Chapter 25
TWENTY-FIVE
Straddling outside every known zone
Georgie
“Hell fucking no.”
He tears his mouth from mine so abruptly that I’m left gasping into empty air, my lips still parted for a kiss that’s no longer there.
My hands freeze where they’re looped around his neck.
Oh God, maybe he thinks I’m offering sloppy seconds after Malcolm. Is it slutty to kiss two men in one night, especially when the second one literally watched the first happen?
“But you... you said all those things... and you’re...” I glance down. His erection strains against his jeans, pressed right into the lace of my panties.
His jaw grinds. “And you’ve had too much to drink. I might be a lot of things, but I don’t take advantage.”
“I’m fine! You’re not taking advantage. I climbed into your lap and kissed you first. What, do you need written consent? A bloody breathalyzer?”
“You’d fail it.”
The bitter laugh dies in my throat because he’s doing it again—dangling me on this string, pulling me close enough to taste what I can’t have before shoving me back.
“Don’t you dare.” My voice wobbles. “You can’t keep doing this to me, pulling me close one second then pushing me away the next. It’s cruel. I’m not a toy you can pick up and put down when convenient.”
My hands shake where they rest on his shoulders. “You talk about protecting me, but you’re not scared for me. You’re scared of me. Because the fact you’re even affected by me rattles you.”
Something dangerous flickers across his face. “You want to know what rattles me? Having Jake’s little sister grinding on my cock like she knows what she’s doing. Having you look at me with those wide eyes like you’re begging me to fuck you.”
The crude words make my face burn, but I don’t back down even though he’s clearly trying to shock me into retreat.
“Maybe I do want exactly that.”
“No, you don’t.” His grip on my hips tightens. “You think you do because you’re drunk and feeling brave.”
“Stop treating me like a child—”
“You kiss one fisherman and suddenly you think you want this?” His chest heaves under mine, each breath pushing us closer together. “Christ, Georgie, you can barely handle your own reaction when I touch you. You’re shaking right now.”
The dismissal hurts, but it also makes me angry. “Life would be easier if you weren’t such a hypocrite.”
He groans against my collarbone. “Life would be easier if you weren’t straddling me in your underwear.”
“Well,” I breathe, rocking forward just enough to make his breath catch, “my dead great-aunt told me to get out of my comfort zone. And straddling you is definitely outside any zone I’ve ever been in.”
To prove my point, I shift my hips again, and his cock drags against me through the denim, sending shocks of sensation that make me gasp.
His hand fists in my hair, yanking my head back in one brutal pull as his mouth crashes into mine.
I paw clumsily at the hem of his T-shirt, not entirely sure what I’m trying to accomplish. Am I trying to remove it? Just touch him? My motor skills seem to have abandoned me. My knuckles skid over solid muscle, and an embarrassing little moan escapes me before I can smother it.
He doesn’t make me struggle long. One swift movement and his shirt is gone, tossed somewhere behind me.
My hands land on bare skin, one splayed wide on the hard plane of his chest, the other gripping his shoulder. He’s so warm. So solid. So intimidatingly perfect.
I lean in too eagerly and nearly headbutt him in my enthusiasm. My mouth lands on his cheek instead of his lips, like I’m giving him the world’s most awkward kiss.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt, mortified and breathless. “I’m… I’m not very good at this.”
His hands tighten on my hips, steadying me before I can cause any further cranial damage. “Are you okay? Do you want to stop?”
“No! God, no.”
My knees clamp tighter around his hips.
“Fuck.” The curse rumbles from him, muffled as he buries his face into my neck, mouth dragging roughly over my collarbone, down to the top swell of my breasts. His stubble scrapes sensitive skin in a way that makes me shiver and arch into him.
“Please don’t stop,” I gasp, grinding down against him, desperate for that friction. “Please... please take me.”
“Take you?”
“You know what I mean. I’m not very good at dirty talk, clearly.”
The sound Patrick makes vibrates through both of us, half laugh and half tortured groan. “Sweetheart, you don’t need to be good at dirty talk or perform for me. You just need to be honest. That’s all I want from you.”
My whole body clenches at the way “sweetheart” sounds in his rough voice, like something precious and filthy at once.
I want desperately to believe it’s just for me, that he doesn’t scatter endearments for every woman who crosses his path, because if he doesn’t mean it, it feels almost cruel.
His hands slide to the hem of my top, and coherent thought evaporates.
His knuckles graze bare skin on the slow climb up, each brush igniting sparks that shoot all the way up my spine. He doesn’t rush. His eyes stay locked on mine, giving me every second to pull back.
I don’t. My breath comes in little gasps as I lift my arms in silent permission.
The top disappears in one smooth pull, and suddenly I’m exposed in my kitchen’s harsh light.
His hands find the zipper of my skirt, and he pauses, that same questioning look in his eyes—still checking, even though we both know I’m too far gone to stop now.
“Lift up,” he murmurs, and I rise on trembling knees.
The tartan slides down my thighs and pools on the floor. Then he pulls me back down with enough force that I gasp. I’m straddling him in nothing but lace.
Heat floods my face. I immediately cross my arms over my chest. “I’m not very toned. Or athletic. I’m quite soft, actually—probably should have mentioned that before we got to the underwear portion of the evening—”
He gently takes my arms and guides them around his neck instead. “Hey.”
His fingers tilt my chin up until I have no choice but to meet his eyes.
“You’re beautiful.” His voice is rough, no hint of teasing. “I didn’t realize you’d be my downfall, Georgie. I’m going to hell for this.”
A shiver runs through me. “Now you’re the one playing games.”
“I don’t play games, and I don’t waste time saying things I don’t mean. I wish it weren’t true, because I hate myself for wanting you this much.”
“Hate yourself all you like.” My hips shift against him, dragging a groan from my own throat. “I—I sometimes hate you too.”
“We’re not fucking in this chair.”
“No?” I whimper.
“No.”
Then he stands, lifting me. My legs wrap around his waist automatically, arms clinging to his neck.
His breath is hot against my ear. “Which one’s your bedroom?”
Oh God. This is happening.
“Last door on the left.”
He carries me like it’s effortless, like I’m not clinging to him like a koala. I bury my face in his neck, overwhelmed by the reality of this—Patrick McLaren is carrying me to my bedroom.
“I haven’t tidied,” I mumble against his shoulder. “There are probably pants on the floor and I think I left a coffee mug on the nightstand from yesterday.”
“I don’t care about your pants, Georgie.”
“Well, that’s good because they’re very unsexy. Cotton. From Marks & Spencer. Three for ten pounds, and at least one pair has cartoon cats on them.”
He huffs a laugh against my hair. “Stop talking about your underwear while I’m trying to stay in control.”
“Sorry. I babble when I’m nervous. And when I’m excited. And when I’m being carried to bed by someone who looks like they were carved by Vikings.”
We’re at my bedroom door. This is actually happening.