The Dirty Girls Book Club

by Savanna Fox

  In the intermission between the second and third periods, an interviewer shoved a microphone into Woody’s face. “It’s not a good night for the Beavers,” the man said.

  “The Ducks are doing a good job out there.” Woody’s face was grim and it sounded like the admission pained him.

  The interviewer said, “You’re wearing a face shield. Did that high stick you took in the last game break your nose or cheekbone?”

  Woody snorted. “I’m healthy.”

  “No player ever confesses to an injury during the finals.”

  “Then why’d you ask the”—he paused, like he was swallowing a curse—“question?”

  Georgia huffed out a sigh. She’d actually had sex with that Neanderthal? It must have been temporary insanity. There was no other logical explanation.

  Temporary insanity that led to two orgasms …

  Notes finished, she clicked off the TV. Yes, she hoped the Beavers won because it would be good for the VitalSport campaign, but she had no desire to watch the rest of the game.

  Half an hour later, she’d purchased an electronic copy of The Sexual Education of Lady Emma Whitehead and was snuggled in bed with her e-reader.

  The first chapter expanded on the background Marielle had summarized. Lady Emma had been widowed a year earlier. Her life was circumscribed and her finances dwindling. Her father proposed arranging another marriage, and she knew it would be to another much older man. Her brother was pressuring her to live with him. He said he’d look after her, but she knew he wanted a glorified servant to care for his children and his wife’s ailing mother.

  Georgia shuddered, relieved to have been born in more enlightened times.

  Emma, faced with a no-win situation, was happy to avoid it temporarily by accepting her friend Margaret’s invitation to visit her and her husband’s country home.

  Increasingly caught up in the story, Georgia came to the scene Marielle had read last night, then moved on to the next chapter. Lady Emma, too, was reading. It was afternoon and she was alone in the library.

  Books were a great pleasure to Emma, a temporary escape from worries about her future. When the library door opened, she glanced up to see the Comte de Vergennes, a man she’d barely exchanged two words with.

  Her pulse raced, no doubt because of his scandalous reputation. She stood quickly. “Good afternoon, Monsieur le Comte. I will leave the library to you.”

  “No, please.” He waved a hand in a charming Continental gesture that would have looked foolish from an Englishman, just as no Englishman could have worn those stylish clothes with such flair. “Please do not go on my account, my lady. I would be distraught to think I drove you away.”

  She felt most uncomfortable around this man, and particularly discomfited at the notion of being alone with him; still, she did not wish to be rude to another houseguest. Slowly, she sank down again.

  Unfortunately, rather than search out a book to read, the Comte seated himself across from her.

  In such close proximity, Emma couldn’t help but notice that he really was most attractive, with wavy black hair and chiseled features. He flashed a smile, and how could she not admire his even white teeth, dimple, and coffee-brown eyes that sparkled with … Well, she had no idea to what one might attribute that sparkle, but it really was most attractive. No wonder women clustered around him.

  She felt the same disconcerting reaction as last night: an odd, tingly, pulsing heat that reached even the most private parts of her body.

  “You enjoy reading, my lady, and music also. Do you play an instrument?”

  How drab and boring she must seem, compared to the women he’d charmed last night. Why did he feel compelled to make conversation? Her pulse raced, making it difficult to draw breath. Striving to ignore her unusual reaction to him, and to be polite, she responded, “The violin, but only passably well.”

  “You have an affinity for music.”

  “I do?” How could he know that?

  “Last night, your body swayed to the music as if you wished to be playing yourself. Or dancing, perhaps?” He cocked an eyebrow.

  Her cheeks heated and the bodice of her dress felt hot and confining. How improper to mention her body, to have noticed her body. Of course, it should come as no surprise that this man did not abide by the conventions of polite society. Stiffly, she said, “I do not dance. Perhaps you do not know, but I am a widow.”

  “Ah yes, the absurd convention that when a man dies, his widow must for all practical purposes give up her own life too.”

  Her eyes widened. Yes, she chafed against the restraints placed on her, but while she might confess as much to her dear friend Margaret, this was not a fit topic of conversation with a gentleman, much less a rake. Again, she rose. “I really must go.”

  He rose too, with a rueful and most charming smile. “I have offended you. My sincere apologies, Lady Whitehead.” He gestured toward her chair. “Please. I promise to be more circumspect. Shall we discuss composers, perhaps? Who is your favorite?”

  She had no experience with a situation such as this. Still, he was a houseguest and she was a widow, and surely chatting about music in the library was the most harmless of activities. The truth—and she always tried to be honest with herself—was that she wanted to stay. There was something intriguing about the man, perhaps because he was so different from the Englishmen she’d known.

  Her reason for staying was not—it most certainly was not—that his presence sent those pleasurable tingles and throbs racing throughout her body.

  Ah now, was she still being honest with herself?

  “Don’t give in to those tingles and throbs,” Georgia advised. And yet, of course Emma would, because this novel was erotica.

  As Georgia read on, she couldn’t help but compare Emma’s first meeting with the Comte to her own with Woody. The Comte, handsome and suave, also proved to be well educated, knowledgeable about music, and interesting company. He charmed and flattered in a sophisticated way that appealed to a femininity, a sensuality, that inexperienced Emma had never before felt in herself.

  As Emma’s attraction to the man grew, Georgia could almost feel it herself. A man like that would be hard to resist.

  Woody Hanrahan—the Neanderthal—was a completely different matter. Forcing him from her mind, she turned back to the story.

  “We must play together,” the Comte said, flashing that dimple again.

  “Play?” Emma asked, breath catching in her throat. What on earth did he mean, and why did it sound so wicked?

  “I play the pianoforte. We would make beautiful music together.”

  He spoke of musical instruments, and yet his suggestive tone and the gleam in his dark eyes hinted at something far more personal. If she did not know better, she might believe he was attracted to her, but why would he choose a drab widow when there were younger, prettier women who would welcome his company? It must be second nature for him to flirt with every member of the gentle sex.

  “Come with me to the music room,” he said, holding out his hand. “Lord and Lady Edgerton are visiting an ailing neighbor, so there will be no one to hear and judge. We may play whatever our hearts most desire.”

  She clasped her hands tightly together, resisting an absurd impulse to put one of them in his. Bad enough she was alone with him in the library, but somehow the idea of playing music—beautiful music, the kind of music that stirred her body and soul—seemed far less appropriate. After all, the man had a reputation as a seducer. “I don’t believe it would be proper,” she stammered awkwardly.

  “Proper?” He withdrew his hand and his lips curled. “And is being proper so very important to you?”

  Knowing her cheeks were rosy, she said, “Of course. I am not the kind of woman you are used to.”

  “Which makes you even more a delight.” He studied her, head tilted to one side. “But I must ask, Lady Emma, what kind of woman do you believe I am used to?”

  Surely her entire body had flushed as pi
nk as Margaret’s prize roses. Regretting that she’d left her fan in her bedchamber, she said, “Sir, this conversation is most improper. Let me just say that I have heard of, er, your troubles in Paris.”

  “Ah, the gossipmongers have been at work. You have heard that a woman’s husband caught us in flagrante delicto.”

  Despite her shocked gasp, he carried on. “Yes, it is true, and he issued a challenge to a duel. I am excellent with a pistol, and could not bring myself to kill him, as would inevitably happen. The most circumspect course of action was to depart France.”

  “I cannot listen to this.” She would have risen and swept out, but her legs had taken to trembling.

  His eyes danced, as if he understood her plight. “There is more to the story than the gossipmongers know.”

  “More?” Despite better reason, she was intrigued.

  “I will tell you the truth, my lady, because you have been married and will understand such delicate matters.”

  Oh my! What on earth did he refer to? Curiosity came close to overwhelming her better judgment, but she forced herself to say, “No, I should not listen to such—”

  He held up a hand, silencing her. “I have been misjudged, and I wish one person—you, my dear Lady Emma—to know the truth.”

  In the space of an hour she had gone from Lady Whitehead to Lady Emma, and now my dear Lady Emma. She should protest, but sat mute.

  “I did not take advantage of the lady in question. She was married to a man who could not—how would you English say this?— perform his marital obligations.”

  His marital obligations? Did the Comte mean that the man could not support his wife financially?

  “In the bedchamber,” he murmured.

  “Oh!” Could he actually be talking about …? Her heart raced so fast she could barely draw breath. She could not, should not, listen, but already he was going on.

  “She begged me to give her the pleasure she craved, and I did not refuse that plea.”

  Emma’s eyes opened wide with astonishment. The Frenchwoman found pleasure in conjugal relations? For Emma, those acts had been painful and embarrassing—a part of marriage she never, for one moment, missed. Surely no decent woman could enjoy something so base.

  When the Comte reached for her hand, she was so shocked she didn’t resist. He stroked the back of it, sending shivers coursing through her entire body. “I see from your reaction that I was wrong about you, my dear. I sense your husband did not teach you the joy a man and woman can create together. The beautiful music their bodies can play. My lady, there is no duet to compare.”

  Her lips quivered as she tried to form words to tell him she could hear no more of this. Her legs trembled too; else she’d have sprung to her feet and dashed from the room.

  He leaned closer and her breath stopped entirely. And then—how shocking, but oh, how sweet—his lips touched hers.

  Kit-Kat tried to crawl onto Georgia’s chest, blocking her view of the e-reader. “Oh no, you don’t,” Georgia muttered. “I’m not stopping now.”

  She nudged the cat aside and read on, enthralled, as the Comte skillfully seduced Emma, playing her body as if it were a beautiful instrument and he the most talented and appreciative of musicians. He overcame her embarrassment, her inhibitions, and taught her that sex could be an act of supreme pleasure.

  Lying on the sofa in the library, surrendering to the caresses of his deft fingers and tongue, Emma climaxed for the first time in her life.

  And then, when he entered her slowly and tenderly, patiently teaching her the rhythm of intimacy, the dance of two bodies moving in perfect harmony, she climaxed again.

  Lying in bed, Georgia’s body tingled with the memory of her own orgasms. She flicked off the e-reader. Two orgasms. What a strange coincidence.

  Of course, her own circumstances were very different from Emma’s. Emma’s husband had been a cold, inconsiderate man, whereas Georgia’s Anthony had been warm and loving. And then Emma had been coaxed toward climax under the attention of a charming man, a subtle seducer, a skilled and patient lover who devoted himself to his partner’s pleasure. Georgia could, perhaps, understand how Emma had let herself be persuaded.

  Her own actions with Woody made far less sense. She wasn’t even attracted to him. Not really. Only to a splendid body. He certainly wasn’t suave or charming, and his idea of seduction was to rub his erection against her. Admittedly, he’d been generous in giving her that first orgasm, but then the only thing he’d devoted himself to was getting his own rocks off. The Comte had ensured Emma’s second climax before finding his own release. Woody hadn’t even known if Georgia had come.

  And yet she had. A second time. The memory of it, combined with reading about Lady Emma’s seduction, had her body all atingle.

  She clicked off the light. The bottom line was, she’d been unprofessional. A part of her didn’t regret it, because the experience had been incredible, yet she knew it couldn’t happen again.

  Orgasms weren’t like chocolate. She could enjoy those first two wonderful ones, and not become addicted.

  Seven

  Woody drifted into consciousness gradually and painfully. He lay absolutely still, inventorying the damage. Oh yeah, this hurt a lot, and it wasn’t just the shoulder he’d dislocated a couple of weeks ago, which hadn’t had time to heal and which had taken another hard hit against the boards last night. He opened an eye, winced, and then groaned as the movement shot splinters of pain piercing into his brain and gut. The last time he’d had such a massive hangover was almost a year ago, when the Beavers lost the Stanley Cup in double overtime in the seventh game of the finals.

  He sure as hell couldn’t show up for practice like this. Gritting his teeth against nausea, he hauled his ass out of bed and into his jogging shorts. He added a ratty T-shirt and gingerly bent to put on socks and running shoes.

  Each step was more agonizing than the one before. Out the door, down the hall, into the elevator where the sickening swoop downward from the penthouse floor almost made him toss his cookies. Into the street. Fresh air, thank God. His condo was in Vancouver’s Yaletown, and he always ran along the seawall. His trembling legs took him across the grass of David Lam Park toward the water.

  It was a beautiful morning, which added insult to his injury. Sunshine stabbed his eyes like shards of glass, penetrating and lodging deep in his brain. He closed his eyes, but that made the nausea worse.

  For the first mile, he figured he would puke or die. Probably both. Sweat ran in rivulets off his body.

  He spent mile two trying to remember why he’d tied one on. After handily winning the first game in the Western Conference finals on the weekend, they’d lost the second last night. A home game, with all those fans rooting for them and being disappointed.

  Woody hadn’t played his best. The shield drove him crazy, and it reminded him of the fucking contract, and the fact that his near-naked body would soon be on billboards. Not to mention the fact that he’d nailed Georgia Malone with the finesse of a rookie at training camp. His performance in that boardroom had been …

  As bad as his performance on the ice last night.

  But none of it was an excuse for getting hammered, especially during the finals. He thought back. A bunch of the guys had gone for a beer after the game. He’d ordered a Granville Island amber ale. Usually, he drank out of the bottle, but before he’d noticed, the waitress had poured the beer into a glass. The amber bubbles had reminded him of Georgia’s eyes. And somehow one beer had turned into—

  No, he didn’t want to remember. He was into his third mile and his stomach was almost steady.

  Woody’s head came up and he started to appreciate the blue sky and puffy white clouds. In the fourth mile, as he turned for home, the bark of a frolicking terrier, the shriek of wheeling gulls, and the glint of sunlight off the ocean barely made him wince.

  Mile six. His legs pumped fast and strong, his shoulders had loosened up, and his head was clear. He’d call his mom in Switzer
land and see how she was doing, then have breakfast in the players’ lounge and get in a good practice.

  After practice, Woody drove to Dynamic Marketing.

  At the reception desk, the same pretty Asian girl who’d been there yesterday gave him a stunning smile. “Good morning, Mr. Hanrahan!”

  “Hey, sunshine. Call me Woody.”

  She smiled even brighter. “I’m Sandra, and a huge fan.” She pumped her delicate hand in the air. “Bash ’em, Beavers!”

  He returned the trademark salute.

  “Go on in, Woody. It’s conference room B, beside the one you were in yesterday.”

  As he headed down the hall, his stride faltered. He’d shoved Georgia out of his mind, but now she was back. Yesterday, she’d gone from snippy to businesslike to passionate—man, had she been passionate—to pissed off. And no wonder, after he’d plowed into her like a rookie.

  Not knowing what to expect, he stepped into the conference room.

  No Georgia. Just, sitting across from each other, a knock-your-socks-off blonde wearing a jacket in shades of pink and green that made him think of plastic flamingos on a new spring lawn, and a young man in a trendy shirt and tie who might or might not be the actor from Slumdog Millionaire.

  “Sorry,” Woody said. “Got the wrong room.”

  The young guy leaped up and hurried forward. “No, you’re in the right place.” He stuck his hand out. “Man, is it great to meet you, Mr. Hanrahan.”

  “Woody.” He shook.

  “Bad luck about the game last night.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “You’ll bash ’em in Anaheim on Friday.”

  They’d sure as hell better.

  A female cough made him turn toward the woman. “Terry,” she said, “introductions?”

  “Sorry. Woody, I’m Terry Banerjee, and this is Viv Andrews. It’s going to be so great to work with you.”

  Woody turned to the woman, who didn’t rise but held out her hand. “Nice to meet you,” he said.