by Tessa Bailey
“Those were Seventeen magazines I stole from Bethany and hid inside books. I took the personality quizzes over and over until I got the answer I wanted.”
Caught by surprise, he laughed. “You wouldn’t come down out of the tree until Vivian threatened to give your dinner to the dog.”
A line formed between Georgie’s brows, her gaze moving to the mantel he’d been sanding. “Travis Ford.” She pressed a hand between her breasts. “What did you do?”
“Convincing Vivian to let me saw down the branch took some effort, but I pointed out she has about fifteen trees in the backyard, so she caved.”
Georgie’s face landed smack between his sweaty pecs, her arms motionless at her sides. “Oh no. I hate crying.” Her exhale coasted down his belly. “Oh God, it’s coming. I can’t stop it.”
Relief settled over Travis and he pulled her close, because if she didn’t care about his manual labor smell, neither did he. “You love it?”
“I love it. I worship it. Thank you.”
The moisture of her tears slipped down his skin and time seemed to slow down. So slow, he could hear every tick of his pulse, could count every thread of hair on her crown. “You forgive me for missing the appointment?”
Her words were muffled. “I already forgave you.”
“Yeah, but you really mean it now. It’s not grudging.”
“You make it sound like I was sulking.”
He tried to stop himself from kissing her forehead. It was too intimate a gesture, and he was very aware of the lack of cameras present. It was just the two of them. But he didn’t stand a chance against his impulses when she looked so soft. His lips pressed to the spot below her hairline and lingered, his arms gathering her closer. “You were pouting a little.”
Georgie poked him in the ribs. “You’re just trying to make me stop crying.”
“Guilty.”
Travis tilted Georgie’s head back and brought their mouths together, licking away the salt from her lips. Stealing it off her tongue. Jesus, he couldn’t close his eyes, because her happily tearstained expression was too invigorating. He’d done that? They stood for long minutes in the dimming backyard, wood debris at their feet, Georgie letting him master her with the kind of kissing he’d never participated in before. He kissed her like he was . . . taking care of her. Soothing her. Letting her know he’d stand guard while she wept. And the responsibility made him feel like more of a man than he ever had in his life.
His cock stiffened like a son of a bitch, but when he would have jerked her hips close in the name of friction, Travis let himself ache. Let his flesh beg and fill out his jeans, while he focused on the girl in front of him. The girl offering her mouth in a way that made him feel . . . worthy.
He was almost too dizzy on the sensation to realize Georgie had pulled back. “Travis?” Her thumbs traced his jawline. “What were you thinking about when I came home?”
Telling Georgie about the monsters that lurked in the deepest corners of his mind didn’t scare him. Not anymore. But he didn’t want her sympathy tonight. Tonight was about her. So he kissed her soft mouth again, taking the contact deeper until she gasped into his mouth. “I’m going to take a shower, all right?” He ran his fingers along the curve of her shoulder, pressing a thumb to the side of her neck and massaging. “I’m going to feed you before I introduce you to God.”
Chapter Twenty
What was the deal with panties?
A girl buys a grip of freaking underwear, and within a week, half the silky little mofos have been abducted by aliens or sucked up into some washing machine purgatory.
Where did they all go?
Georgie rifled through her sock drawer, hoping a pair of her overly expensive panties had gone rogue, but no dice. They were all in the bottom of her laundry basket, where they definitely weren’t going to help her get laid.
You don’t need help getting laid. It’s a done deal.
“Right.”
Still, though. Instead of wearing them all immediately, she could have saved them for special occasions. There had been no need to clean her house in an organza thong, although she had felt pretty fancy while scrubbing the toilet. Georgie took a deep breath through her nose and headed for the closet, trying not to peer through the crack in her en suite bathroom door. Travis was naked on the other side, rubbing her soap up and down his disgustingly hot body, getting ready to sex her up. No big deal, right?
She opened the closet door and scanned the contents. A dress would be trying too hard for a night on the couch. Jeans would be too hard to get off—and since she didn’t have any panties to wear, they’d rub her the wrong way. Literally. In her Netflix and chill fantasies, she’d been cool and casual in an oversized, off-the-shoulder sweater and leggings. Easy and effortless. She didn’t own anything like that. Dammit, Boutique Tracy.
The shower spray cut off.
Georgie snapped an oversized T-shirt off a hanger in a panic—maneuvering her boobs to maximum boobiness within the confines of her lace bra—and dropped the shirt over her head. Perfect, right? Her shoulder peeked out. Just like in her fever dreams . . .
Hurricanes. It was the Hurricanes jersey with Travis’s name and number on the back. Oh no. No, wearing his clothing would be way too on the nose. If he saw the loving care she’d put into ironing and hanging the jersey up in her closet, he’d probably deduce she’d spent her teens and early twenties infatuated with him, which absolutely could not happen. She could see his face now—just sheer horror, his eyes scoping for the nearest exit. She’d never be able to look him in the face again, let alone be his casual, just-for-now hookup.
Who was she kidding? This relationship was the furthest thing from casual. For her. Travis returning her new, decidedly adult feelings was one giant, unrealistic hope that needed to be squashed early. He couldn’t be making it any more difficult to heed that warning. Fashioning her fireplace out of her favorite childhood tree. Kissing her with so much . . . passion. Yeah, passion. It was a real thing, turned out. Her intention had been to show Travis he was worth a commitment. That he was worthy, period. How far was she willing to go, when every second together deepened the love she’d always felt?
Georgie almost had the shirt off when the floor creaked just beyond the bathroom door. She yanked the blue cotton back down, her heart flying to her throat. Caught. She was totally caught. This would go down as the moment Travis ran for the hills.
The door opened.
Georgie spun around. “So. Funny story . . .”
Steam billowed out around Travis and his wet head. Wet, curling chest hair. Just wet. In all the places. The towel around his waist was so low, she could almost see where the happy trail led. The happy forest, that’s where. An amused smile transformed his face as he walked out of the steam. “Is that my jersey?”
Georgie shook herself. “I, um . . . only bought it because they didn’t have Nunez.”
He stopped in front of Georgie, lifting her chin with his index finger. Because she’d definitely been laser focused on the dick print tunneling to one side on the front of his towel. “Liar.” His fingers traced down to her shoulder, running along the seam of the shirt. “You wear it often?”
“No,” she said too quickly.
A line formed between Travis’s brows. Something she couldn’t name passed behind his eyes, like an awareness. Or guilt? But that couldn’t be right. “I like seeing you in it.” He leaned down and engaged her mouth in a slow, erotic kiss that went straight to her toes, pinging every erogenous zone on the way down. “Just not tonight.”
His head dipped for another kiss, dark intent making his irises seem black. Their mouths met and his hands found the hem of her—his?—their shirt, yanking it up—
The doorbell rang.
Travis’s forehead fell to hers, his humorless laugh pelting her mouth with heat. “Jesus Christ. This is karma, isn’t it? She’s out to get me.”
She waded through the lust clouding her brain. “Who is that?”
>
He turned his head to check her bedside table clock. “That’s the dinner I ordered, in all my infinite wisdom.”
“Lo mein?”
Travis laughed and pulled her close, turning them ninety degrees and guiding her from the bedroom, kissing Georgie as he walked her backward, their steps matching. “If I don’t fuck you soon, Georgie, I’m going to need a straitjacket.”
Heat stained her cheeks. “I prefer you in a towel.”
“Yeah, I kind of noticed, you pervert.”
They reached the front door and Travis pinned her up against it, fully ignoring the deliveryman outlined in the glass. He kissed her hard, angling his hips against hers, making her gasp at what she felt there.
“Talk. We have to talk. This is a good thing.” His thumb found her bottom lip, tracing it, before sliding into her mouth. “Food first,” he rasped. “Man, I hate food right now.”
The doorbell rang again. “You can’t answer the door like that,” Georgie whispered.
One of Travis’s eyebrows went up. “I ordered chicken parm from Marciano’s.”
Her pulse stuttered. “How did you know my favorite?”
He shrugged. “Vivian might have mentioned it.”
No, he’d asked. She could tell by the way he tried to play it off. Oh, she was in deep trouble if this was Travis’s version of casual. “Why haven’t you opened the door yet?”
Travis kissed her forehead with smiling lips and reached past her to open the door, using it to block the man’s view of her. Georgie couldn’t resist turning to watch through the glass, though, as the deliveryman gaped at the former major league baseball player in a girl-sized towel.
“Uh. Delivery for Ford.” He shifted, clearing his throat. “Travis Ford, right? I thought you lived in that three-family on Caroline Avenue.”
“I do.” Travis took the bag and handed it to Georgie with a wink. “This is my . . . girlfriend’s house.”
Knowing he’d called her the title for show didn’t stop Georgie from almost levitating.
“Right. Girlfriend.” The guy laughed as if they were in on a joke, but he sobered when Travis stared at him in stony silence. “Listen, I’ve been kind of hoping you would call for a delivery at some point. I play for the high school, and we would freaking die if you came to run a fall clinic or something. Maybe just pass on some of your tricks, you know?”
“Not this time around.” Travis’s smile was tight, and Georgie could tell he didn’t enjoy letting the kid down. “Maybe when my work schedule loosens up.”
Even though Georgie couldn’t see the delivery boy’s face clearly, his disappointment was palpable. “Yeah. Hey—do you think I could get a picture?”
“I’m in a towel, kid.”
“Yeah, no one is going to believe this.”
Georgie was laughing into her wrist when Travis gave her a thoughtful look. “Sure, take your picture.” The kid turned around and held up his phone for a selfie. Travis held up his right biceps and flexed. “Make sure you get the address in the picture.”
“Sure, Mr. Ford.”
A moment later, Travis closed the door. Obviously deciding to ignore the suspicious look on Georgie’s face, he stooped down and threw her over his shoulder. “What?”
“What?” Georgie fumbled to keep the sacred chicken parm upright. “I thought we were supposed to be courting the family-friendly crowd. There’s nothing family friendly about your . . .”
“My what?”
Georgie felt her face heat. “The towel hides nothing.”
Her world righted itself as Travis set her down on the cool counter, stepping between her legs with a wicked smile. “Are we talking about my dick?”
“The one and only.” God, he was so close with that flirting smile and he smelled like her soap. Was this man really in her kitchen, planning to feed her and deflower her? All on the same night? “I—I mean, you can’t exactly hide it.”
“Nah.” He tucked his tongue into his cheek. “It doesn’t hide well.”
Oh, mama. “Right. But, I guess, as long as the network thinks I’m the only one seeing it, you’re fine.”
A shadow crossed his eyes. “That’s right.”
Georgie wished she hadn’t just reminded him their relationship was based on reaching a goal. Wanting to bring them back to the comfortable place they’d been, she lifted her hands to settle them on his chest, but got cold feet and left them suspended.
“What’s that?” Travis frowned at her hands. “You seem hesitant to touch me. Like you’re not sure I want it.”
I’ve been dreaming about touching you for so long, having the opportunity seems surreal. “No, I—”
“That hug you gave me yesterday in your parents’ living room?” His palms skimmed up her thighs, setting off a low tug in her belly. “I’ve been jerking off thinking about it. Jerking off to a hug, Georgie. Your hands need to report for duty.”
She slowly settled her palms on his pecs, her fingertips sifting through now-dry hair. “Yes, Travis.”
A ripple moved down his muscled chest and stomach. “Keep them there.” Giving her a dark look, he reached to the side and opened the takeout bag, removing the contents with jerky movements. She heard the clacking of plastic forks and knives, but couldn’t look away from Travis’s flexing triceps long enough to deduce what he was doing. Until he held a bite of saucy, cheesy chicken to her mouth. “Eat. I’m at the end of my rope.”
Georgie accepted the bite, humming as she swallowed. “I have to tell you something.”
“Yeah?”
“I signed a lease on an office today.” His movements stilled, pride lighting up his eyes. It was breathtaking. She wanted to cuddle that reaction to her breasts and never let it go. It made her want to have the same pride in him. To give it back.
“Damn. Congratulations, baby girl.”
She wrestled with a smile. “The realtor was really put together and had that whole air-of-indifference thing happening, you know? When I was trying to get the courage to tell her I wanted the space, I thought of you standing up for me at dinner.”
He searched her face. “You did?”
“Yeah. It gave me a push.” She surrendered to the impulse to throw her arms around Travis’s neck, wincing when a bite of chicken got squashed between them. But when she tried to pull back, Travis dropped the plastic fork and wrapped his arms around her. “So I’m returning the favor now,” she whispered. “Just a quick reminder that you’re more than just baseball. It can still be something you love. Something you play and enjoy. And then you can return to you. You’re enough without it.”
His breath gusted into her neck. “Am I?”
“You bought my favorite dinner and turned my climbing tree into a fireplace.” She stroked her fingers over the hair curling at his neck. “You’re batting a thousand in the gestures department, Ford.”
Travis lifted his head, his serious expression slowly turning to amusement. “Was that an intentional baseball reference?”
“I was trying to stay on theme.”
Georgie squealed when Travis dragged her off the counter, urging her thighs around his hips. Her neck lost power and his tongue immediately took advantage, finding and exploiting her sensitive skin. Carrying her into the living room, Travis’s lips curved in her hair. “We’re just about done being fucking cute for tonight, Georgie, so I hope you got it out of your system.”
“Are we?”
“Yes.” His eyes turned serious as he lowered her onto the couch, his mouth hovering a mere inch above hers. “We are.”
She couldn’t squeeze her legs together with Travis’s hips in the way, but God she needed to. Needed to put pressure on the ache he’d tempted to life. The charming man with vulnerabilities to spare was fading out, leaving a famished, sexual being in his place, licking his lips and looking at her top to bottom. “What are we going to be instead?”
“Bad.” He produced the condom he’d tucked into the waistband of his towel, then snapped it off, drop
ping the white terry cloth beside the couch. “Really bad, baby girl.”
Chapter Twenty-One
As Travis flattened Georgie underneath him on the couch, the weight of hundreds of one-night stands pressed down on his back, catching him off guard. They dropped in to haunt him because nothing—no one—had ever felt like her. And with the taste of her mouth turning him into a hungering animal, he wondered what inferior high he’d been chasing when this one was out there.
Jesus, his fucking hands were shaking. Yeah, obviously he was horny as all get-out, considering he’d been lusting after Georgie since . . . when? Had it really only been a matter of weeks? The timing seemed impossible when his body corresponded to her shape like a fist pressing into clay. Just, Ahh. I’m here. I made it. I don’t want to come up for air.
Or it might feel that comfortable if his cock wasn’t swearing like a sailor at him, demanding to know why he kept almost fucking Georgie, then stopping. This isn’t like us, man! it seemed to shout inside Travis’s mind, growing fuller and aching harder by the second. Especially when he settled that suffering bulk on her pussy and let his hips sink down, catching her shaky gasp with his mouth as a reward.
His dick was right. He wasn’t used to waiting. But thank God he had. If he’d gobbled her up in one bite, he’d have missed this chance to savor—something he’d never given a shit about before. Now? His senses seemed to wake up and beg. For the clean smell of her skin, the tentative brushes of her tongue, her fingertips skating up his sides. Their breaths were loud in the quiet room, along with the sounds of their bodies shifting on soft leather, the couch springs sighing.
“Netflix,” he rasped, breaking the kiss, then immediately diving at her neck for a taste. “We were supposed to, uh . . . Cold Mountain?”
“No.” She writhed beneath him, the insides of her knees smoothing along his hips. “Just, um . . . definitely forget the movie.”
He rocked against her pussy, making them both groan. “I want to do this right, Georgie. Exactly how you wanted it to be.”
