“And that’s that,” I exhale.
“And that’s that.”
I will, without a doubt, regret this tomorrow. George probably will, too. Neither of us seems to care. Releasing my grasp on his face, I reach for the handle of the door and push it open while he does the same on the other side of the car.
He walks around the front of the car, heading straight for the door, and twists the knob, then pulls it open. I don’t comment on the fact that he lives in a nice enough neighborhood that he doesn’t have to worry about locking his door. I also don’t comment when I follow him inside that his house looks like a showroom.
Because it does look like a showroom floor. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful in my life. And he just moves through the house, not stopping until we reach the opposite side, walk down a hallway, and stop at two double doors.
He turns, looking over his shoulder at me when we reach the doors, his hands on both of the knobs. He doesn’t have to ask me anything. I see the question in his gaze. He wants to make sure I still want this.
I dip my chin in a single nod.
He pushes the doors open and walks into the massive space. Absolutely stunning. I can only imagine what the closets look like. They’re probably the size of my entire apartment. I couldn’t even imagine owning a house like this.
George spins around to face me, his eyes find mine, and instantly, all thought of the house, of the opulence, disappears. I feel like we’re back in the bar dancing. My breathing comes out in short pants as he takes one step toward me, then another, closing the short distance between us.
“You can tell me to stop.”
His words are a whisper, his eyes never breaking contact with mine. He means that. I could tell him to stop, and he would probably take me home and drop me off, all while wearing a smile.
“I want to forget,” I confess the truth.
He lowers his head, resting his forehead against mine. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Me too.”
George shifts his head until his lips find mine, and then I forget. When his tongue slides inside my mouth, tangling with my own, I don’t think about Goose. I don’t think about his fingers gripping my hips or how he tasted.
I’m a liar, though, especially to myself, because all I can do is think about Goose with every second that passes. With every brush of his fingers, with every taste of his tongue, I know, and my body knows, that this is not Goose. This is not Trent Fairfax.
Fingertips grip my ass. I can feel them through my jeans as he picks me up and walks me backward. He doesn’t take me to bed, and I’m glad. I don’t know if I could actually get between the sheets with him right now. He must sense that, or maybe he feels the same way, I’m not sure. I don’t ask him what he’s trying to forget, and if he knows what, or rather, whom, I’m trying to forget, he’s kind enough not to ask me, either.
He presses my back against the wall, lowering me to my feet and releasing my ass. His fingers make their way to the waist of my jeans. I feel them pop my button open, then slide the zipper down, all the while his mouth never loses contact with mine.
Heat pools between my legs, an automatic physical reaction that is the perfect distraction right now. He shoves my jeans down my legs, and I kick my heels off before stepping out of them. When his fingers slip between my thighs, I rip my mouth from his, my head bouncing against the wall with a single thud.
“Yes,” I exhale. It’s needy and wanton, but I don’t care. I am both wanton and needy right now.
Two fingers dip inside me, curling there as his thumb presses against my clit, and I can’t stop my body from moving. My hips shift forward, searching, silently begging for more from him.
George rests his forehead against mine, his fingers working between my legs. Lifting my hands, I grab a hold of his biceps, gripping him tightly there as my hips move and buck, searching for more.
“Please, George,” I whimper.
I’m close, but I am not going to come like this. I don’t know why. It’s just not enough. Maybe it’s the man, maybe it’s myself, maybe it’s my broken heart, but it’s not happening with his fingers.
Reaching between us, I undo the button of his jeans, then slide the zipper down before my hand dives inside his boxer briefs, and my fingers wrap around his length. He’s hard and ready, his hips flexing.
He takes a step backward, his hand slipping from between my legs, my hand falling away from his length, and for a moment, I think maybe he’s going to send me away. Not that I’ve done anything wrong, but maybe this isn’t what he wants. But he doesn’t.
George’s gaze finds mine, and he holds my focus with his. Then he sheds his jeans, tugs off his shirt. I take mine off as well, slipping my bra from my body, and I drop it to the floor before he moves toward me.
He reaches down, gripping the backs of my thighs roughly before he picks me up, pressing my back against the wall. Wrapping my legs around his hips, I close my eyes as he aligns himself with my center. I am so ready, wet and waiting for him. When he pushes inside me, it’s with one single thrust.
I gasp as he fills me.
His mouth touches mine, and thankfully, I don’t have to look into his eyes. I don’t think I could, not right now at least. When he moves, I let out an exhale, and I just breathe and feel.
Right now, that’s all I need.
