The Dirty Girls Book Club (14 page)

“I’m glad you believe that. I guess I’m biased,” she admitted. “It’s not that there’s anything intrinsically wrong with a woman dressing in a feminine fashion, but I grew up with a mom who took it too far.”

“Too far?” He soothed her temples with his fingertips.

It loosened not only the tension, but also her tongue. “She dresses to attract men, to seduce. Being attractive to men is all she cares about. It’s the basis for her sense of identity.”

“That’s scary.”

“Tell me about it. So, maybe I go a little overboard in the other direction. At least I’ll know I’ve never won a promotion due to feminine wiles.”

“Huh.” He reflected for a minute. “I guess that makes sense.”

Did he really get it, or was he being polite? No, this was Woody. Subtle was not his middle name. If he disagreed, she’d hear about it.

His thumbs eased out tension knots in her neck, loosened her locked-up shoulders, stroked down the muscles of her back. He knew instinctively where and how to touch.

“That feels wonderful,” she said. Even when his touch hurt, it was a good kind of pain, a pain that promised relief. Like when she went to the massage therapist.

But Woody had much bigger, stronger hands. Masculine hands. Hands that made her feel both strong and fragile, and definitely feminine. That thought shattered her accepting mood, and she came alive with a different awareness. The awareness of Woody as a man she’d had sex with, even if they’d agreed it was a mistake.

A man whose hands now explored her body with the intimacy of growing knowledge. Of increasing sensuality. What had been therapeutic massage was turning into something more erotic. Or was that merely her perception?

His hands were around her neck, strong hands that could strangle her or snap her neck without effort, yet they stroked her as appreciatively as a lover.

She felt an overwhelming impulse to tilt her head and rest a cheek against one of those hands, to press her lips against his skin—

She wouldn’t. Of course she wouldn’t. The man was being kind, trying to ease her pain. She wasn’t so pathetically starved for male touch, starved for sensuality, tingling with the memory of her first orgasms, that she would misinterpret this for something else. Something that, of course, she didn’t want. Not with Woody Hanrahan.

Yesterday had been an aberration. When she made love again, it would be with a man she loved. A soul mate, a man like Anthony.

Of course, yesterday hadn’t been making love. It had been sex. A physical act, not an emotional one.

For her, an extremely satisfying physical act. One that had made her whole body tingle, vibrate, and throb with pleasure, then peak and shatter in rapture.

Georgia had stopped talking, and Woody was glad. He wanted her to concentrate on the physical sensations.

Sitting behind her, his hands lost in the red silk of her hair, her flesh warm and soft under his fingers, he had the hard-on to end all hard-ons. Thank God he was wearing gym shorts rather than jeans or he’d be in serious pain.

Yeah, his reaction was physical, but he’d massaged women before and didn’t get this turned on. He’d behaved himself today, tried to put yesterday out of his mind, but damn it, Georgia got to him. Was it her unique blend of prissiness and passion? The sparkle in her amber eyes? The way she guarded herself, yet let him see glimpses of the real woman—the one who wouldn’t throw out scraggly old plants, and was bound and determined not to be like her mom?

Yesterday she was sorry she’d had sex with him, but now, maybe, he was getting under her skin. Perhaps winning a second chance to prove he was a good lover?

She liked how he was touching her. He could tell by the way she arched into his hands, pressed against him, stretched her neck. She was just like her cat, letting herself be caressed into a state of bliss.

Which was exactly what he wanted to do. Maybe he shouldn’t, but he did. Why not go for it?

Reaching from behind, he ran a finger gently across her forehead, down her nose, along a delicate cheekbone, and then to her
lips. He dragged his finger, letting it tug at her bottom lip, and felt her warm breath.

He used both hands to smooth the hair back from her face and behind her ears, then slid his hands down the length of her neck. Up until now, he’d stopped at the collar of her shirt, where only the top button was undone. Now he undid the next one and the next, and slipped his fingers inside, stroking firmly around her collarbone.

She tensed, but only momentarily, before surrendering.

This was how he’d win her, by alternating genuine massage with seductive caresses. He’d keep her off balance, give her a reason to persuade herself he was just looking after her health, but all the time he’d be seducing her into arousal. “Starting to feel better?”

“Mmm. Much.”

He wanted to slide his hands lower and cup her breasts, but instead raised them to her shoulders, outside her shirt again. He began working down her arms, squeezing into the muscles and working out tension. “You’re all locked up, Georgia. Not getting enough R and R.”

“I relax,” she protested halfheartedly. “I go for long walks and I spend hours reading.”

“Do you ever stretch?” He spoke quietly. “Go for a massage?”

“I get a massage now and then, and I love a long bath.”

He had a big whirlpool tub at home, to ease achy muscles. He sure wouldn’t mind playing with Georgia in it. “Can’t take your body for granted. Especially when it’s such a nice one. You gotta respect it, take care of it.” He hoped she got the message that he was doing exactly that.

Though he loved the feel of her under his hands, this was costing him, and not just with the ache in his groin. His banged-up shoulder protested the pressure he was exerting. Later, he’d ice his shoulder. And sooner, he hoped, his cock would find its own relief with the woman who sat in front of him, for once not lecturing or arguing, just enjoying his touch.

She stirred, and her cheek brushed his bare arm as it reached over her shoulder. Whether or not it was intentional, it heated his skin. Hell, he knew his way around women almost as well as he knew his way around hockey rinks. Why was he pussyfooting with Georgia? Whatever else she might be, or pretend to be with her tailored suits and slicked-back hair, underneath she was all woman.

His fingers had been reminding her of that for the last ten minutes. Now that he had her full attention, he could up his game.

He fanned his fingers and drifted the tips across her collarbones and the top of her chest, his touch as light as he could make it.

She quivered.

He did the same thing, but lower, so his pinkie fingers stroked the line where the top of her bra cups met the silky skin of her breasts.

He heard a tiny indrawn breath. She knew he’d gone beyond massage, and wasn’t stopping him. It seemed he’d convinced her, with his patient, sensual touch, to give him another chance to prove that he not only had the right equipment, but could use it with skill.

At the moment, his equipment begged for release from the boxer briefs that contained it, but he vowed that this time he’d hang on to his control if it killed him.

He ran his palms lightly over the cups of Georgia’s bra and felt her nipples, unmistakable hard nubs. He also discovered that today’s bra had a front clasp.

Her head came back, neck clearly not hurting now as she arched to thrust her breasts more firmly into his hands.

Accepting the invitation, he slipped the clasp free and cupped her sweet, naked curves. He leaned closer, to nuzzle her ear and run the tip of his tongue along the edge of her lobe.

A scent rose from her skin, nothing as blatant as perfume but something that combined innocence and passion: vanilla and aroused woman.

Woody wasn’t a guy for flowery words or thoughts, but right now he could relate to the guys who wrote poems, or lyrics for love songs.

Her long, slender neck, her budded nipples, they were too much to resist. He risked breaking the spell, rising quickly to move around the footrest where she sat.

Her eyes were closed, an expression of concentration on her face, as if she was totally caught up in the physical experience.

He knelt in front of her and leaned in to kiss a trail down her neck, thrum her wildly throbbing pulse with his tongue, and taste the upper curves of her breasts.

She gave a sigh-moan and wove her hands into his hair.

Oh yeah. He undid a few more buttons and peeled back her shirt and unhooked bra. Such beautiful breasts, pale and full, crowned with tightly furled pink buds. He captured one between his lips, licking and sucking it until she gasped. A pulse throbbed in his cock each time he touched her.

Woody wanted to tell her how pretty she was, how sweet she tasted. But if he spoke, he might jolt her out of the sensual spell he was doing his damnedest to weave. Besides, he had better things to do with his mouth.

He moved to her other nipple and suckled it, using her reaction to tell him exactly how she liked to be touched: a little rough, then gentle licks, then another firm assault to ramp her up again. It was exactly the way he’d like her to touch his cock.

Her breast thrust against his mouth; her fingers roamed restlessly through his hair and gripped his scalp; her lower body stretched and twisted. When he nudged her legs apart, she separated to let him kneel between them, then closed her thighs around his hips.

His hard-on rubbed against her. Even through the layers of their clothes, it felt unbelievably good.

Now, finally, he let himself kiss her, his lips taking hers the way they’d done her breasts. A little rough, a little tender.

She gasped, and kissed him back fervently, like she was hungry, needy, for his passion.

Firmly, he gripped her head, tilting her face to the exact right angle, and slanted his lips to match hers as he deepened the kiss. He thrust into her mouth, seducing her tongue, then pulled back to tease her lips with licks and nibbles.

Her tongue got into the act, chasing his, invading his mouth.

He pulled her forward, or maybe she slid, until she’d come off the footrest and was kneeling in front of him, their bodies plastered together as they battled to own each other’s mouths.

His hips thrust against her involuntarily and she ground her pelvis against him. He wanted nothing more than to rip off their clothes and be inside her, but he held back. He’d screwed things up once with her, and wouldn’t do it again.

Somehow, he managed to tear his mouth and body away from hers and ease her back onto the rug that partially covered her hardwood floor. He spread her shirt and bra wide-open to admire her soft skin and seductive curves.

Then he bent to take up where he’d left off, teasing her taut nipples. From there, he kissed his way to the waistband of her pants, and unfastened the button. Her lower body twisted needily as he slid her zipper down, and her hips lifted without prompting so he could slide her pants off, taking her panties with them.

When he kissed her belly, he felt the tautness of the tension that was building inside her. The sweet musk of her desire drove him so wild he could barely hang on to his sanity.

He cupped her pussy, warm and damp, and had to taste her. Her creamy thighs spread easily under his touch and then he was gazing at her lush, rosy folds.

A sight like that could turn a guy into a poet or a madman. Or a lover.

He hooked his hands under her thighs, lifted her, and bent to lick the sweetest damn pussy he’d ever seen.

“Oh!” she gasped.

“God, Georgia, you’re sweet.” He licked again.

Suddenly, her thighs clamped together, gripping his head so tight she stopped him. In a panicked voice, she cried, “No! Oh my God, Woody, no! What are we doing?”

Seemed pretty damned obvious to him. Cautiously, he eased her legs apart and extricated himself. “It’ll be good. This time it’ll be good.”

She scooted back, all the way off the rug until her ass thumped down on the hardwood floor. “No! We can’t. This is crazy. I don’t do things like this.”

“Things like have great sex?” She’d lost him, totally.

“No!” Her eyes were wide, panicked. “I mean, this is wrong. It’s unprofessional. I don’t even know you.”

Body aching with need, he growled, “Seems like we were getting to know each other.”

“Not that way! Good God, do you think I just … leap into bed with every random man who comes along?”

Okay, now he was pissed off. “Fuck, Georgia. I’m not some random man. I’m Woody. You—” He was about to say that she did know him, better than most women he’d dated, but she cut him off.

“Oh yeah, the big hockey star. The next Wayne Gretzky. Listen, mister, I’m no damned puck bunny!”

With that, she scrambled to her feet and ran out of the room, giving him a tantalizing view of her firm, curvy ass jiggling with each step.

A door slammed.

“Oh, fuck.” Should he go after her? Try to explain? Hell, he didn’t even know what her problem was. Of course she wasn’t a puck
bunny, any more than he was some random man. What the hell was up with her?

Fuming, he hauled himself and his serious case of blue balls off the floor. She was the moodiest damned woman he’d ever hooked up with.

If he had even one brain cell in his head, he wouldn’t try to get personal with her again, no matter how tempted he might be.

Sunday night, Georgia realized she hadn’t finished her assignment for book club: to read the first third of
The Sexual Education of Lady Emma Whitehead
. She’d been so busy with the VitalSport campaign, she’d had time for little else. Or was she avoiding the book because it made her think of sex?

She’d let Woody do things to her, deeply intimate things. She’d even encouraged him. But it was so wrong, on so many levels. It wasn’t professional. It certainly wasn’t flattering, because Woody clearly thought of her as an available female body. Though he hadn’t really enjoyed sex with her the first time, he’d gladly use her again to get his rocks off. And she was no better! She felt disloyal to Anthony that some jock she barely knew could arouse sensations she’d never experienced with her beloved husband.