by Lauren Layne
I nip his chin. “A little. Sometimes.”
His head dips as he brushes his lips against mine, teasing, refusing to deepen the kiss. “Perhaps. But not all the time.”
My lips part to tell him to prove it, but he’s one step ahead of me, and the only thing that comes out is a surprised gasp as he guides me backward before easily hoisting me onto the kitchen counter.
He sets his mouth against my throat and my head falls to the side.
“I didn’t ask,” he says, planting warm kisses along my neck. “How are you feeling?”
“Right now? Never been better,” I whisper, pulling his mouth back to mine.
Andrew slips his hands under my sweater as we kiss, his palms roaming over my back, warm skin on warm skin. His breath shudders just a little, and I smile against his mouth, loving all these little chinks I’m finding in Andrew Mulroney’s armor.
He pulls back, raising his eyebrows in challenge at my amusement. He holds my gaze as his hands slide around to my front, fingers tracing the outer slope of my breasts lightly before withdrawing contact.
I whimper, and he watches me knowingly as he takes his time returning his hands to me. Then his thumbs are hovering over my nipples, a torturous non-touch that has me arching my back with a helpless plea.
There’s nothing stodgy about the way he teases me, cupping my breasts in his palms before pulling back to pluck at the sensitive tips.
I wiggle closer, tugging frantically at my bulky sweater, sighing in relief as he helps me lift it over my head and toss it aside.
The look on his face when he sees my bare chest is flattering, but I like even better the greedy way his mouth goes to my breasts. His tongue flicks across a nipple before drawing it warmly into his mouth, hungry for me.
But I’m hungry for him too, and I endure the sweet ecstasy for only a minute before my legs wrap around his waist, my hands tearing at the buttons of his shirt.
I hate that he put this on for Hailey, hate that he was thinking of spending tonight with anyone but me, and I make him pay for it. My nails rake his skin as I take in the upper body that’s every bit as impressive as I expected it to be given his gym-rat habits.
“Not bad, lawyer,” I say, my fingers touching every perfect ridge of his six-pack. His eyes close as I explore his skin, his breath hitching in and out with need, and though I don’t think I’ve ever wanted a sexual encounter as badly as I want this one, I’m struck with an unprecedented wave of tenderness.
I lean forward and set my mouth on the warm hollow at the base of his throat, a gentle kiss that conveys things I don’t know how to say any other way.
I feel his palm against my face, his fingers brushing the hair at my temple in an answering caress.
His lips find mine, and our eager hands explore downward. I’m wearing yoga pants, so he’s got the advantage, easily pulling them down over my legs before I have a chance to undo his belt buckle.
Lucky for me, he’s feeling helpful, and moments later we’re down to the last barrier: my thong, his black briefs. (Of course he would be a briefs guy, and it’s hot.)
I lick my lips as I trail my fingers over the impressive length of his erection. His eyes narrow, his breathing harsh and uneven as he flicks a finger over the pink bow at the top of my black lace panties, his gaze dropping to follow the back-and-forth motion of his finger.
“A bow,” he whispers. “How perfectly ridiculous.”
Then his fingers are slipping beneath the elastic, pulling my underwear to the side as he bends down, lowering his head and tasting me.
I cry out in surprise at his unexpected boldness, my hands dropping to his head, fingers in his hair at the gentle but confident swipe of his tongue.
He presses even closer, the flat of his tongue licking me in unapologetically carnal strokes as his hands spread my legs wide.
I don’t know what I’m feeling—something like ecstasy and torture and maybe a little bit of shock about how wrong I am about Andrew Mulroney.
The man whose head moves insistently between my legs is nothing like the buttoned-up lawyer who has spent the past few months ignoring me. This man is raw and primal, his touch sure and possessive, as though every part of me is his and he’s always known it.
I’m desperate now, my fingers clutching at his hair, wanting, needing everything that he’s offering.
A long finger eases inside me as his tongue begins circling in perfect rhythm to my every cry.
A second finger joins the first, the pressure of his tongue increasing, quickening, and I shatter like crystal in his mouth, the pleasure so savagely intense I’m not entirely sure how to survive it alone.
Except I’m not alone.
It’s like he knows the exact moment I’m too sensitive to take any more, and he straightens, drawing me to him, holding my face against his shoulder, stroking my back through the rest of the tremors, letting me catch my breath.
When I finally come back to reality, he presses his lips to my ear. “Stodgy, huh?”
I laugh, a short, exhausted sound. “I may have been wrong about that.”
“Perhaps I should convince you once and for all.”
His hands go to my waist, tugging me forward, supporting me as he pulls me off the counter, lowering me to my feet.
I start to move to the right, thinking he means for us to go to the bedroom, but his fingers close around my wrist, lifting my hand to his face.
The kiss on my palm is gentle, but the way he spins me around, pressing my belly against the kitchen counter, is anything but.
I gasp at the feel of cold marble on warm skin, but the contrast is unexpectedly arousing, as is the way he shoves my underwear down until it’s in a tiny pile at my feet.
I kick the fabric aside and then gasp in delighted pleasure as I feel the undisguised evidence of his arousal against me.
Andrew’s hand moves to the right side of my face, gathering my hair in one hand and pushing it over my left shoulder.
He presses a kiss to the nape of my neck. “Do I need a condom?”
I tilt my hips back in invitation to hurry the hell up. “Birth control and religious about my doctor’s appointments. And I’m going to guess that’s just one more thing you’re anal about.”
“Well then, Georgiana,” he says huskily as his hands find mine, flattening my palms to the edge of the counter and pushing me forward slightly, “better hold on.”
I catch my breath, wanting—needing—the thrust. Instead I feel the velvety tip of him, teasing among the wet folds. Making me wait. Making us both wait.
Then his hips rock forward and I cry out, my body welcoming the hard invasion like it’s meant for this, meant for him.
Andrew’s fingers grip my hips as he pulls out, slowly, tauntingly, only to thrust forward hard, pressing me to the counter. I meet him thrust for thrust, bracing myself on the counter as I arch my back, angling my hips to take all of him.
His fingers tangle in my hair, his other hand palming my breast, pinching my nipple as he pulls my back to his chest, his hips moving ever faster.
I tilt my head back and to the side, begging for a kiss. He gives it to me, his tongue sliding into my mouth as a hand slides down over my belly, two fingers pressing against my clit.
Once more my body is utterly his, and his mouth swallows every cry, his body absorbs every shudder. And while Andrew Mulroney might not be stodgy, he is a gentleman. He waits until I’ve had my pleasure for a second time before he takes his own, his arm wrapping low on my waist as he thrusts into me a final time, his release coming with a helpless, savage growl.
I enjoy his pleasure almost as much as my own, knowing from his gasps for air, from the way his hands seem to grab at me involuntarily, that whatever’s between us eclipses anything that’s come before it.
At last he rests his damp forehead on my shoulder, and somehow I find the energy to lift my hand to his head, my fingers tangling gently in his hair.
I hear him swallow, then speak. “Believ
e it or not, I had intended to take you on a date.”
I laugh. “I think I liked this better. We needed to get it out of our system.”
I feel his smile. “Don’t be ridiculous, Georgiana. I am far from done with you.”
Andrew
SATURDAY NIGHT (OR MAYBE SUNDAY MORNING—NOBODY’S LOOKING AT THE CLOCK)
The soft, feminine sigh woke him up. It took his brain a few seconds to register that Georgiana Watkins was curled against him. It took his body far less than that.
He didn’t know what time it was, only that at some point, after trying every sexual position they could think of, they’d fallen asleep, sweaty and sated.
And now…
He still wasn’t fully awake, but the lower half of him definitely was. Unable to resist, he opened his mouth against Georgiana’s warm neck, his thumb and forefinger closing around her nipple.
He smiled wickedly at her moan.
Now they were both awake.
His other hand slid over her ass, dipping between her legs. It was his turn to moan when he found her already wet and ready for him.
Andrew nudged her knees up toward her chest, so that she opened for him. He fully intended to slide into her from behind, ride her with her back pressed to his chest, but something stopped him. A need, not just for her body, but for her.
Instead, he dipped his head, brushing his lips against her shoulder before rolling her onto her back, easing her soft, warm body beneath his.
Andrew’s fingers brushed her hair from her face as he lowered his body atop hers, watching her face as he slid inside. Georgie sighed again, this time the sound sexy instead of sleepy.
They were as close as two people could be.
Neither said a word as he thrust in and out in slow, deliberate strokes, her arching to meet his body in perfect rhythm.
It shouldn’t be this good this soon. She shouldn’t feel both so familiar and so new. They shouldn’t know each other as well as they did.
It was too much. Too much, and yet not enough, and…
Her orgasm was fierce but silent, and he came seconds later, also silent, as though they were both terrified at what might be revealed by even the slightest noise.
Finally their bodies stilled, and he eased out of her before rolling them to their sides, pulling her against him, his arm heavy on her waist once more.
He fell back asleep, but he didn’t dream. No need. He was already living the dream.
Georgie
SUNDAY MORNING, PRE-BRUNCH
“I’ve got to say, Georgiana, I didn’t picture you as an early riser on weekends.”
I pause in the process of rifling through my panty drawer and turn to face him, hand holding the towel firmly around my chest so he doesn’t derail me from the getting-ready process again.
“That reminds me,” I say. “What do you do on weekends?”
He squints his eyes. “Could you be a bit more specific with the question? That’s sixty hours to cover.”
“Don’t be such a lawyer. You know what I mean. Monday through Friday, you’re always downstairs at five A.M. Always. But weekends you’re not. Do you sleep in?”
His eyebrows lift. “Have you been missing me on Saturdays and Sundays, Georgiana?”
I purse my lips. “Answering the question with a question. More lawyer tricks.”
He’s lounging naked in my bed, looking far more put together than he has any right to, considering how many times we ahemed. Andrew pulls himself up against the headboard, but unfortunately one hand keeps the sheet at a decent level and prevents any interesting views.
“I relax my schedule a bit on weekends. I don’t go to the gym until at least six-thirty. Sometimes even seven.”
I stare at him, looking for the increasingly familiar signs that he’s joking. Then I crack up when I see none.
The man’s dead serious.
“Not until six-thirty, huh?” I say. “Appalling. The day’s practically wasted by then.”
“For a party girl, you’re quick to mock. I thought you’d be asleep till noon.”
I lift a shoulder. “On Saturdays, yes. Sundays, though…Sundays are brunch.”
“With Marley?” he asks.
I turn back, matching pink bra and panties in hand. “You remember my best friend’s name?”
He shrugs, looping both arms around upraised knees, the wrist of one hand held casually by the grip of the other. He looks so damn at home in my bed, it makes my knees a little weak with yearning. “I pay attention.”
“Speaking of my friends,” I say with a wince, remembering the circumstances of last night, “how upset was Hailey when you canceled the date?”
“Not. Didn’t seem that surprised either. Said to tell you hi.”
I smile. Sounds like Hailey. Although I should probably call her, make sure we’re okay.
I step into my underwear and do the awkward dance of trying to pull the panties up while still keeping the towel under my armpits. Sure, the guy’s seen it all, but not in the daylight, and a girl’s got to save some mystery.
“So where’s brunch?” he calls as I slip into the bathroom to hang up the towel and put on my bra.
“Seventy-second and Madison,” I call back.
“Would have thought you girls would be down at some trendy hot spot in the Village.”
I smile, because he knows me well. “I’m sure the girls will be. I, on the other hand, will be where I always am on Sundays at noon,” I say, plugging in my hair dryer. “At my parents’ house.”
If he replies, I don’t hear it, because I grab my round brush and turn the hair dryer on. Like I said, my hair’s my pride and joy; I can’t let it air-dry and go all frizzy on me.
Several—and I do mean several—minutes later, I use my fingers to add some extra body at the roots, then use a big curling iron to add a little more curl to the style.
I step back into the bedroom just as he walks in wearing only his briefs, with two mugs of coffee in hand. “Made some with your French press,” he says. “Hope that’s okay.”
“More than okay,” I say, reaching eagerly for the coffee.
He’s watching me with a bemused expression. “You drink it black.”
I blow some of the steam his way. “So?”
“Would have pictured you more as a flavored-creamer, extra-sprinkles kind of girl.”
“Used to be. Too many calories,” I say with a wink before turning and walking to my closet. “Gotta save room for the donuts.”
I survey my outfit options as I sip the hot coffee, settling on a burgundy tunic and dark gray leggings.
I turn back, unsurprised to see him unapologetically looking at my ass.
“What time do you have to leave for brunch?” he asks, his voice so hopeful, his motives so purely guy, that I laugh.
“Too soon to make time for what you have in mind,” I say, setting my coffee on the dresser and stepping into the leggings. “Besides, I’m a tiny bit sore.”
“Sorry about that.”
I snort and pull the top over my head. “See, your words say sorry, but your tone is just the tiniest bit self-satisfied.”
He takes a sip of coffee. “I can neither confirm nor deny.”
I reach out and pick up a gold hoop earring from the dresser. “Is this what it’s going to be like da—sleeping with a lawyer?”
I hope he doesn’t know I almost used the word dating. Baby steps with this one.
But he’s more evolved than I think, cupping his big hands around the mug and leaning his forearms on his knees as he watches me continue the primping routine. “Sleeping with. That’s what this is?”
“Well, unless you prefer the Page Six version that we’re involved,” I say with an easy smile, trying not to hold my breath.
“It is considerate of them to shortcut this whole thing for us, let us know where we stand.”
I watch him for a second, trying to figure out just how sarcastic he’s being right now. I can’t tell.
&nbs
p; My tongue touches the center of my top lip as I consider the wisdom of what I’m about to do.
Ah, what the hell. I go for it.
“You should come to brunch.”
Andrew slowly straightens. “With your parents?”
The look on his face is so comically horrified that I can’t help laughing. I hold up my hands. “Okay. That reaction right there was my worst-case scenario, but at least I know where we stand. Too soon. Way too soon.”
He scratches his cheek and avoids my gaze. “It’s just…”
“Andrew.” I wait until he meets my eyes, then walk to him, cupping his face in my hands, liking the way his eyes go warm at my touch. “Don’t freak out on me, ’kay? I meant it in a no-pressure way. There are mimosas to be consumed and Wall Street Journals to be read, and I’m pretty sure that’s your jam, but it’s also a meet-the-parents scenario, and I could see how that might not be your jam, and I’m totally fine with that. We’re good?”
He nods slowly, but his expression is still troubled. My fault. Rookie move, dropping brunch and parents a mere twelve hours after hooking up with a guy. At least I try to tell myself that’s all it is—that I’m moving too quickly. I don’t want to consider the other possibility: that despite our bodies being made for each other, out of bed we don’t know how to fit into each other’s lives.
“I’ve got to put on my face and be out the door in twenty,” I say, gesturing toward the bathroom. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you want, drink all the coffee. Although I’m betting you’re getting antsy not being at the gym yet.”
He doesn’t crack a smile, but I don’t expect one.
“Georgiana—”
I pause and turn toward him. He blows out a breath, looking endearingly nervous. “Have dinner with me tonight?”
I smile, my heart giving a happy leap that last night wasn’t a one-and-done deal in his book.
And definitely not in mine.
“I’d like that,” I say, keeping my smile bright, my voice light.
He gives me the slightest of smiles, but his eyes are guarded, and I can’t help but think that the dinner invitation was a cop-out substitute for what he really wanted to say.