Devilishly Wicked (16 page)

She began to groan and cry out incoherently, the intensity of what he was doing to her almost too much.

“Please,” she begged, “please, Tristan, I need you inside me.” And she did. Even with all of the release she’d found, she didn’t feel that she could really be satisfied until he was inside her. Deep inside her.

He lifted his mouth away from her, his beautiful lips wet with her come.

“Lie down for me,” he whispered, his expression dazed as if he’d experienced each of her orgasms himself. She did as he asked, lying down before him on the carpet. He moved over her, bracing his weight on his arms, the muscles of his biceps bulging. He positioned himself between her thighs, and leaned down to kiss her. She could taste herself on his lips and feel his hard, thick cock nudging at her desperately sensitive sex.

He reached down to angle his cock to enter her. Her hands clutched the hard muscles of his back, waiting for the stretch of his entrance.

And she did stretch, his girth filling her, slowly. He took his time, going in tiny increments that made Georgia wild for him and for release all over again.

“That’s it, darling,” he said against her ear. “Let me in. Take all of me. Every inch.”

She gasped, wanting nothing more. And when he was buried deep inside her, she finally felt she’d gotten exactly what she had been so hungry for.

Then he began to thrust his hips and she was lost. She writhed under him, mindless except for the feeling of him pounding into her and her own building desire.

His thrusts grew more powerful, more demanding until they both shouted out their release. And he collapsed on top of her.

Georgia lay there, surrounded by Tristan, her body weak and spent, her breathing rapid and raspy. She’d never experienced anything like that before. Even the air seemed to be charged with their sexual release. She could feel it and taste it. Smell it like the most heady of perfumes. She closed her eyes, basking in the whole sensation.

Could sexual tension and release be a living thing? she thought, her mind vague and sleepy.

She didn’t know, but she was sure their lovemaking was more amazing than anything she could have imagined.

“Heaven,” she heard Tristan murmur, before she fell into an exhausted and sated sleep.

E
arly morning light, gray and shadowy, filtered through the shades of Georgia’s living room window. Tristan lay on his side, his muscles weak and heavy, still sapped from his encounter with Georgia. She slept beside him, sprawled on her back, her round, firm breasts, pale pink nipples, and full hips like a carnal smorgasbord laid out in front of him. His cock jutted, hard and throbbing, against his stomach, but he didn’t touch her. He didn’t play with those plump lips between her thighs. Or lean forward to suck her sweet, taut nipples.

He didn’t dare.

What the hell had happened to him?

He’d fucked many mortal women. Hundreds, maybe hundreds upon hundreds. Sex was necessary to his existence. Yet no human female had affected him like Georgia.

As always, he’d experienced each of her orgasms as if they were his own. That was normal for him. Her release became his, and his strength grew with each rush of his partner’s sexual release. But not tonight. Each of her orgasms rippled through him, powerful and stunningly wonderful. An intense ecstasy he’d never felt before, but instead of taking energy and strength from her orgasms, he’d been left drained, weak.

He didn’t understand it. The sex had been the best he could remember; her reaction to him, her orgasms, all perfection. He should feel like a damned superhero. He did feel utterly satisfied, blissful, and wonderfully content in a way sex never left him, but none of the usual vitality coursed through his veins.

What had this woman done to him?

He lifted his hand, wanting to touch her soft, smooth skin. But before his fingertips connected with her warm flesh, he dropped his hand back to the floor, digging his fingers into the pile of the carpet. Something akin to . . . fear stopped him.

What the hell was wrong with him?

Georgia made a little noise in her sleep, a sound somewhere between a sigh and a whimper. Tristan watched her breast move up and down with her deep, even breathing.

God, he wanted to touch her. To play with those beautiful breasts. To run his tongue over her warm, pale skin. To bury his face again between her thighs. Then bury his cock there, too.

But instead he levered himself upright and carefully moved to gather all his scattered clothing. He had to leave. He needed space to think. When he was near her, his brain was cloudy, his thoughts focused on nothing but her. And he needed to think. He had to figure out why he was feeling this way. He had to figure out what kind of power she had over him.

Garments in hand, he quietly rose and strode naked to the kitchen.

Not normal. Not normal. That was all his hazy brain could manage to comprehend. Never had he experienced this sensation. Never had he crept away to dress in private, nor had he ever sneaked out of a one-night stand. He’d never had any qualms about just telling his conquest that he was leaving. That he’d gotten what he wanted, and he was done.

But this was not a normal situation, and Georgia was not his usual conquest. And he hated to admit it, but he was shaken. Shaken to his core.

He tugged on his clothes, his movements jerky and awkward as if he couldn’t get his limbs to cooperate. Twice, he had to attempt to get his foot into his boxers, losing his balance, his equilibrium shot.

What the hell was wrong with him?

He sure as shit couldn’t figure that out here. He needed to get away from this apartment, and the heady, mind-boggling scent of Georgia. Even with the space between them, he could still smell her as if she was standing in the same room.

He paused, his pants halfway up his legs. He shot a look over his shoulder, half-expecting to see her standing there, but the room was empty. The apartment was silent.

He jerked his pants up, not bothering to finish fastening them. He pulled on his shirt, leaving that open as well. He doubted his shaky hands could manage the small buttons anyway.

He hurried from the kitchen toward the front door, only to stop at the living room doorway. Georgia hadn’t moved; their sexual encounter clearly had exhausted her, too. But that was normal.

The light from the window illuminated her pale skin, and she looked like some voluptuous goddess splayed out for him. Only him.

His cock hardened instantly, but he moved back away from her. He wanted her—as desperately as he had before they had had sex, but instead he headed to the door.

Slowly, he turned the handle and stepped out into the hallway. He pulled in a deep breath, but his body still quivered with exhaustion. His brain still whirred.

He didn’t allow himself to consider his reaction any longer. He just needed to leave.

A shrill noise penetrated Georgia’s sleep-hazed brain. She groaned.

God, her back hurt.

She rolled over, trying to find a more comfortable position, but as she did, her eyes snapped open.

Where was she?

She moved her hand, realizing her fingers weren’t stroking the soft sheets of her bed, but rather the rough weave of a carpet. Then her memory returned. She’d had sex with Tristan on her living room floor. She sat up, realizing she was still there. She was naked in the middle of her living room.

She made a noise, pushing herself upright, looking around her. The living room was empty. Tristan was gone. His clothes were gone, too.

She struggled to her feet, muscles she didn’t even know she had aching. Spotting her camisole on the arm of the sofa, she snatched it up and tugged it over her head. Then she found her panties and quickly donned those.

“Tristan,” she called, her voice husky and hesitant. Her feeble cry was met with silence. “Tristan?”

She walked into the hallway and was met with more quiet. He wasn’t here. A mixture of disappointment and humiliation tightened her chest, and she found it hard to pull in a deep breath.

She’d had sex with him and then he’d left. She closed her eyes, willing away the tears that threatened to fill them.

God, what had she been thinking?

“You weren’t thinking,” she muttered to herself, angry at her own stupidity. And she couldn’t even claim that she’d just let the moment get away from her. She’d initiated that moment.

She dropped her head into her hands and groaned. This was awful. So awful.

Again, a shrill ring echoed through the apartment, and she gathered her thoughts enough to realize it must have been the phone that had woken her up.

Then she remembered her grandmother at the hospital. What if they’d been trying to call and she’d slept through it, because she was passed out on the floor after seducing her boss?

“Oh, God,” she groaned, amazed that she could be even more ashamed. She rushed into the kitchen and grabbed the cordless phone from its cradle on the wall.

“Hello?”

“Georgia.”

She recognized Tristan’s voice immediately, and both relief and apprehension swirled in the pit of her stomach. She was glad to know he didn’t intend to avoid her. But she also worried that he might be calling to tell her something awful, like she was out of a job, and who could blame him? What she’d done was totally unprofessional.

But he hadn’t stopped it either. In fact, he’d told her how he’d imagined having sex with her. So could she really be totally at fault?

“How are you?” he asked, his voice low. She almost thought she heard uncertainty there as if he was nervous to call her.

“I’m fine.”

“Good,” he said; then he was silent for a moment. “I just wanted to check on you and to tell you not to come in to work.”

Her heart sank and she leaned heavily against the wall. He was going to fire her.

“I know I told you that last night, too, but just wanted to be sure you knew it was fine. I know picking up your grandmother at the hospital and getting her settled in at your place will take some time. So please take today—and tomorrow if you need it.”

“Oh, right,” she said, relieved. “T—thank you.”

He was silent again, and she wondered if he was waiting for her to address what had happened last night, but she couldn’t find the words to even begin that conversation. She was too embarrassed, and if she was being honest, too concerned that he regretted what they’d done.

One thing was for sure. He wasn’t his usual charming, glib self. Georgia didn’t think that was a good sign.

“Okay,” he finally said, probably realizing she wasn’t going to speak. “Just keep me posted and please give Grace my regards.”

His regards. He was being more formal with her than he’d ever been. Surely that wasn’t a good sign.

“I will,” she told him.

“And again, take whatever time you need.”

“I will,” she said again, wishing she could find the courage to say something about what had happened between them. But the words didn’t come.

Again, he hesitated, and then said, “Okay. Good-bye then.”

“Good-bye.”

Georgia hung up the phone. Well, that hadn’t done anything to reassure her that everything would be fine between the two of them. But could she really expect it to be? She’d banged her boss in her living room.

“You idiot,” she muttered. You stupid, stupid idiot.

And while her poor grandmother was in the hospital to boot. What had she been thinking?

She looked at the clock on the microwave. It was only a little after nine. At least she hadn’t continued to sleep away on the carpet, passed out in a post-coital oblivion while poor Grammy waited for her.

She groaned again. This was a nightmare. And the worst part of it was it was a nightmare of her own making. Tristan had even tried to rebuff her, to keep things professional. She was the one who’d pushed for what had happened.

She was going to have to say something to him, but clearly she didn’t need to do that today.

Just concentrate on Grammy and getting her home and situated comfortably, she told herself as she headed to her bedroom. She could figure out what to say to Tristan later. And maybe they’d both just act like nothing had happened. Maybe that was the safest course of action anyway. What could either of them really say?

Georgia had known going into it, that he would offer no more than a fling—a one-night stand, really. And she knew that if she went there with him, she’d have to accept that fact. So why bother to say anything? They both knew the score.

She grabbed her robe off the end of her bed and headed to the bathroom. She shoved back the shower curtain and turned on the water.

She then went to the mirror and looked at her pale, drawn face, her tangled hair, and kiss-swollen lips.

Of course, knowing the score didn’t make her feel any less like a fool. Or any less like crying.

 

Tristan stared at the phone, wanting to pick it up and redial Georgia’s number.

And say what? He didn’t know. He’d only called her about not coming in to work as an excuse to hear her voice. To know she was all right.

What could he call her about a second time?

Except he wasn’t any closer to knowing exactly what that was now than when he’d fled her apartment. And that was precisely what he’d done. Fled. Like some damned coward.

Truth be told, he still didn’t understand the effect she had on him. How could he, when it had never happened before in his long, long existence? He just knew something was very different about Georgia Sullivan. And he also knew his plan that a one-night stand would end his obsession with her had not worked. Not in the least. He was more fixated on her than ever. And he wanted to be back in her arms. Back inside her. To the point that he almost felt a little mad with desire.

“My God, you look like hell.”

Tristan started, completely unaware Finola was there until she spoke. Which also wasn’t normal. Even when in the most desperate need of sex, he was usually aware of everything around him. His lust never consumed him to the point of total distraction.

At least not until now.

“What do you want now, Finola?” he said, knowing he sounded weary, which she would surely take glee in, probably thinking the job was too much for him.

Finola walked over to one of his throne chairs and took a seat. She leaned forward and set Dippy, who had been riding in her tote, on the floor.

Dippy gave Tristan a look as if to say he agreed with Finola’s assessment of how he looked; then the white, fluffy,
judgmental
pain in the ass trotted over to his dog bed to circle three times and flop down with a sigh.

Well, if they both thought he looked like hell, they should experience how he felt.

But instead of saying anything of the kind, he asked again, “Why are you here?”

Finola gave him another look that said she was less than impressed with him.