Simply Irresistible (9 page)

John’s gaze shifted to the soft mahogany curls surrounding her face. The light shimmered in each silky corkscrew, and he wanted to bury his hands in them. He knew he should leave. Just turn and walk out. Instead, he looked back into her eyes.

He wasn’t satisfied. Not yet. He planted one hand on the back of her head, tilted her face to the side, and soul-kissed her to the bottoms of her feet. While his mouth feasted at hers, he walked her backward until her behind hit the edge of the china hutch doubling as a trophy cabinet. His kiss continued, across her cheek and along her jaw. His lips slipped to the side of her neck, and he pushed her hair down her back. She smelled of flowers and warm feminine skin, and he slid the silk robe from her shoulder. He felt her stiffen in his arms and told himself that he should stop. “You smell good,” he said into the side of her throat.

“I smell like a man,” she laughed nervously.

John smiled. “I’ve been around men all of my life. Believe me, honey, you don’t smell like a man.” He slipped his fingertips beneath one emerald strap of her bra and kissed the soft skin of her throat.

Instantly she covered his hand with hers. “I thought we weren’t going to make love.”

“We’re not.”

“Then what are we doing, John?”

“Foolin‘ around.”

“Doesn’t that lead to making love?” She grabbed her other shoulder and crossed her arms over her breasts.

“Not this time. So relax.” John moved his hands to the backs of her smooth thighs, grabbed ahold, and lifted. Before she could utter an objection, he plopped her down on top of the hutch, then stepped between her thighs.

“John?”

“Hmmm?”

“Promise you won’t hurt me.”

He raised his head and looked into her face. She was serious. “I won’t hurt you, Georgie.”

“Or do anything that I don’t like.”

“Of course not.”

She smiled and moved her palms to his shoulders.

“Do you like this?” he asked, slipping his hands up the outsides of her thighs, pushing up the silk robe at the same time.

“Mmm-hmm,” she answered, then softly licked his earlobe and slid the very tip of her tongue down the side of his neck. “Do
you
like this?” she asked against the side of his throat. Then she lightly sucked his sensitive skin into her mouth.

“Nice,” he chuckled quietly. He smoothed his hands to her knees, then back up until his fingers came into contact with the elastic and lace of her underwear. “Everything about you is real nice.” John tilted his head to the side and closed his eyes. He couldn’t remember ever touching a woman as soft as Georgeanne. His fingers sank into her warm thighs and he pushed them farther apart. While her mouth did incredible things to his throat, he slid his hands beneath the robe and cupped her behind. “You have soft skin, great legs, and a nice butt,” he said as he pulled her against his pelvis. Heat flooded his groin, and he knew that if he wasn’t careful, he could sink into Georgeanne and stay there awhile.

Georgeanne lifted her face. “Are you making fun of me?”

John looked down into her clear eyes. “No,” he answered, looking for a reflection of the desire he felt and not really finding it. “I would never make fun of a half-naked woman.”

“You don’t think I’m fat?”

“I don’t like skinny women,” he answered flatly, and moved his hands down her hips to her knees, then back up again. A flash of interest flicked in her eyes, and finally, a spark of desire.

Georgeanne looked into his sleepy gaze for a sign that he was lying to her. Since the onset of puberty, she’d done constant battle with her weight and had tried more diets than she could count. She planted her hands on the side of his face and kissed him then. Not the practiced and perfect kiss she’d given him earlier, a kiss meant to tease and tantalize. This time she wanted to swallow him whole. She meant to show him how much his words meant to a girl who’d always considered herself overweight. She let herself go, let herself melt into the hot, dizzying desire. The kiss turned ravenous as his hands touched, caressed, molded, and sent shivers clear to her toes. She felt the silk belt slacken and the robe part. He slid his hands across her stomach and up her waist. His warm palms slipped up her ribs, and his thumbs fanned the undersides of her heavy breasts. An unexpected and intense tremor shook her. For the first time in her life, a man’s touch on her breasts didn’t feel like an attack. She sighed her surprise into his mouth.

John raised his head and looked into her eyes. He smiled as if what he saw there pleased him, and he pushed the robe from her shoulders.

Georgeanne lowered her arms and let the black silk pool about her thighs. Before she knew his intention, John moved his hands to her back and unhooked her bra. Startled by his quick work, she raised her own hands and kept the lacy green cups in place. “I’m big,” she stated in a rush, then wanted to die for saying something so obvious and stupid.

“So am I,” he teased through a provocative grin.

Nervous laughter escaped her throat as one bra strap drifted down her arm.

“Are you going to sit like that all night?” he asked, and slid his knuckles along the lace edge of her bra.

His light touch sent tingles along her skin. She liked the things he said and the way he made her feel, and she didn’t want him to stop yet. She liked John and wanted him to like her. She looked into his sexy eyes and lowered her hands. Her bra slowly fell to her lap and she held her breath, waiting for him to make some lewd comment about her breasts—hoping he wouldn’t.

“Jesus, Georgie,” he said. “You told me you’re big. You should have warned that you’re perfect.” He cupped her heavy breast and kissed her lips, long and hard. His thumb slowly brushed her nipple, back and forth, around and over. No one had ever caressed her as John was doing at the moment. His feathery touch made her feel as if she were made of something delicate and breakable. He didn’t pull and twist or pinch. He didn’t grab her with rough hands and expect her to enjoy the attention.

Desire, appreciation, and love shot through her veins to her heart and beat between her legs. As she kissed him, her thighs closed around his hips, pulling him closer until she felt his hard bulge against her crotch. Her hands tugged at his T-shirt, and she pulled away from his mouth to yank his shirt over his head. Swirls of dark hair covered his big chest, shot down his flat abdomen, circled his navel, and disappeared in the waistband of his jeans. She tossed the T-shirt aside and ran her hands up and down his chest and stomach. Her fingers furrowed through the short, fine hair covering hard muscles and hot skin. She felt the pounding of his heart and heard his rapid breath.

He moaned her name just before his mouth captured hers in another hot kiss. The tips of her breasts grazed his chest and spread an ache throughout her. Each place he touched pulsed with a hot passion she’d never experienced before. It was as if her body had known, waiting her whole life for John to love her. She ran her hands across the hard planes of his smooth back, down his spine and around to his stomach. He sucked in air as her fingers curled into the waistband of his jeans. When she pulled the metal button from its hole, his hands curled around her wrists. He tore his mouth from hers, took a step back, and looked at her with heavy eyes. A wrinkle creased his forehead and his tan cheeks were flushed. He looked like a hungry man who’d just been given his favorite dish, but he didn’t look very happy about it. He looked as if he were about to refuse.

“Ahh, the hell with it,” he swore at last, and reached for the top of her underwear. “I’m a dead man either way.”

Georgeanne planted her hands behind her on the cabinet and raised her bottom as he pulled her underwear down her legs. When he stepped between her thighs once more, he was naked. And he
was
big. He hadn’t been teasing about that. She reached for him and closed her fist around the thick shaft of his penis. His hand fastened around hers, and he moved her palm up to the plump head, then back down. He was incredibly hard and very hot within her grasp.

He looked at their hands and at her open thighs. “Are you taking birth control?” he asked, and moved his free hand to the top of her pelvis bone.

“Yes,” she sighed as his fingers slipped through her pubic hair and stroked her slick flesh, arousing her until she thought she might shatter.

“Put your legs around my waist,” he ordered, and when she did, he plunged inside of her. His head snapped up and his gaze shot to hers. “Oh God, Georgie,” he uttered from the back of his throat. He withdrew slightly, then pushed until he was seated fully inside of her. He grabbed her hips and moved within her, slowly at first, then faster. The trophies in the hutch rattled, and with each thrust, Georgeanne felt as if he were pushing her toward a dark ledge. With each thrust her skin grew hotter and her craving for him more ravenous. Each drive of his body was torture and sweet bliss all at the same time.

She said his name over and over as her head fell back against the hutch and her eyes closed. “Don’t stop,” she cried out as she felt herself pitched over the edge. Fire spread across her flesh and her muscles involuntarily clenched as she fell into a long, hot orgasm. She uttered things that normally would have shocked her. She didn’t care. John made her feel things, incredible things, that she’d never known before, and her every thought and feeling centered around the man she held close.

“Jesus H. Christ,” John hissed as his face descended to the crook of her neck. His grasp tightened on her hips and, with a deep, guttural groan, he thrust into her one last time.

Darkness enclosed John’s naked form, matching his grim mood. The house was quiet. Too quiet. If he listened closely, he could almost hear Georgeanne’s steady breathing. But she lay asleep in his bedroom, and he knew hearing her was impossible.

It was the night. The darkness. The silence. It conspired against him, breathed down his neck and plagued him with memories.

Raising a bottle of Bud to his mouth, he drained the first quarter. He moved to the large picture window and gazed out at a big yellow moon and silver-tipped black waves. Of his own reflection in the glass, all he could see was a hazy silhouette. A blurry outline of a man who’d lost his soul and wasn’t real interested in finding it again.

Unbidden, the image of his wife, Linda, rose before him in the darkness. The vision of how she’d looked the last time he’d seen her—sitting in a tub of bloody water, her appearance so different from the fresh-faced girl he’d known in high school.

His mind did a quick spin, back to that short time in school when he’d dated her. But after graduation, he’d moved hundreds of miles away to play hockey in the junior leagues. His life had revolved around his sport. He played hard and, at the age of twenty, was the first player taken by the Toronto Maple Leafs in the 1982 drafts. His size made him a dominating force and quickly earned him the nickname “The Wall.” His on-ice skill made him a star on the rise. His office skill made him a star with the rink bunnies, who considered him the Mark Spitz of the groupie pool. John played for the Maple Leafs for four seasons before the New York Rangers offered him a big-money contract, and he became one of the highest-paid players in the NHL. He forgot all about Linda.

When he did see her again, six years had passed. They were the same age but vastly different in experience. John had seen a lot of the world. He was young, rich, and had done things other men could only dream about doing. Over the years, he’d changed a great deal while Linda had changed very little. She was pretty much the same girl he’d driven around in Ernie’s Chevy. The same girl who’d used the rearview mirror to smear on red lipstick so he could smear it back off.

He ran into Linda again during a break in the hockey season. He took her out on the town. He took her to a hotel, and three months later when she told him she was pregnant, he took her as his wife. His son, Toby, was born five months into the pregnancy. For the next four weeks, as he watched his son struggle for breath, he dreamed of teaching Toby all the things he’d been taught about life and hockey. But his dreams of a rowdy little boy died painfully with his son.

While John grieved in silence, Linda’s sorrow was plain to everyone around her. She cried all the time, and within a short period became obsessed with having another child. John knew he was the reason behind her obsession. He’d married her because she was pregnant, not because he loved her.

He should have left then. He should have gotten out, but he hadn’t been able to leave her. Not while she was in pain, and not while he felt responsible for her grief. For the next year he stayed. He stayed while she sought doctor after doctor. He stayed while she suffered a series of miscarriages. He stayed because for a while there had been a part of him that wanted another baby, too. He stayed while she sank deeper into despair.

He stayed, but he wasn’t a good husband. Her preoccupation with having a baby became manic. The last few months of her life, he couldn’t stand to touch her. The more she grasped, the harder he pushed. His affairs with other women became flagrant. On a subconscious level, he wanted her to leave him.

She chose to kill herself instead.

John raised the bottle of beer to his lips and took a long pull. She’d wanted him to find her, and he had. A year later, he could still remember the exact color her blood had turned the bath water. He could see her chalky white face and damp blond hair. He could smell the shampoo she’d used and see the cuts she’d made up her wrists almost to her elbows. He could still feel that awful kick in the gut.

Every day he lived with the awful guilt. Every day he sought diversion from his memories and the part he’d played in them.

John walked into his bedroom and looked down at the sultry girl wrapped up in his sheet. The light from the hall shined on the bed and the dark curls fanning her head. One arm rested across her stomach while the other lay out to one side.

He figured he should feel bad for usurping Virgil’s wedding night. But he didn’t. He didn’t regret what he’d done. He’d had too good a time, and if anyone found out she’d spent the night in his house, they would assume he’d had sex with her anyway. So what the hell?