Catch a Mate (14 page)

His cock reached for her. Arching up, she bit his collarbone. He growled in ecstasy. “Harder.”

Her sharp little teeth drew blood.

Only then did he slam inside her. The entire couch rocked with the motion. Jillian screamed his name. His eyes squeezed closed at the heady bliss. This was heaven. Paradise. Hot, tight, soaking wet.

He moved in and out of her, fast, faster. Hard, harder. He couldn't hold back and knew she didn't want him to. She was as wild as he was, bucking, just like he'd wanted. She nipped her way up his neck. He released her wrists with one hand, still holding them captive with the other. He used his free hand to cant her face to the side. And then he was biting the cord of her neck.

She came.

He bit and sucked and moved his hand to her ass, squeezing, kneading, spreading her wider. The convulsions of her orgasm intensified; she clenched and clenched around him. Wet beyond his wildest dreams. She screamed, loud and long. That was all he needed to send him over the edge. His muscles tightened and a roar spilled from his lips.

“Marcus,” she gasped. Sweat was pouring from her skin, maybe his.

“Jillian.” He struggled to draw in a breath, struggled to get his heartbeat under control.

She didn't try to move away. “Good.”

He held her tight, not wanting to leave. “So good.”

G
EORGIA
C
ARRINGTON
wanted to cry (again), to sob (again), to
scream
(finally!), but not for the right reason.

A few hours ago, Wyatt had picked her up and taken her to drinks with his colleagues, then to dinner alone, where he'd promptly dumped her flat on her ass. She should have known, should have expected.

For the first time in their yearlong relationship, she'd let him see her without makeup and had not used tanning cream. Seemed like such a little thing, but it had been major for her. She'd wanted to test him, to see how Wyatt would react to her less-than-immaculate appearance. And what had he done the first time she had looked less than perfect? First he'd cringed and asked her if she wanted to reschedule. He then apologized to his friends, saying she was “under the weather.” Then, at dinner he'd been quiet, brooding.

“What, no marriage proposal?” she'd asked sarcastically.

He'd flushed. “We'll talk about it when you're feeling better.”

That's when she'd snapped. “I feel fine! This is me, Wyatt. The real me. Warts and all. Look. Really look and see.”

His cheeks had reddened further. “Are you
trying
to embarrass me? To punish me? Well, you've done a damn good job. Georgia, all I've ever wanted to do is worship you, but you won't let me. Hell, you won't even let me show you off. I try and you come looking like a…like
that
.” He waved a hand in her direction.

“I'm not a show pony, Wyatt. I don't want my teeth and hair checked every time I step out of the house. I just want to be loved.”

Of course, he'd then decided they had different ideas of what love meant and needed to go their separate ways.

“Bastard,” she muttered, wanting to cry because she'd been proven right. Men only cared about her face and body. They didn't care about
her
. Well, she didn't want to be on a pedestal any longer.

Her eyes burned, but she held back the tears. She wanted love, marriage and babies, damn it. She wanted happily-ever-after. She wanted…more. And she wanted to know it wouldn't crumble at the first sign of trouble or ugliness.

Ugly. Just the word haunted her. She'd been an ugly child and an even uglier teenager. Too tall, too thin, too pale, hair too different and certainly too
red.
Weird, asymmetric features. Her mouthful of silver braces hadn't helped. Her thick eyeglasses hadn't either.

She'd been unpopular, noticed only by those who needed someone to taunt. And not a single boy had asked her out. Not even the nerdiest of the nerds had found her appealing. So of course Brent Greene, Jillian's older brother, had steered clear of her. He'd been one of the popular boys and all the girls had lusted for him.

Even her.

Every time she remembered the way he'd run from her, avoided her, she hurt. Bad. To this day she couldn't look at spaghetti without crying about him.

Georgia expelled a shaky breath. She hadn't gone on her first date until the advanced age of nineteen, when her breasts had finally developed, her facial features rounded, she'd put on a little weight and had doused her skin with tanning cream. What's more, her braces had been removed and she'd bought contacts.

That first date, a guy named Harper, had talked his way into her pants without any real effort. She'd been so desperate for affection, so needy, the memory still embarrassed her. He'd complimented her loveliness a few times and hadn't been able to look away from her. The sex had been…okay. Uneventful. Nothing to giggle or sigh over.

Afterward, he'd never called her again. She'd been too easy, she had realized. But she'd learned a valuable lesson that night. Look pretty, but remain aloof. And so, with that new knowledge, she'd embarked on a dating odyssey. She'd dated constantly, so many different men. They'd only ever seen her at her best and they were never allowed to touch her.

Each one of them had worshipped her, just as Wyatt claimed he wanted to do. They couldn't compliment her enough on her figure, her face, her hair. Her confidence had bloomed and bloomed and bloomed. Then she'd met Wyatt, a financial advisor. While he'd seemed supremely interested in her face and body, just like all the others, she'd fallen for him because he'd also seemed interested in her mind. He'd taken the time to find out her likes and dislikes. He'd asked her opinion on everything from politics to dessert. Maybe they hadn't had all that much in common, but at least he'd made the effort to get to know her.

Finally, she'd let another man take her to bed. It had been wonderful. Very satisfying physically, but emotionally…She rubbed her temples to ward off the sudden ache.

Then, a few months ago, everything had changed. Wyatt had asked her to marry him. Almost instantly, he seemed to stop caring about her as a person. She'd become an object, a thing, a
possession,
just as she'd been for everyone else.

So more and more she'd worried and fretted about the day Wyatt would see her as the less-than-perfect woman she really was. She'd wondered what would happen if he saw past her outer shell to the ugly, needy little girl inside. Now she knew.

Why did forever seem possible for everyone but her?

Georgia lay in bed, staring up at the wispy white canopy that draped from the four posters of her bed. Even through the material, she could see the plastic glow-in-the-dark stars she'd pasted on the ceiling. A little while ago, she'd downed her sixth glass of wine, so the stars were spinning. She sighed again. She should have stopped at two, but she'd thought of Wyatt and drank, thought of Brent and drank even more.

During the day, she could pretend to be carefree and lust after handsome men, but here, now, the truth shone too brightly to be denied. Ironic, considering how dark it was. Nights were always bad for her, alone with her thoughts, alone with her stress. Tonight was worse than usual. Could she ever have the happily-ever-after she craved?

Her doorbell suddenly rang, and she bolted upright.

The action caused her head to spin. Georgia groaned and glanced at the clock on her nightstand. It was eleven o'clock. Who would be visiting her at this hour? Wyatt? Had he come to apologize? Did he want to get back together? Well, the answer was no!

The bell rang again.

Out of habit, she studied herself in the far mirror above the dresser. The pretty pink nightgown and matching robe she wore were a little wrinkled. Makeup—check. Streaked with tears, but still in place. She'd applied it before lying down, spackling her shield in place. Again, out of habit—a habit she'd fallen into when she and Wyatt had first started dating, just in case he stopped by at night. Even after they'd stopped sleeping together, she'd kept her mask in place. A girl never knew when she'd need to look her best.

Hair—a little messy. She scrambled up and grabbed her nearest brush. Let Wyatt see the woman he'd once wanted to marry—the woman he'd never have again. Scowling, she jerked the bristles through her hair. She tossed the brush on the couch as she stumbled to the front door. Her living room was a plethora of colors and textures. Violet, sapphire, ruby. Wicker, velvet, silk. Everything that complemented her skin tone.

Ding dong.
“I can see your shadow, Georgia. I know you're there,” a male voice said. A sexy male voice that did not belong to Wyatt. A sexy male voice that in fact belonged to Brent Greene. A shiver stole through her; his was a voice she'd recognize anywhere, anytime.

She was immensely glad it was him—and she shouldn't be. Not now. “What are you doing here, Brent?” But she already knew the answer.

“I wanted to see you. Open up.”

“I could have company.”

“You don't,” he said. His voice was tight.

“I've had too much to drink. You don't want to be around me right now.”

“Sweetheart, that makes me want to be around you even more.”

Sweetheart…
Everyone had a pet name for her (Wyatt had called her Pumpkin because of her hair), but only Brent made her feel…cherished. “Brent,” she said, leaning her forehead against the cool wood of the door.
Send him away. Before you forget your pride.

More than talking to him, looking at him always made her chest hurt. She had to constantly remind herself that he wasn't the man for her, that he had rejected her over and over again. That he
could
have had her at one time but had found her repulsive.

“Georgia,” he said. “Please.”

She swayed, a little dizzy. She loved it when he said her name, even more than she liked it when he called her sweetheart. She'd told her friends that she'd stopped sleeping with Wyatt because she hadn't decided about his marriage proposal. But she knew the real reason, the reason she would not have admitted even to herself if she hadn't been tipsy. She'd begun to feel like she was cheating on Brent. Which was silly. Absolutely foolish.

“I just want to talk,” he said softly.

Hand shaky, unable to help herself, she unlocked the door and opened it. Brent leaned against the frame, one arm braced over his head. So masculine, so alluring. The porch light spilled over his features, reverent, golden. His dark hair was in total disarray, hanging just over his brows. His lips were curled in a welcoming smile.

While she had to fight for perfection, he exuded it effortlessly.

He wore faded Levis and a white T-shirt. The sight of those clothes hugging his strength made her mouth water. “What do you want to talk about?” she asked, striving for a casual tone.

“Can I come in?”

“No.” She spread her arms, blocking the entrance. If he came inside, she might kiss him. Or ask him for more. Now, as vulnerable and wine-drenched as she was, she would not be able to resist his potent allure. “Now, again, what do you want to talk about?”

“Anything.” He shook his head, self-deprecating. “I couldn't sleep. I kept thinking about you, about the sadness I heard in your tone today, and decided to come over.”

“I'm seeing someone, Brent,” she lied, the words practically ripped from her. She couldn't tell him the truth; he would pounce on her—and she would let him. “You can't keep contacting me like this.” As always, it
hurt
to tell him no, but he was wrong for her, so wrong. He didn't want the real her any more than Wyatt had.

“I don't want you to see him anymore,” Brent bit out. “He's not right for you. I feel it in my soul.”

“And you are? Right for me, that is?”

“Yes.” There was not a single shred of doubt in his tone. He stepped forward, crowding her, drowning her in his hot scent. “You're mine.”

Air sizzled in her lungs at the possessive proclamation. As flirtatious as he was, he didn't usually speak to her like that.

“Just give me a chance to show you how good it could be between us.” His features were intense, beseeching.

“No.” With him, she'd worry about her appearance more than she ever had with Wyatt or anyone else.
Him,
she would lose with the first gray hair or the first pound she gained. And losing him would kill her—she knew that, too.

“Why not?” he demanded. “And don't you dare tell me you love that son-of-a-bitch Wyatt. He's wrong for you and deep down you know it, too.”

“You want the truth?” she found herself lashing out. Without the wine in her system, she might never have told him. Now, the words seemed to pour from her. “Fine, I'll tell you. You thought I was ugly in school. You—”

“I never thought you were ugly,” he interrupted harshly. Fire blazed in his eyes.

She continued as if he hadn't spoken. “You couldn't get out of your house fast enough when I stayed the night with Jillian. You only want me now because you finally think I'm pretty. Well, what happens if I change for the worse, huh? What then?” She poked him in the chest with the tip of her nail. “Will you still want me?”

“Yes.” He sounded confident.

“Prove it.”

His lids narrowed to thin slits, but somehow she could still see that his dark eyes were swirling and churning. “I wanted you in school.
That's
why I always ran from you. You were too young for me and you were my kid sister's friend. If I'd stayed around you, I would have done something about the attraction. And I wouldn't have been able to live with the guilt.”

Liar! But oh, the words were potent. Beguiling. She almost sank into his open arms. Almost pressed her lips against his. “I'm still younger than you and I'm still your sister's friend.”

“Yes, but now you're a woman.” He growled low in his throat, like an animal. “What's it going to take to prove to you that I love you, to prove that I love who you are, not what you look like? This?” He grabbed her shoulders and hauled her to him.

Her chest banged into his, her breasts suddenly meshed against him. His mouth swooped down on hers, his tongue plundering deep and sweet and just right. She moaned, she couldn't help herself.

Without her permission, her arms reached up and wound around his neck, locking him in place. As their tongues battled, she realized she'd never tasted anything more decadent, anything more intoxicating.

He didn't slow, didn't give her time to think. With one hand, he cupped the back of her neck and angled her head for more of her mouth. He tangled the other hand in her hair, squeezing, tightening on the locks as if he feared letting go. He fed her kiss after amazing kiss.

Here it is; here's your dream. Here's
more.

His heat invaded her blood, her every cell, and it was both ecstasy and torture. Heaven and hell. Because she knew, good as it was, she could never have it again. Being perfect was too stressful.
No more,
she thought. No more stress. No more Brent. But, but…

She wanted him so badly. Always had. Wanted him in every way imaginable. There was no denying it now. The kiss deepened and pleasure speared her, such intense pleasure. Only then did Georgia realize she was rubbing against him, arching her pubis into his thick, hard erection, mimicking sex. Her hands had abandoned his silky hair and were clenching his ass.