The Dirty Girls Book Club (27 page)

Could he persuade her to keep being nice to him?

He dialed her cell.

She answered on the second ring.

“Hey, Georgia.”

“Woody! Congratulations!”

“You watched?”

“I even left work early so I’d catch all of it. You and the team looked terrific out there. It was like you couldn’t set a foot—skate—wrong.”

He smiled at her praise, and the enthusiasm in her voice. “Thanks. Guess what the team’s doing?”

“Uh, going out to celebrate?”

“Well, that too. But tomorrow they’ve all got appointments with Christopher Slate.”

She laughed. “Seriously?”

“Hey, when the luck’s running your way, you need to go with the flow.” Speaking of which. “I really liked being with you last night.”

“Me too,” she said softly.

“Missed you when I woke up, but thanks for that note.”

“I wanted you to know I wasn’t upset.”

“When I saw you’d gone, I wondered. You’ve said that stuff about how we should keep our relationship to business.” Now he had to
make his best argument. “But, Georgia, I don’t see why. It’s good, being together. That’s not going to get in the way of work. It’ll make us a better team, rather than being all tense and fighting and stuff.”

“Hmm. That’s an interesting perspective.” Was that humor in her voice?

“I really gotta have dinner with the team, and I know it’s a work night for you, but tomorrow afternoon we’re flying to Anaheim, so—”

She cut him off. “You want to come over after dinner?”

He’d take that as an invitation, not a question. “Love to.” Thank God for five o’clock games. It wasn’t even nine yet. “I’d be there between ten thirty and eleven. That okay?”

“Sure. I’ll just entertain myself with a book until you get here.” Now there was definitely laughter in her voice.

One of those boring book club books of hers? Damned if he understood why that was so funny, but he didn’t care. She wanted to see him. That was the only thing that mattered.

Georgia hung up the phone, grinning ear to ear. The star of tonight’s game wanted to be with her. Not some over-endowed puck bunny, but
her
.

She checked her watch. She had an hour and a half to get ready. First, she’d make a trip to the drugstore and buy ice packs. And, for the first time in her life, condoms. Should she get groceries? Would he stay the night? Did she want him to?

Yes, she did.

That was … weird. A little scary.

There was no time to worry about it. She needed to go shopping, then have a bath, shave her legs, and change into …

Sadly, she didn’t have anything worth changing into. The one time in her life that she wanted to look sexy, and no lingerie stores were open.

The best Georgia had been able to come up with, after scrutinizing every item of clothing she owned, was her usual sleepwear of a cami—worn without a bra—and loose, drawstring-waist pants made of light cotton.

At least she didn’t look as if she was trying too hard.

She tossed her hair, enjoying the way the loose waves tumbled around her face.

Hmm. The Beavers thought Woody’s haircut had brought him luck. Maybe hers had too, or at least the confidence to believe in her own sexuality.

“Of course,” she murmured to Kit-Kat, “I’m really just tending to my health. Dr. Lily said so.”

Ready with time to spare, she pulled out her e-reader. The Comte was making love to Emma in front of the fire in her room.

Erotica, Georgia knew by now, had the power to arouse the reader. Tonight, the sensual passages combined with her memories of last night, the experience of watching Woody on TV as he dominated the ice, and the knowledge that he wanted her. By the time his knock sounded at the door, her nipples were hard and the crotch of her pajama pants was damp.

She opened the door to him, all big and strong in one of his ill-fitting suits, the knot of his tie loosened and a couple of shirt
buttons undone. His face was less swollen than last night, but his black eye was more pronounced.

His gaze swept her, and his smile flashed. “Jesus, look at you. You’re so damned hot.”

“Hi, W—”

Her greeting got lost in the kiss he planted on her lips, a kiss that carried her back against the wall of her entranceway. A hot, minty kiss that zinged all the way through her body to curl her toes. A kiss that had her thrusting her tongue into his mouth, driving her fingers through his hair, and twining her body around him like he was a maypole and she was one of the colored streamers.

No, the
only
colored streamer, because he’d chosen
her
.

Heart racing, panting for breath, she broke the kiss. “Woody, you won! You were terrific. How do you feel?”

“Fucking fantastic.” Pinning her against the wall, he kissed her again, his lips and tongue hungry and demanding. His erection thrust insistently against her belly. This wasn’t last night’s tender, considerate lover, but his touch was just as arousing.

Finally, his whole body taut, he pulled his mouth away from hers. “Not here, not like this.” He, too, was gasping for breath. “You deserve better.”

But she wanted him now, here, with this urgency. It was like that first time, when he’d taken her on the conference table—but better, so much better. They knew each other, liked each other; they were lovers rather than strangers. And, God knew, she was ready—so ready—for him.

“No.” She stared into his eyes, the blue of a deep, deep ocean. “I want you now. Here. Exactly like this.”

She went for the knot of his tie, loosening it further until, standing on tiptoe, she could pull the strip of fabric over his head.

He looked a little stunned, then said, “Hell, yeah!”

She tackled the buttons of his shirt, but before she could undo
more than a couple, he thrust her down so her heels hit the floor with a thump.

“No,” she protested, then realized he was whipping off his suit jacket.

His hands went for the buckle of his belt, and she renewed her attack on his shirt. Between them, they had him stripped in seconds flat, and he’d found a condom in his pocket and put it on.

She’d barely had a chance to admire his sculpted nudity, his impressive erection, when she was blinded by him tugging her cami over her head. As soon as it was gone, he yanked her pants down her hips.

Before she could step out of them, Woody hoisted her free of them. She clung tight, arms and legs around him as he braced her shoulders against the wall and reached down, his fingers stroking between her legs.

She was wet, so hungry for him that dampness tracked down her inner thighs.

Woody’s fingers parted her folds, the head of his thick cock nudged between them, and she gasped at how delicious it felt.

She wanted, wanted, wanted this, exactly this. More than this. Gasping, she tilted her hips, urging him to thrust into her, to go deeper, to stroke every part of her that was crying out for attention.

Already aroused beyond belief, pure erotic pleasure built with each stroke, climbed, came together. When finally, finally, he jerked his hips harder and thrust deep into her core, she exploded with a cry.

Gaze fixed on her face, he kept pumping, his cock stroking every sensitive cell, prolonging her climax as she shuddered helplessly around him until his wrenching groan signaled his own release.

Panting, drained, her body sagged, but somehow Woody still managed to hold her up, sandwiching her between his heaving chest and the unyielding wall.

Eventually she recovered enough presence of mind to think about his shoulder. “Let me down,” she gasped.

He lowered her, holding her steady until her trembling legs managed to take her weight. “Man, Georgia, that’s not what I expected.”

She tilted her head and looked up at him. “What did you expect?”

His eyes twinkled. “I think there was a bed in it.”

“That could be arranged.” He might not be self-conscious about nudity, but she was, so she bent to slip on her pajama pants and cami. “Would you like something to drink? Ice for your shoulder? How’s it doing?”

“It’s”—he stepped into his boxer briefs and pants, picked up his shirt—“okay. Better than last night. Didn’t get any hits on it tonight.” He pulled on the shirt but didn’t button it. “Wouldn’t say no to some ice, though. And a big glass of water.”

“Sit down in the living room and I’ll bring them to you.”

“You don’t need to wait on me.”

“You worked hard tonight. You deserve it.”

“And you deserve more than a back-against-the-wall fuck in the hallway.” His eyes peered down into her own.

“That was exactly what I wanted,” she assured him. “Later, though, for round two …”

He chuckled. “Whatever you want, soon as I get my second wind.”

Smiling, she went to the kitchen.

When she walked into the living room a few minutes later with ice packs, his water, and a glass of red wine for herself, Woody was sprawled on her couch, feet up on the coffee table. A second later, he dropped his feet to the floor. “Sorry. Forgot.”

“It’s okay. Assuming those are clean socks,” she teased.

His feet went back up. He took the ice pack and applied it to his shoulder, then accepted the glass of water and drank thirstily. When
he put the glass down, almost empty, he said, “Come here,” and curved the arm on his good side invitingly.

She settled beside him.

“I’m glad you’ve stopped worrying about the work thing,” he said.

“All the same, I doubt my boss would be impressed. So let’s keep this private, okay?”

“Works for me. I’m a pretty private person anyhow.” He took a deep breath. “There’s something else. I don’t want to, uh … Don’t want you to think … I mean, you said you’re pretty serious about relationships and—”

“It’s okay,” she stopped him. “I know we’re not soul mates.” After all, how many soul mates came along in a lifetime? “But I’ve decided there’s nothing wrong with great sex.”

He gave a relieved smile. “I like that attitude.”

“I thought you might. Now, tell me about the game. How did it feel out there?”

“Felt the way it should,” he said with satisfaction.

“You made that first goal so quickly. That must have been good for your team’s confidence.”

“And mine. Yeah, we needed that. We sure as hell needed tonight.”

She nestled closer into the curve of his arm and sipped her wine. “It’s great when you get the thing you need at just the right time.” As had happened tonight, when Woody showed up at her door.

“Tell me about it.”

“I want to understand the game better. Take me through it.”

He complied, and as he talked and she asked questions, she thought how cozy this was. It reminded her of being with Anthony, of how they’d both relax in the living room in the evening, chatting about their days or relaxing with their books. Feeling at home together.

How strange. Her relationship with Woody was nothing like her marriage to Anthony. If she was thinking about the long term, about finding another soul mate, she’d choose a very different man. A man who was …

Smart and capable. A man who had principles and who looked after the people he cared about. A man who pursued a career because he loved it, not because of the status it might bring.

Fine. Woody had lots of good qualities. But the bottom line was that, in the long term, what she wanted from a man was marriage, and Woody wanted to be footloose and fancy-free.

She could opt into that for the short term, and reap the rewards. Yes, she would take a page from Lady Emma’s book and enjoy being with a sexy, interesting guy who’d complete her sexual education.

Friday night, the Beavers did what they had to do. In a closely fought four–three away game, they tied up the Western Conference. When the team was showered and changed, free of the press, they climbed into limos to go enjoy a celebratory dinner.

“You guys played great tonight,” Woody said to the players in his limo. And so had he. Maybe because of the kinky phone sex he’d had with Georgia last night. She’d seemed shy at first, and he’d enjoyed knowing she was blushing when he talked dirty to her and made her touch herself. As he pumped his cock, he’d closed his eyes and imagined her hands, her mouth.

He couldn’t wait to get back to Vancouver.

“The Anaheim fans hate us tonight,” Stu Connolly said with satisfaction. “You hear all the boos?”

“Wait for Sunday in Vancouver,” Woody said. “Vancouver fans will lift the top off the arena.” He paused for emphasis. “When we win.”

“Damn right,” The Hammer said.

“We’re going all the way,” Bouchard said. “I can taste that Cup now.” He ran a hand through his neatly trimmed hair. “We’ll take that fucker to Christopher’s salon, let him touch it.”

“Man’s a fucking genius,” Stu agreed.

“Who do you think we’ll be up against in the playoffs?” Dmitri Federov asked.

It was the perennial question. Last night, the Pittsburgh Penguins had tied it up three-three with the Washington Capitals in the Eastern Conference. The winner would be determined Saturday night. “Wouldn’t bet either way,” Woody said.

They knew the strengths and weaknesses of each team and each player. Whether it was the Penguins or the Caps, they’d be in for a fight. But that was how it should be. The Stanley Cup had to mean something.

“We came so damned close last year,” Dmitri said. “We’re taking that Cup home this time.”

“Damn right,” The Hammer said again.

“What’s it feel like?” Stu asked eagerly. “Skating around the rink hoisting that cup? Woody, Dmitri, you’ve done it.”

“Best thing in the world,” the Russian said, kissing his Stanley Cup ring.

“That’s for sure,” Woody confirmed, fingering his own. “All the hard work, all the dreams, they come together in that moment.” He glanced at Dmitri. “Turns you into brothers, right? All those guys whose names go on the cup beside yours, it’s a bond that’ll always be with you.”

“Hell, yeah.”

He and the goaltender had both played for the Beavers when the team won four years ago. The experience had been incredible. Last year, his second as captain, they’d lost in overtime on the seventh
game. This time, he wanted his team to have that experience of skating around the arena carrying thirty-four and a half pounds of hockey history, legend, and achievement.