His hands eased deftly under the front of her jacket to cup her breasts through her white cotton shirt, and she sucked in a breath. Oh my gosh, that felt good.
She’d never found celibacy to be a burden, not as a teen and not since Anthony died. She’d never related to girls who moaned about how hard it was to resist temptation and stay pure.
Temptation … Ooh, there was temptation in the tongue that
traced her earlobe, the soft whisper of his breath against her damp flesh, even the tickle of his unkempt beard. Temptation in the fingers that slipped open a few shirt buttons, found their way under the fabric of her bra, and gently squeezed her nipple.
She moaned, then clapped a hand over her mouth.
“Don’t do that,” he murmured. “Let me hear you. Tell me what you want.”
“I w-want you to stop.” She forced herself to speak the words, but they didn’t convince even her.
“No, you don’t.”
“I …”
“You don’t.” Now his hands were on her shoulders, turning her to face him. Firm, but not harsh. If she’d felt the least bit forced, she’d have yanked away. Instead, she felt as if he was guiding her body in the direction it wanted to go.
She wasn’t short, but he was so much taller, so much bigger, and somehow she’d put her hands on his arms to steady herself. Just to steady herself.
But the last thing she felt was steady, and it had nothing to do with her broken-heeled shoe and everything to do with the man whose deep blue eyes gleamed with some fierce, intense expression she didn’t recognize.
The man whose naked torso pressed against her, whose muscled back was hot and hard under her hands, whose erection thrust insistently against her lower body.
The man whose lips … Oh my God. Whose lips were on hers.
His mouth must be the only part of him that was soft. Firm, yes, but soft and tempting rather than hard and demanding. Seductive. Teasing her into responding in a slow, subtle dance. Overcoming her common sense one lick, one nibble, one gentle suck at a time. One tongue-flick between her lips.
He held her head firmly between both hands, tilting it where he wanted it, the curls of his mustache and beard a softly abrasive caress against her sensitive skin.
She had to tell him to stop. This was wrong. This wasn’t like her; this couldn’t be her. She had to pull herself together and stop him.
No, this wasn’t her. This wasn’t the girl whose mom’s boyfriend had groped her, the teen who’d embraced celibacy, or the wife who’d enjoyed gentle intimacy with her husband.
This was a woman who was sensual and turned on, and who couldn’t bear to have it end.
When she parted her lips, it wasn’t to say, “Stop,” but to sigh with need.
A moment later his tongue was in her mouth.
Heat licked through her, heavy and pulsing. Arousal. She’d been aroused before, but never so quickly, so intensely. Before, it had been a mellow buzz that never built to orgasm.
But now, as his tongue delved into her mouth and his fingers wove their way under the waistband of her pants to stroke the upper curve of her buttocks, as his erection thrust insistently against her belly, the sweet, sensual, downright sexy sensations
were
building. Between her thighs, a spiraling ache of need craved more, more, more of this man.
She couldn’t stop herself from wriggling her pelvis against his shaft.
He groaned, pushed away; then he shoved her jacket down her shoulders and yanked it off. “Shit, Georgia, I want you.”
Some part of her brain registered that he, unlike everyone else, called her Georgia. That he was undoing the remaining buttons of her shirt. But most of her attention was focused on his body. Specifically, on his swollen penis. At some point, without her noticing, he’d stripped off the thong and now he was totally, gloriously naked.
The dense, dark curls of his pubic hair matched those of his beard, and the shaft that sprang confidently forward was long and thick.
Had any man ever had such an amazing, seductively gorgeous body?
She’d always believed she didn’t care about physical appearance, but now the mere sight of him made that hungry ache strengthen. “Woody,” she protested halfheartedly, “we shouldn’t—”
“Oh yeah, we should.” He flipped open the fastener at the waist of her pants, yanked down the zipper, and the fabric slid down her legs.
About to protest again, she could only gasp, “Oh!” when his long fingers slipped between her legs.
He stroked back and forth along the crotch of her panties and she realized she was wet. Soaking wet. How could this stranger’s touch make her respond as she’d never done before?
She leaned her head against his naked chest and closed her eyes, unable to do anything but lose herself in what he was doing.
His finger found one particular spot and focused, circled.
She gasped as sensation rocketed through her. It dawned on her that she might actually have an orgasm.
Who cared about celibacy when she might finally find out what it was like to climax? Shamelessly, she pressed herself against his fingers, silently demanding more.
He gave it to her, one hand under her butt, anchoring her, the other toying with her sex through the thin barrier of her panties. And then—oh God—he pulled the crotch of her panties aside, probed gently with a long, broad finger, and then that finger was entering her.
She dragged in air on a gasp, realizing she’d been holding her breath. Her eyes were squeezed shut too, and she slowly opened them, to focus on his engorged penis.
Just the sight made her private parts pulse and moisten. Unable to resist, she reached out to cautiously wrap her hand around his shaft. He was so big, she couldn’t fully circle him, so hot, he branded her palm.
His moaned, “Oh yeah, that’s good,” encouraged her to stroke up and down, feeling the slide of his skin, the firm strength underneath.
Touching him turned her on. These sensations were so unexpected and glorious.
His finger thrust into her, gently but insistently, in a rhythm that coiled the achy need even tighter. She’d never come so close to orgasm, and oh, she didn’t want to lose it now.
As he thrust in and out, his thumb pressed her clitoris, taut with aroused nerves.
She twisted with arousal, with desperate need. “Please,” she panted.
His thumb pressed a little harder at the same time as, deep inside her, he touched a spot that made her cry out with pleasure. He did it again, again, and— “Oh God!” she sang out as the coil of tension broke in waves of blissful, shattering release.
So this was orgasm. Unbelievable.
Unbelievably good. No wonder people made such a big deal of it.
She shuddered as delicious ripples of sensation continued to pulse through her. If Woody hadn’t been holding her up, she’d have collapsed in a quivering mass on the floor.
As she gradually came to her senses, she realized she was gripping his penis like she had no intention of ever letting go.
Woody caught her hand in his and tugged it away. “Gotta put on a condom.”
He didn’t know she’d just had the first climax of her life, and an earthshaking one at that. He thought she was a normal, sexy woman.
Wow. How about that?
Fleeting thoughts of her intent to remain celibate, of her career—this wasn’t exactly professional—flickered through her head.
She shoved them away. She’d had an orgasm and she was with an outrageously virile naked man who quite possibly could give her another.
Woody struggled to force a condom over one of the biggest hard-ons of his life. Oh yeah, he’d been right about Georgia Malone. She had the responsiveness and passion that went along with that red hair. A woman who’d go at it in the conference room at her office was his kind of woman.
A hand on each of her hips, he maneuvered her backward.
Eyes wide with surprise, she stumbled in her broken-heeled shoe with her pants pooled around her ankles. Impatiently, he waited until she kicked out of her shoes and stepped free of her pants; then he sent her panties skimming down as well.
He kept maneuvering her until her ass met the edge of the table.
Even though his cock demanded action, Woody paused a moment to enjoy the view. Red hair tumbled every which way and rosy patches flushed her cheeks. Her tailored white blouse was unbuttoned and hung free over a plain white bra, and below that she was naked: creamy skin, fiery curls, the pouty, swollen lips of her sex gleaming with her arousal.
What a turn-on.
He shouldn’t just give in to his own need. He’d bury his face between her legs and eat her until she came again, and then it’d be his turn.
He hoisted her up on the table, gripped her knees, and parted her legs.
The sight of her, spread, glistening, ready for him, sent pure lust surging through him. He had to have her now. Couldn’t mess around
with more foreplay. “Fuck.” He yanked her closer to the edge of the table.
“Oh, Woody.” Her fingers, surprisingly strong, wove into his hair and locked onto his skull.
“Oh yeah.” He nudged her opening with the head of his cock. Man, she was tight. Wet, but tight. He eased in slowly, struggling for self-control, fighting to ignore the urge to drive, and drive hard.
Bit by bit she softened, opened, gripping him with wet, silky heat as he slid in.
Torture. The best torture in the world. Sweet enough it made him groan.
She let go of his head and reached behind her, bracing her hands on the table, arching her body backward so she was even more open to him.
So much for self-control. With his big hands holding her hips steady, he had to take her now. To give her everything he had. To pound and drive like he was racing toward the goal net and no one could stop him. Adrenaline blazed through him, firing him up, and his whole being focused on one thing: the need to climax inside Georgia Malone.
He pumped in and out, his blood pulsing so thick, so hot, his body couldn’t survive it. He was going to explode.
Tension rolled through him, centering in his cock, the base of his spine, everything gathering and building until there was no holding back. He jerked hard, deep inside her, felt his come jetting out in long, full pulses, and groaned with satisfaction.
Hell, yeah, that felt great.
As he thrust one final time, caught up in his own lust and pleasure, he was dimly aware of a female cry. Realizing he’d squeezed his eyes shut, he forced them open. Saw his cock buried to the hilt in swollen pink folds, saw those sexy red curls of pubic hair. Shit, he’d
been carried away by his own need and had forgotten about his partner’s pleasure.
He wasn’t that kind of guy. He was a good lover.
“Georgia?” he said tentatively, raising his gaze past her smooth, creamy belly and ribs, past the plain cups of her white bra clinging to sweet curves, up a delicate chest and neck, to her face. Her cheeks were rosy and her amber eyes looked stunned.
“Sorry,” he muttered. “That was … I mean, uh …” He had to know how bad he’d been. “Did you come?” Even as he said it, he wanted to whack himself upside the head. What kind of lover didn’t know if his partner’d climaxed?
She blinked. “What?”
He forced himself to ask again. “Did you come that time?”
Her cheeks flooded with even deeper color. “Y-yes,” she stammered, not meeting his gaze.
Was it the truth or was she lying to salvage his pride? Shit, he was damned sure no woman had ever done that before. And nor had he ever had to apologize for his skill in the sack before. Knowing his own face was ruddy with embarrassment, he muttered, “I didn’t mean to do that.” To lose control and nail her like a cock-driven adolescent. “I’m sorry.”
He eased out of her, let go of her waist. His grip had been so tight he’d left red marks on her pale skin. Sure hoped she didn’t bruise. He had no qualms about body-checking an opponent into the boards, but he would never intentionally hurt a woman.
Now her gaze fixed on his face. “You’re sorry,” she repeated. “Sorry …” Her eyes widened and suddenly she thrust him away and jumped down from the table, stumbling over discarded clothing. When he reached out to steady her, she jerked away. “For God’s sake, put your clothes on!” she demanded as she scrabbled to find her pants.
She was acting like a virgin who’d let herself be seduced by a football player behind the bleachers, and now wished she hadn’t. Guess that made sense, if the football player’d been as clumsy and self-centered as Woody.
“Yeah, sure,” he muttered. He found the pile of clothing he’d discarded when Sanducci and Daniels had persuaded him to try on the VitalSport gonch. After pulling on his own boxer briefs, old jeans, and jersey, he crumpled the discarded thong into a ball and tossed it toward the wastepaper basket.
He missed.
He’d always been good at physical stuff. Like basketball. And sex. Now he was sure off his game. He’d need to get back in the zone by tonight, when the Beavers were playing the Anaheim Ducks in the Western Conference final.
When he turned, Georgia was briskly pulling her jacket over her buttoned white shirt. She didn’t glance his way. She pulled her hair back into its tight knot. Then she gazed over to where he stood, a few feet away.
“I’m sorry too,” she said. Her voice was firm but she didn’t meet his eyes.
He’d just bet she was. Damn it, he had a
reputation
as a good lover, and he’d blown it.
“What we did was bad,” she said, her cheeks bright pink.
“Yeah, it was kind of crappy,” he admitted, “but—” He was about to swear it’d be better next time.
She stopped him by holding up both hands. “No! Stop talking about it. I don’t want to dissect just how bad … Oh, never mind. The point is, it can never happen again. We have to work together, and we need to put this behind us.”
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.