came from. This eruption of desire might stem from her long-standing crush, or it could have ignited from the look in his eyes. She ached, deep inside, needing him. Wanting him as she’d never wanted anyone else. She couldn’t deny her feelings any longer.
His hand, surprisingly callused, followed the path of his gaze, stroking the curve of her cheek and down over her throat. He skimmed across her collarbone and lingered at her breasts, palm cupping her, fingers gently kneading until her breath hitched, fast and uneven. He didn’t hurry, giving each breast attention, treating them to touch and tweaks until she bucked beneath him.
“Shhh, Georgie. I want to take my time.” He smiled, holding her gaze a moment before the warmth and weight of his body disappeared. She heard something soft hit the floor—his slacks. Clay was back in a moment and his hand continued the journey lower. Rough fingertips teased across her belly, making her quiver and reach impatiently for him. He caught her hands, banding her wrists easily, refusing to be rushed.
He pressed on the soft curve of her belly, and she waited for embarrassed heat to flush her cheeks. She’d never had a flat, trim stomach, not like the women Clay normally dated. The feeling didn’t come. How could it when he watched her, his desire so evident she could read it without her glasses. Deep appreciation shone in his eyes, and she relaxed a moment before growing bold enough to push her hips against his hand, begging for his attention.
Clay obliged, caressing from one hip to the other. His fingers curled around her curves and he squeezed gently. She closed her eyes, picturing him gripping her with both hands, thrusting into her. Where did these ideas come from? Sex before Clay had been awkward fumblings in the dark. Her mind conjured images of him spreading her legs wider, his fingers sliding into that aching space between them. Her eyes flew open as his hand did just that.
Fingertips teased her, accompanied by a low hum of male appreciation. As his fingers continued their explorations, she tensed, bracing for the moment when he reached the burning need inside her. She squeezed her eyes shut as her hips tilted upward without any prompting from her. As time, in sync with her erratic breaths, skipped to a stop, she waited for...something, the moment one of exquisite torture.
It didn’t come. Instead of his sliding fingers sinking into her, they were replaced by his breath blowing across her core. Something warm and slick brushed across her, the touch unexpected but welcome. His breath came again, stirring gently against her skin before he descended to taste her with his mouth, soft and wet and hot and sending her wits scattering.
He was going to kill her. She fisted her hands in his hair—his perfectly trimmed and styled hair—and arched against him, crying out, unable to bite back the sound. She felt his smile, her moans of pleasure urging him on. He teased her, tormenting and tasting, lapping, stroking, nibbling as if she was a feast laid out for his pleasure. She was ready to beg, plead for him to finish, to push her over the edge into the storm of pleasure he’d created deep within her. Clay had no mercy. He used his mouth shamelessly, and finally his fingers—one, followed by another—curled inside her relentlessly until she shuddered, bowing her back, feet and shoulders pressing against the bed, as she went blind from the enormity of the emotions crashing over her.
As she fell back against the soft mattress, her throat burned, raw from what? Screams?
Clay didn’t wait for her to recover. He crawled up her body, a predator capturing his prey. He blocked out everything as he hovered over her, braced on his hands. He lowered his head, caught her lips with his, kissed her. Her fists released the comforter and rubbed along his lean flanks, circled his back. Her fingers dug into the taut muscles and he groaned into her mouth.
She tugged him closer, wanting his weight settled on her, wanting him buried inside her, stroking in and out. She would have crawled inside his skin if she could have, but even that wouldn’t have been enough. She wanted to be part of him. Needed him to be a part of her. Then his hips lifted and he grasped her hand in his.
“Touch me, Georgie. Take me in your hand and guide me inside you.”
She did as he asked, savoring the hard feel of him, a tiny part of her noticing he wore a condom. He sank inside her and her breath hitched. She’d gone a long time without a lover and never had she felt so complete, so alive, as when his body joined with hers. Clay stilled, watching her, both of them savoring the power of the moment. She wanted to look away, but she couldn’t, knowing he was sinking inside her soul as easily as he had her body, stretching and filling her.
She wanted to speak, wanted to tell him how good this felt, how sexy and thrilling, how completely perfect she found this moment, but she had no ability to form the words. Instead, she just whimpered and moaned and clutched at his shoulders, lifting herself up to him.
Her fingers slid up the back of his neck, fisted in his thick, black hair. She tugged to bring his head down to hers. She wanted to taste him, fill her mouth with the flavor of him. She whimpered and Clay took mercy, claiming her mouth in a desperate kiss.
Desperate—yes, that defined how she felt. Desperation colored everything, every look, every touch, every kiss. Their bodies moved to a primitive rhythm as she reached for something less physical, something more spiritual than just a climax.
His breath, moist and heated, teased against her cheek. How was he not panting, gulping in great lungfuls of air the way she was? Tension wound tighter, then Clay shifted, changed angles, and light burst in her brain. She shattered into stardust, watching as tiny sparkles of Georgie rained down on them both.
She felt as though she needed to sweep up all that shiny glitter to save in a jar so maybe—just maybe—she could put herself back together. She felt infinite, a part of the universe, transcendent and powerful. Her vision cleared and she focused on Clay’s face. His features were etched with his pleasure and she clung to him as he tensed and poured himself into her. They’d each taken and then gave back to the other pleasure a thousand times more intense.
He collapsed over her, rolling to the side and wrapping his arms around her. His sweat-sheened skin pressed against the length of her body, and the lazy strokes of his hand up and down her back made her want to arch and purr like a well-satisfied house cat. Basking in the afterglow, she concentrated on the one thing she could manage without thought—breathing. As her heart slowed, the stardust that was the essence of her settled back into the bottle made up by her skin until she once again became the woman named Georgie Dreyfus.
Her brain, like her heart, slowed its madly whirling attempt to make sense of things. A thought, not even fully formed, tapped against her consciousness. Words. She should say something, but that would mean stringing syllables together to form a coherent thought. She was too tired, too incoherent for that. Words could wait.
Everyt
hing could wait. Her world may have just gone topsy-turvy, but it would still be there in the morning, waiting to be dealt with.
At least she thought it would. With her last shred of coherence, she noted that Clay kissed her forehead and murmured something that sounded like, “Sweet dreams, love.”
Nine
Georgie lay very still when she remembered where she was. Beyond the windows, the city was coming awake. Traffic. Voices. The noise of life in DC, but much closer than the sounds she normally heard from her third-floor apartment. Clay’s house. Clay’s room. Clay’s...bed. With Clay asleep beside her.
She wanted to flail. To hyperventilate. To totally freak out as warmth at her back reminded her that she’d plunged headfirst into waters way over her head. Memories of the previous night flooded through her and she fought the temptation to get up and flee. Not just run for the hills, but escape to the farthest place on earth. Totally not practical. Plus, she’d never been a quitter. Smoothing out her breathing, she cautiously turned her head.
Clay had ended up on his back, his right arm flung above his head. She lay curled on her side, her back to him, using his biceps for a pillow. His chest—his very masculine and muscular chest with its fine feathering of dark hair—rose and fell in time with his measured breaths.
She squeezed her eyes shut. Breathe. Just breathe, she reminded herself. Last night had been a hundred times more wonderful than anything she’d ever dreamed. And here she was, still in Clay’s bed. This had to be a good thing, right? She’d overheard Hunt and other members of the security team grousing about predawn pickup and deliveries. Georgie couldn’t remember Clay spending the night with anyone but Giselle. Which meant she shouldn’t make more out of this than it was. A one-night stand. An anomaly. An error in judgment... No. She refused to think that. The things they’d done last night had not been a mistake.