Because really, that was just about all there was to say.
Georgie
THURSDAY NIGHT, AFTER THE PARTY
I sigh happily as I open my door and set my clutch on the counter before turning to face Andrew. “That was just about the perfect evening.”
“Just about?” he asks, shutting the door behind him.
“Ninety-eight percent perfect. And you didn’t tell me that Roy was such a sweetheart. And Bertha. Lovely.”
He rolls his eyes. “Roy’s a hard-ass troll who makes grown men cry, and Bertha calls me boy.”
“Well, they were lovely to me,” I say, pulling two glasses down from the cabinet and getting us each some water.
“What was the missing two percent?” he asks. “You said it was ninety-eight percent perfect.”
“Hmm? Oh. There was no dancing. Add in a good slow dance, maybe to ‘Lady in Red,’ and my little brain would have just exploded into a cloud of happy glitter.”
“Ridiculous.” He says it with a slight smile as he accepts the water, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes.
“You okay?” I ask, tilting my head. “You’ve been a little quiet.”
“Tired,” he says, setting the glass on the counter without taking a drink. “And maybe a bit anxious to have you to myself. Have I told you how much I like this dress?”
“A few times.” I smile, setting my own glass aside and running a hand down his black tie.
He steps closer, leaning in so that his hands can slide up the back of my thighs. “Have I mentioned I like what’s under it even better?”
I tilt my head up, kiss his chin. “You don’t know what’s under it.”
He palms my ass before his fingers explore, tracing the upper elastic of my underwear.
“Georgiana. Are you wearing impractical undergarments?”
“Yes. One might even call them…ridiculous.”
He pulls back, eyes gleaming. “I’ll be the judge of that.”
Then he sinks slowly to his knees, running his hands up the front of my thighs, pulling my dress up toward my waist so he can take in the tiny triangle of red lace.
He exhales and runs a finger over me. “Have I mentioned I’m a fan of red?”
I can’t respond. Not when his finger’s slipping under the lace and finding me hot and wet for him. Not when he pulls the lace aside and, without warning or preamble, presses his tongue to my clit.
I clutch his shoulders as he eats me, his tongue and fingers moving in slow, sensuous movements, utterly confident in his knowledge of my body. He has two fingers inside me, his mouth moving hungrily, and I’m too turned on to be embarrassed by my lightning-fast orgasm.
His other hand holds me steady as I come undone around him, against him.
I haven’t even caught my breath yet, and he’s already moving up my body, taking my dress with him until I’m standing there in strappy sandals and matching lingerie when he hasn’t so much as loosened his tie yet.
My fingers move to remedy that, but he’s faster, his hands sliding behind me once more, lifting me easily before turning and walking me toward the kitchen wall.
He slams me into it with so much force that I think I hear a picture frame fall, but I don’t care. Not when his mouth is on my breasts and he’s using his chin to nudge the fabric aside so he can suck a nipple into his mouth.
I gasp, my legs wrapping around his waist, my arms resting on his shoulders.
“What is going on with you?” I manage around a gasp as he moves to the other nipple, flicks it with his tongue.