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She nudged her hair off her face. “Let’s do it from behind? It’s deeper and I come really hard…”
Fucking. Hell. Oliver’s balls ached. Swerving all sexy thoughts to mummies and pyramids to avoid coming far too early, also known as the worst birthday gift ever, he helped her down from the counter. Georgie promptly spun around and bent over, her lush ass prodding his erection. Not helping. He gulped as she rested her forearms on the counter. “I’ll get a condom.”
“Do we need one?” Georgie looked over her shoulder. “We’re not seeing anyone else, and I’d like to feel you bare…if you’re okay with that?”
More than okay, it was fucking perfect, but Oliver wanted to double check. “You sure?”
“What do you think?” Grinning, she arched her back, lifting her butt a little higher.
My word. Oliver’s dick twitched. I could eat you for fucking breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
Drawing in a breath, he held the base of his cock and pushed inside her slowly, inch by hard inch. She gasped into a moan and shifted backward, helping him fill her deep. Fully seated, Oliver blinked into an open-mouthed groan, the sensation soaking hot and deliciously tight. “Fuck,” he grunted, his fingers digging into her hips. “Feels like my birthday.”
Looking back, her hair tousled, her lips pink and parted, Georgie ogled him. “This is nothing. Wait to see what I’ve got planned.” She smirked. “Fuck me hard and fast, sugar.”
Her taste still on his lips, Oliver wouldn’t last long. Reaching between her thighs, he found her drenched and swollen, and he began gentle circles as rolled his hips, building to a rhythm.
“Can you—faster?” she panted, and Oliver obeyed, upping his pace, pounding frantically into her, the slick friction the most wanted gift.
Doggy-style was deliriously eyes-rolling-back spectacular, but not seeing Georgie’s face? Not so much. “Gigi, you all right?”
“Yeah!” Reaching back, Georgie pushed his fingers away and touched herself, releasing Oliver to thrust with wild abandon, holding her in place for the best angle and depth for both of them. His thighs burning, sweat gathered on his shoulders and chest.
Clawing the Formica with her free hand, Georgie groaned and gasped through parted lips, her head lifting slightly as his balls throbbed and slapped against her ass, bringing him closer…closer.
I’m so damn deep. In the midst of his dizzying haze of pleasure and agony, a guttural cry escaped Georgie’s throat. Her thighs quivered and she tightened around him, her hands gripping the edge of the counter until her head bowed and she stilled with an ecstatic, satisfied sigh, a beautiful sound telling him he no longer had to stave off his own climax. Thrusting with intent, the urgency building, his core tightening, he let out a groan as his release surged through him in pulsing waves…one…after…another…until he was completely spent.
“Georgie…” Exhausted, he fell forward, his damp embrace holding his entire world. “I love you, my darling girl.”
FORTY-SIX
GEORGIE
Two weeks later, Friday, June 11, 1993
Round Four, Game 6 of the Stanley Cup Finals against Montreal
Leafs record: 3 wins, 2 losses (best-of-seven series)
Georgie had no fingernails left and barely any voice.
Her popcorn sat untouched on the floor and her grey seat squeaked with every frantic rock back and forth as she desperately chased calm, a futile pursuit with the Leafs behind the Canadiens 4-3 and less than three minutes remaining in regulation time. Before puck drop, Toronto led the best-of-seven final series three games to Montréal’s two, but if the Habs held their Game 6 lead, the series would become tied, and they’d all head back to the Forum for a Cup-deciding Game 7 on Sunday.
Wiping sweat from her brow, Georgie vibrated with anxiety. “LET’S GO! LET’S DO THIS!” Her voice croaking, she tugged on the cuffs of her Armstrong sweater, all thoughts of her interview with the Hockey Hall of Fame a day earlier relegated to the back of her mind. She glanced sidelong at Michael bouncing a curled knuckle against his mouth. His gaze followed the action in Montréal’s end with barely a blink, his nerves clearly frayed as much as hers.
“C’MON, LEAFS! KEEP IT IN!” Michael hollered, exhaling a terse breath as a Hab flipped the puck over the glass, halting play.
“What, no penalty?” yelled Ezio. “We should have a power play!”
Frowning, Georgie fiddled with her bracelet. “It’s not the hope that kills ya, it’s the what ifs.”
Organist Jimmy Holmstrom broke into “Zorba the Greek” and the pixelated Mickey Mouse hands on the score clock clapped off the beat (which always cheered her up). The moment of levity, however, was short-lived as the players lined up for the faceoff and the music segued into a spirited ‘Go Leafs Go’, rousing Leesa, Randall, and everyone else into a full-fledged chant.
Adding her raspy efforts to the thunderous din, Georgie stole a peek at Oliver sat two rows below with Kaitlin. Wearing his retro Salming jersey and Georgie’s camera around his neck, he’d been snapping photos of the crowd and the game for her and was now enjoying…a bag of Twizzlers?!
How on Earth can he eat? Georgie returned to the game as Leafs defenceman Dave Ellett sent the puck behind Montréal’s goal where Gilmour, gritty as ever, battled two Habs along the boards.
Terry leaned into Michael. “Watch, we’ll get the penalty.”
