The Dirty Girls Book Club

by Savanna Fox

  Now he was sure she hadn’t climaxed the second time, and the last thing he wanted was to fucking dissect how bad he’d been. What his pride demanded—along with his cock, which for some perverse reason found her protests a turn-on—was that he seduce her again, and this time show her a fantastic time. Not on a hard wooden conference table. He had those high-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets women loved, and champagne in the fridge. He’d buy her flowers, maybe an orchid plant. Women were into orchids.

  “Are you listening, Woody?” Her amber eyes spat sparks, and they didn’t look like sparks of desire. “No one can know about this. At the meeting tomorrow, we’ll start fresh, like this never happened.” She crossed her arms over her chest, all stiff and starchy again.

  She wasn’t his kind of woman, this Georgia who went by the nickname George. He liked them warm and easy, laughing and fun, sexy and provocative. Hell, maybe that was why his sexual performance had been less than stellar.

  And she was right about business. Yeah, he had this stupid Vital-Sport contract he needed to honor, but his real business was hockey. He never let sex interfere with his work ethic, especially this close to the playoffs. Best to forget about the sheets, champagne, and flowers. “Okay, it never happened. And neither of us are gonna tell anyone. Right?” He didn’t need her spreading the word that Woody Hanrahan had lost his sexual edge.

  “Agreed,” she said fervently.

  Five

  Struggling to be professional, Georgia said, “I need to set up a meeting. How’s your schedule?” Professional? She’d never been so unprofessional in her life. What the hell had just happened? That had to be the single most out-of-character thing she’d done in her life.

  She’d dated two men in the past year and never even wanted to kiss them, yet with Woody … She drew her attention back to what he was saying.

  “Game tonight. An early practice tomorrow, same on Thursday; then we fly to Anaheim in the afternoon for an away game Friday.”

  “So tomorrow, Wednesday, would work, after your practice?”

  “I guess.” He said it begrudgingly, as if the last thing he wanted was to get together again.

  Not that she wanted it either. The man had made her lose her mind. Her body still hummed with the aftereffects of that craziness.

  She’d had not just her first orgasm, but a second one for dessert. How?

  How had that happened?

  Woody really didn’t look the least bit appealing in that tattered jersey with the ridiculous beaver on it, though the way the faded cloth hugged his body, more than hinting at muscles that she’d seen up close and personal …

  Again she dragged her thoughts back to business. “Please bring a copy of your schedule tomorrow.”

  He gave her a “you have to be kidding” look. “It’s on the website.”

  If she’d had more time to do her homework, she’d have known that. “Along with the practice schedule and your travel times?”

  “Nah,” he admitted. “Just the games. Okay, I’ll bring it.”

  A point to her side. Except she and Woody were on the same team. Why was she seeing this as a battle?

  She’d been off balance since the moment she saw his all-but-naked butt. And now she’d actually had sex with him. Oh God, she’d climaxed with a boorish hockey player, a man she’d barely met, with whom she had absolutely no intellectual or emotional connection. In four years of marriage to Anthony, she’d never experienced more than a pleasurable buzz.

  Although, of course, the lovemaking had been so much better with her husband. So intimate and loving.

  With Woody, it had been … stunning. As in, it had stunned her utterly.

  He’d called it crappy. He was sorry they’d done it. And so was she. Really.

  Now that she’d experienced orgasm, she knew it was just a physical thing. An incredibly pleasurable physical thing, but all the same—

  “So, you wanna set a time for this meeting?” he asked impatiently.

  She struggled to focus on business. “When’s the earliest you can be here after your practice?”

  They firmed up the details and exchanged contact information. Now that she was coming to her senses, she remembered something else. “Billy asked me to review the contract with you.” She didn’t want to spend one more moment in his company.

  He scowled. “You think I can’t read?”

  “Of course not. And I assume your agent went over everything with you.”

  His mouth tightened. “I got a handle on it.”

  Billy had asked her to go over the contract, but her pulse still raced and her sex tingled. She’d had two orgasms, for God’s sake. She had to get away from Woody and recover her composure, aided by one of the chocolate bars stashed in the bottom drawer of her desk. “Good. You’ll remember to wear a face shield tonight?” She couldn’t imagine why a player wouldn’t wear one in every game, but Woody must not, or he wouldn’t have the broken nose and scar.

  “Hate those fucking shields.”

  In her line of work, she’d heard the F-word enough times that it didn’t make her wince, but they’d have to clean up Woody’s vocabulary before he made any public appearances on behalf of VitalSport. “It’s a term of the contract, and you signed the contract.”

  He muttered something under his breath that sounded like, “Fucking contract.”

  Impatiently, she asked, “If you weren’t happy with the contract, why did you sign? I can’t imagine you need the income.”

  His jaw tightened and his face looked hard, almost bitter. For a long moment he didn’t respond. “I’ll wear the shield.” He stalked out of the conference room.

  When the door closed behind him, Georgia let out a long breath. Her legs were wobbly, so she sank into a chair. “My first meeting on my first campaign as account manager.”

  A bubble of hysteria rippled through her. “Now, didn’t that go swimmingly?” A giggle escaped her; then her gaze snagged on the crumpled ball of thong underwear, and she giggled again.

  No, there wasn’t one single funny thing about this. But every once in a while, even the most sensible woman was entitled to a bout of hysteria, wasn’t she?

  Later that afternoon, Georgia met in a conference room—a different one; she couldn’t imagine sitting at that particular conference table again—with Viv Andrews and Terry Banerjee, her team on the VitalSport campaign.

  Terry was an obvious pick, for his love of sports as well as his creativity and enthusiasm. She was less sure about Viv—their styles were very different—but Billy said the other woman was a genius when it came to image. It was clear that, if Woody’d ever worked with a publicist, that person had done an appalling job.

  “Let’s do some groundwork for the meeting with Woody tomorrow,” Georgia said.

  She’d have to face the man who’d given her mind-blowing orgasms. She had to forget—no; no woman could forget her first orgasms, especially if they were that incredible. She had to put all of that behind her and focus on business.

  “Terry, did you find some videos?”

  He nodded enthusiastically, his carefully styled black hair not moving. In his early twenties, he reminded her of a young Bollywood star. “Sure did, George. Interviews, YouTube candids shot by fans, clips from sports news on TV.”

  “Good. Let’s take a look.”

  “Afternoon movies,” Viv said. “Where’s the popcorn?”

  Georgia was almost sure she was joking, but she didn’t know Viv well. The woman, a few years older than Georgia, was vibrant and feminine. Her blond hair was wavy and gleaming, and her lips always matched her fingernails. Today’s dress and jacket were an abstract design of rich plum and sour lemon that screamed “look at me,” and the silky fabric clung to her curves.

  Her appearance reminded Georgia of her mother. Bernadette was always on the lookout for the next guy to give her life meaning and make her feel valued as a woman. She dressed to lure them, and shaped her personality to please them. She’d encouraged Georgia t
o be a “girly” girl and to be charming with men.

  That had never sat right with Georgia—especially not when that jerk boyfriend of her mom’s had fondled her. After a lot of stress and trauma, teenaged Georgia had decided that a woman should have her own identity, be strong and independent, and not be seductive or slutty. She’d joined the chastity club, and sworn to never use feminine wiles in either her professional life or her personal one.

  Still, she shouldn’t judge Viv by appearance. Billy had recommended her for a reason, and it was Georgia’s responsibility to pull this team together and utilize everyone’s strengths.

  “I’d rather be watching almost anything other than hockey,” Viv groused.

  “You’re not a fan either?” Georgia asked.

  Viv shook her head. “A violent sport. Ugly uniforms.”

  “Have either of you ever actually watched a game?” Terry asked.

  “My ex used to,” Viv said. “Another reason to hate it.”

  Georgia and her husband, Anthony, had agreed on the subject of sports. The amount of time and money devoted to teams chasing balls was ridiculous.

  “All set,” Terry said, projecting the image from his computer onto the wall screen.

  “Okay,” Viv said. “Let’s size up our raw material.”

  “Size up” and “raw.” The words make Georgia remember Woody in that outrageous thong. And out of that outrageous thong. When she’d seen him erect, felt him nudge between her legs, she’d wondered if she could open wide enough to take him in. A warm pulse throbbed against the crotch of her panties. Oh yes, she’d opened, and he’d felt glorious. Even if he—used to more experienced women—had categorized the sex as “kind of crappy.” The bastard.

  Grabbing her notepad and pen, she forced herself to focus on the clip Terry was playing. She had to view the man on-screen objectively, not as a well-endowed bastard she’d had sex with.

  After half an hour or so, Terry said, “That’s the last clip.” His tone awestruck, he added, “Isn’t he amazing?”

  Amazing. Yes, Woody was, in some ways—and not just sexual prowess. He was very male and powerful and he definitely had presence, even if that presence sometimes verged on Neanderthal. She turned to Viv. “What do you think of him?”

  “He’s crude, one-dimensional”—she gave a mischievous grin— “and he’s a hottie.”

  Georgia tapped pen on notepad. “Expand.”

  “Which of those words didn’t you understand?” Viv asked impishly.

  “Tell me how you see them fitting Woody.”

  “Okay. Starting with crude. He’s rough around the edges and isn’t great at channeling his testosterone. With the media, he parrots meaningless platitudes, then occasionally forgets the script and verges on being offensive. VitalSport is an upscale line, and a large segment of the market wouldn’t connect with him.”

  Georgia turned to Terry. “I agree. What about you, if you can put aside the fanboy thing?”

  Terry made a face. “I’m a fan for a reason, and it’s the reason VitalSport wants him for this campaign. He’s the biggest Canadian star playing for a Canadian team in Canada’s favorite sport. At the age of twenty-eight, he’s on his way to being a legend. And he’s all guy, which is something men and women both relate to.”

  He took a breath. “But, yeah, I hear what you’re saying. Players are coached on things to say and coached not to swear, but Woody could use more work. He’s from the backwoods, his career built slowly, and he hasn’t acquired the same polish as some players.”

  Georgia nodded. “Billy said we’d have to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.”

  “Silk purse?” Terry snorted. “Give me a break.”

  “It’s the wrong analogy,” Viv said. “We don’t want to lose his masculine edge, that sense of power and something a little raw, a little wild, just below the surface.”

  A shiver rippled through Georgia and that pulse between her legs throbbed again. “Good point. Now, Viv, what do you mean by ‘one-dimensional’?”

  “All he seems to be interested in, or be able to talk about coherently, is sports. Not just hockey; other sports too. But on those subjects, he can be articulate, informed, and entertaining. Good jokes, good use of nonverbals. He makes you see a person, hear him.”

  Georgia glanced up from her notes. “Are you saying he’s intelligent? I’ve been wondering if there’s a brain at work.” Okay, that was insulting, but when she’d still been in a mellow post-orgasmic glow, he’d said sex with her was crappy. She was entitled to snipe.

  “I wouldn’t swear to intelligence, but he’s a good observer and mimic, at least when it comes to sports.”

  “You’re a good observer too. Thanks, Viv. That’s something we can work with.”

  “You’re underestimating him,” Terry said.

  “Excuse me?” Georgia asked.

  “The words ‘dumb’ and ‘jock’ don’t necessarily go together. Hockey’s not an easy sport. It takes smarts, skill, instinct, discipline. And Woody’s one of the best.”

  “Didn’t he quit high school after grade eleven?” Georgia remembered that fact from his bio.

  “For a career that earns him more in one year than any of us are likely to make in a lifetime,” Terry said. “Doesn’t sound like such a dumb decision to me.”

  “Hmm. That’s good information too. Thanks, Terry.” Yes, this team was shaping up well. She turned to Viv. “Now tell me about the, uh, hottie bit.”

  Terry groaned, but Georgia persisted. “You really think he’s attractive?” Viv was a sophisticated woman who dressed in designer clothes and dated successful, handsome men.

  The blonde flicked a curl back from her face and laughed. “He’s not the kind of man I normally go for, yet at a primitive level I feel his appeal. We have some good raw material there.” She winked. “I look forward to dressing Mr. Woody Hanrahan.”

  Georgia tried very hard not to remember seeing him naked. “Thanks, both of you. This is a good start.”

  Yes, this was going to work out. It simply had to work out, and a little thing like a muscle-bound jock who’d seduced her into doing something totally out of character wasn’t going to stand in her way. She would make a glorious success of the VitalSport campaign.

  Georgia enjoyed the challenges of her career, but she had high principles and sometimes had to grit her teeth. Her goal was to get enough experience and credibility within Dynamic Marketing that she could specialize in the kind of campaigns she enjoyed handling— not the snake oil ones—or else set up her own firm.

  “Tomorrow,” Georgia said, “we’ll brainstorm and see if Woody has any ideas to offer. Including him in the planning is the most likely way to win his cooperation.” That was one of the principles she believed in, though it would have been easier to not have to see him again.

  “I can’t wait to meet him,” Viv said. “By the way, rumor has it VitalSport’s introducing an undies line for this campaign?”

  Trying to keep her face expressionless, Georgia nodded.

  “Every job has its perks,” Viv said with a cat-that-ate-the-cream smile.

  “Jesus, Viv,” Terry said.

  Georgia glanced at the other woman, so pretty and feminine. Tomorrow, Woody wouldn’t even notice Georgia, not with Viv in the room.

  No, she’d make sure he paid attention, Georgia vowed silently, because she was in charge. As for noticing her as a woman—that was the last thing she wanted. Honestly.

  “I can’t wait either,” Terry enthused. “And you should both watch the game tonight.” He pumped a fist in some kind of cheer. “Bash ’em, Beavers!”

  Georgia and Viv exchanged eye rolls.

  Six

  Georgia spent the evening on the couch with her laptop on her knees and her tortoiseshell cat, Kit-Kat, curled up beside her. Mostly, she typed campaign notes. Still, in the name of research, she had turned on her TV—rarely used, because she was more of a reader—and tuned in to the hockey game. As she worked, she glanced
at it occasionally.

  The Vancouver Beavers were playing a team from Anaheim called the Ducks. Despite the silly bird name, at least their jerseys featured only the team name, not an animal caricature.

  Within each team, the players were virtually indistinguishable in their padded clothing and helmets, and oddly, they almost all had scruffy beards. Hanrahan was number 77 for the Beavers, and she was glad to see he wore a face shield when he was on the ice.

  Not that he was there for very long at a stretch. He was on the bench or in the penalty box as much as he skated. She shuddered as number 77 sent yet another body crashing into what she’d learned were called the boards, though only the bottom part was board; the top was Plexiglas.

  It was surreal watching, and knowing that number 77 had been inside her. The same man who had a stadium full of fans on their feet cheering when he took an opposing player into the boards and freed up the puck for a teammate, or groaning in sympathy when the Ducks’ goaltender blocked one of his shots. The thought that he’d given her two orgasms was ever-present in her mind, and in the warm, not unpleasant, ache between her thighs.

  Woody had probably already forgotten. He was sorry they’d had sex. That was what he’d said, when she was still in a rosy glow of sexual satisfaction.

  And who cared? She had to stop dwelling on it and put the whole thing behind her.

  Georgia focused again on the game. The Beavers were losing. To her untutored eye, it would be better to spend more time shooting the puck and defending their goal, rather than smashing into members of the opposing team and getting penalties. Hockey seemed so useless and violent. Why were players paid millions per year? What was the appeal for all those fans?

  She tried to grasp what was going on. Players got credit for assists as well as goals, and the referees handed out penalties for behaviors like hooking and high-sticking. Icing—which had nothing to do with cake—resulted in stopping play, and a face-off. There was something called a power play, which seemed to be a good thing. The Ducks got more of them than the Beavers, and scored on them twice.