“I’m texting the other guys,” Stu said. “No one’s gonna want to miss this.”
“Stop texting; stop drinking,” Woody ordered. “Go home and focus on hockey.” With the phone hooked between his ear and shoulder, he typed YouTube’s URL into his browser, then his name and, shuddering, “underwear.”
“Hope they’re paying you a lot of money for this,” Stu said, then hung up.
Woody found the video:
Woody Hanrahan RAW—Canadian hockey star models VitalSport underwear
, posted by “Woody’s insider fangirl.” Two minutes long? He clicked on it, then sat, barely breathing.
Terry’d been unobtrusive today, moving around with his video camera so constantly that he was part of the background. And this was the result. Footage shot to look amateur, candid, furtive, of Woody in white boxer briefs joking with the blond model, Woody in skimpy chocolate-colored briefs as the makeup girl sprayed fake tan on the top curve of his ass. Woody’s face in close-up, then a jerky pan down his body, lingering on his pecs, his abs, and, yeah—fuck it!—on his package barely confined in the pouch of black briefs.
He buried his face in his hands and groaned.
Then, remembering what Georgia’d said, he went to Facebook. Yup, there was a page—WoodyRAW—with several gushy updates posted over the course of the afternoon, accompanied by photos. Fuck. He studied them with morbid fascination, wondering
which ones, blown up to poster size, would adorn the locker room tomorrow.
How the hell could Georgia do this to him?
Woody leaped to his feet and paced, and gradually sanity overcame anger.
He’d known, since the shock of that first morning, that he’d have to model gonch. Georgia had told him last night about the social media campaign. He sure wished she’d told him the details, though, so he didn’t find out from a rookie who was laughing his head off over it.
He reminded himself of the bottom line. He had a damned good reason for doing all of this: saving his mom’s life. He wished he could talk to her right now, but it was the middle of the night in Switzerland.
Still, he could call the clinic and leave a voice mail. “Hey, Mom. Hope you’re getting a good night’s sleep. Just wanted to tell you I’m thinking of you. I had kind of a rough day—nothing serious, okay?—and it made me want to talk to you. So, I’m just saying hi, and I hope you feel better every day.” He paused. “Okay, good night, then. Or good morning, which is what it’ll be when you get this message. Love you.”
Feeling marginally better, he fought the urge to grab a beer. One drink was his limit tonight, and it’d be a glass of wine at dinner with Georgia. After he gave her flak for keeping him in the dark.
When she knocked on the door, then opened it, he went to meet her. She was wearing her work suit, and there was an anxious expression on her face.
“There’s something I have to tell you,” she said.
“You’re an hour too late. I’ve seen the YouTube video and the Facebook page. Didn’t check Twitter. Tell me there’s nothing more.”
She sighed. “No, that’s it. I’m sorry. I’d hoped to get to you before anyone else did, and tell you in person. How upset are you?”
“Upset? I’m a guy. I don’t get upset. I get pissed. Why didn’t you tell me?”
She winced. “I told you that we’d be—”
“Yeah, yeah, but not that it’d start with a fucking video of me in fucking gonch.”
“Terry was in charge of this part of the campaign. We held off on posting stuff from the Stanley Park shoot because, while it’s strong, it doesn’t have the same punch. Today, at the underwear shoot, he realized this material was seriously hot, so he started posting it.”
“You should’ve told me before I left.”
“I didn’t know. Terry didn’t tell me. He should have, but he was excited, and so sure it was right. He’s young; he gets carried away. I’ve spoken to him about it.”
Woody sighed. “It was gonna happen sooner or later.”
Sympathetically, she said, “And this was the right timing. The video already has ten thousand hits.” She touched his arm. “It’s good. You look great.” She moved closer. “Hot.”
His annoyance faded. “You think?”
“Very hot.”
Starting to feel a little cocky, he said, “Hot enough to turn you on?”
Her eyes glittered as she stared up at him. “Most definitely.”
“How about if I tell you I’m wearing one of those damned thongs?”
Her eyes popped wide-open. “You are? I thought you hated them.”
“Sure do. Can’t wait to take the thing off. Or,” he added suggestively, “have someone take it off for me.”
Her hands were already at his belt, opening the buckle.
“It was so cool,” she said, head bent as she worked the fastenings of his pants, “watching you at that shoot. All the women thought
you looked fantastic, and I kept thinking, ‘I’m the one he’ll be with tonight.’ ”
Words like that really stroked a guy’s ego. But even better were the hands fumbling inside his pants and caressing the front of his thong as his body stirred to life.
His pants slid down and he kicked them off. He pulled the golf shirt over his head and stood there naked but for a black thong.
A rapidly swelling black thong.
Georgia stepped back and twirled a finger. “Turn around.”
He obeyed.
“You really do have a tight, taut, amazing butt,” she said appreciatively.
“And it’s touchable,” he pointed out.
“I noticed that when the makeup girl was fake-tanning you,” she teased. “She seemed to enjoy it.”
The woman—Wendy—had slipped him her phone number. A number he wouldn’t be using. Yeah, Wendy was striking, funny, and if Georgia wasn’t in his life, he’d have held on to that number. But Georgia was in his life.
Wait. She was
temporarily
in his life. After the playoffs, she’d go looking for that soul mate guy—who
wasn’t
Marco Sanducci—and Woody’d move on too. He always moved on.
Yet it was hard to imagine being with anyone other than Georgia.
Especially when her hands slid over the naked curves of his ass and massaged his glutes in a way that was totally different from how the male massage therapist did it.
She came around to stand in front of him, peeling off her suit jacket and tossing it on the couch. Then she stepped forward until the fronts of their bodies touched. “We never really said hello.”
He put his arms around her as she did the same. “Hello, Georgia.”
“Hello, Woody. Have you stopped being pissed?”
“You’re distracting me nicely.”
“I’m sorry the VitalSport campaign turned out differently than you expected.”
“Not your fault.” He grinned. “It has some unexpectedly good aspects.”
“Would this be one of them?” She came up on her toes to kiss him, the front of her body pressing closer against his, and his cock grew harder.
She’d have felt better naked, but she still felt damned good as he held her and kissed her, letting her sweet mouth soothe away the days’ problems. Oh yeah, sex before dinner was definitely going to happen.
Or maybe not. She pulled away.
But when she kicked off her shoes and sank to her knees on the Persian area rug, he liked where this was headed.
She leaned her head against his belly, her wavy hair tickling softly. “You’re too big for that thong.” Her tongue licked the crown of his cock, and he realized his erection had escaped the confines of the gonch.
“Only when you’re around.” Man, her tongue felt good, running in crazy circles around him, then flicking across the eye of his cock. “Feel free to take it off.”
“Thanks. I think I will.”
She eased the underwear down, bit by bit, following with her tongue, her lips. Lapping, sucking, teasing every inch of him until the blood surged hotly through his entire body.
When the brief garment hit the floor, he stepped out of it, wondering if she’d stop. Not sure if he hoped she did, so he could strip off her clothes and get inside her, or if she didn’t, and kept torturing him this way.
Her hand grasped his shaft, her lips closed over the top, and she took him into the wet, silky warmth of her mouth.
“Oh, fuck,” he murmured under his breath. “That’s so damned good.”
He tangled his fingers in her hair and held on as she began to suck rhythmically.
It was like she was milking an orgasm from him, pulling it from the base of his spine, to his tightening balls, to the root of his cock.
He groaned and clenched his muscles against the need to come.
Her tongue swirled around him as she sucked and her hair tickled him with fiery strands. She made wet, hungry sounds mixed in with “mmm” noises, and soft fingers toyed with his balls.
His climax gathered, urgent and demanding. “I can’t hold on,” he gasped. “Have to come.”
Slowly, she freed her mouth. Tilted her head back. Looked up at him.
Georgia, on her knees, wearing her gray business skirt and coral-colored blouse. Her creamy cheeks were flushed, her red hair a wild tumble. She smiled. “Then do it.”
She bent her head again, and sucked him in.
Every iota of self-control vanished. He let go. Let the orgasm surge through him in hot, pulsing waves that wrenched a cry from him, and crested in the heat of her mouth.
She hung on for the ride, swallowing, lapping, teasing every last ounce from him until he was empty. Drained, satiated. His whole body hummed with pleasure and exhaustion.
“Jesus, woman, you’re really something.”
Georgia gazed up at Woody. He was so masculine, so perfect, so sexy. She still had trouble believing she could use this spectacular body as her sensual playground.
Giving him a blow job, feeling and hearing his response—taking him, claiming him as hers—had been a total turn-on, and now her own body demanded reciprocity. One thing she’d learned: he wasn’t a selfish lover. So she said, “Seems to me, it’s my turn now.”
She’d barely started to rise when he swept her up in his arms and carried her down the hall to the bedroom. On the way, she undid the buttons of her blouse, and when he let her down, she unfastened her skirt.
Together, hands getting in each other’s way, they peeled her clothes off. She lay on the bed naked, basking in the approval she saw in his eyes.
“Fast or slow?” he asked.
Once, a question like that would have embarrassed her, but Woody had taught her to be proud of her sexuality. “Fast. I’m so horny for you I can’t wait.”
She guessed every straight woman who’d been at that underwear shoot, or seen the video, was horny for him. But it was her needy body—only hers—that would receive satisfaction.
He tossed her a pillow. “Put that under you.”
She slid it under her butt, then planted her feet on the bed so her legs were apart, her knees up. Offering herself to him. Or, more accurately, demanding that he take her.
Take her to heaven. Now.
He stroked the length of her legs, then lowered himself between them. “So beautiful.” Gently, he touched her inner thigh, running his fingers in circles, drawing her attention. The circles drifted higher, flicked the lips of her pussy, and she moaned. This was his idea of fast?
Couldn’t he put her out of her misery now?
The circling, stroking fingers continued on their journey, brushing her clit as if by accident.
She whimpered. “Yes, more. Please.”
He gave a chuckle, its soft, easy tone lulling her, fooling her.
So that the last thing she expected was two fingers spearing into her. Firm, deep, and delicious.
She cried out with pleasure as he pumped fast and hard, just the way she wanted. The way she needed. Oh God, that was good. Wonderful. Incredible.
That fast, she was close, so close, to coming.
He bent lower, sucked her clit, and that was all it took. She cried out again, loud and long, as spasms of sweet relief rocked her.
Finally. She’d been wanting, needing, this for hours, and he’d finally given it to her.
When the last tremor had quieted and she felt all soft and melty, Woody slid the pillow out from under her and kissed her. “Hungry?” he asked.
How romantic. And yet, she was. “Let’s get dressed.”
Moving slowly, they pulled on clothing. No thong for Woody this time; he went with the boxer briefs he preferred.
In the kitchen, they worked companionably. Together they
ripped romaine and radicchio and chopped up vegetables for a huge salad, talking about this and that. He threw chicken breasts on the grill while she prepared linguine Alfredo.
“Want to set the table?” Woody asked.
Georgia noted the way he favored his left shoulder, and the narrow lines that bracketed his mouth. “I bet you’d rather relax on the couch. Maybe watch a movie?”
“Man, that sounds good. You wouldn’t mind?”
She shook her head. “Not if we can agree on a movie.”
“Check the cabinet by the TV, or we could order Pay-Per-View.”
Browsing, she found, unsurprisingly, a lot of action-adventure and sports movies. She pulled out one called
Slap Shot
. The cover image told her it was about hockey. It looked more humorous than macho, and it starred Paul Newman, back in the days when he was still pretty hot. She took the DVD into the kitchen, where Woody was pouring two glasses of chardonnay. “What about this one?”
He laughed. “Oh, man. You haven’t seen that?”
She shook her head. “Is it good?”
“Matter of opinion. It’s a cult movie. Every hockey player’s watched it dozens of times. Yeah, you have to see it.”
They took dinner and wine into the living room and settled in front of the TV.
The meal was pleasant, and the movie pretty bizarre. The most bizarre thing was that, according to Woody, much of the script was based on actual players and incidents in minor-league hockey.
When he paused the DVD and went to the kitchen to refill her wineglass and get a bottle of water and an ice wrap, Georgia asked, “How about the trash talk? Do players really do that, to try to get under another guy’s skin?”
“Sure. It’s part of the game.”
“The underwear ads … They’ll give the Capitals fuel, won’t they? I’m sorry about that.”
“Can’t pay any attention to that shit. It’s all about focus.”