“Georgia, fuck Georgia—“ he let out a short shout before burying his face in her hair, trying to muffle his sounds of ecstasy as he came inside her.
When he lifted his head she looked up, both of them seeing similarly stunned expressions in the mirror. Georgia wasn’t sure if she could stand up again. Or how many more orgasms she could have in one night before dying from endorphins.
This much of a good thing didn’t happen to Georgia Bale. Especially not in time for her birthday. Not for Christmas.
She was the first to look away, bending down to reach for her towel.
“Georgia, I—”
The knock on the door was loud and obnoxious. “We know you’re in there.” Flynn shouted jokingly through the door. “No fair having fun without us. You should consider that some of us are younger and have more stamina.”
Chris’s voice was easily heard behind him. “And some of us our older and have more finely crafted skills.”
Jimmy snorted and spoke to the door. “Some of us are police officers and have more guns. We’ll be out in a minute.” He turned her around, looking for…something. “You okay?”
No. She was pretty sure she was something far more extreme than okay. Okay implied average. Fine. Mediocre. Sane. Normal. Not imagining she could be anything more to these men than a snowbound fling. Not dreaming something like this could last beyond a drunken night or the need for human contact.
No. She was definitely not okay.
“I’m fine.”
For a writer, she was also a fairly bad liar.
Chapter Seven
She woke up slowly, feeling as if every part of her body had been beautifully abused. A small smile curved her lips. So it hadn’t been a dream. Her headache was a small price to pay for such an unbelievable night. She hoped her three hosts felt the same. She wasn’t sure what she would do if they didn’t. If they had regrets.
She frowned.
“I liked it better when you were smiling.”
Georgia opened one eye sleepily. Chris. He was smiling. That was a good sign, right? “Good morning.”
He shrugged, setting the book he’d been reading on his lap. “Or afternoon.”
She sat up too quickly, wishing her head had come with her. She reached for it, aching temples and all. “Afternoon? I’m so sorry. Did Roux—?”
“She’s fine. In fact, I think it’s safe to say we all have bad cases of puppy love.” He lowered his lids, pursing his lips as if holding something back. “She’s one smart dog, isn’t she? Flynn wants to teach her how to ski.”
She suddenly saw an image of her poor dog flying down a hill strapped to snow skis; her black muzzle peeled back is an expression of terror, her eyes wide. “Over my dead body. What are you doing?”
He’d been sitting by the window in her bedroom, reading. Chris’s smile was endearing. “Would you believe I was worried about you? We were a little hard on you last night, and you’d just recovered from the ordeal that brought you here.” He shrugged. “You’re also kind of beautiful when you sleep.”
She saw the aspirin and water by her bed and smiled. “Thank you, Doc. This is just what I needed. Other than the teensiest of hangovers, I’m fine.”
“I’m glad. I was just thinking of making you a late breakfast. What would you like?”
She glanced at the worn out, dog-eared paperback and gestured toward it. “What are you reading? Is it another science fiction novel? Are you the one who reads those?”
He laughed. “Usually, but not this time. I’m rereading last year’s gift from Nicholas, to tell you the truth. It’s about a southern girl and her grandfather. Nick loved it. This was actually his copy, which is why it looks so abused. The girl in the story kind of reminds me of you.”
Thankful that she was wearing a t-shirt, she pushed back the covers and got off the bed, walking toward him with a sudden, wary heaviness in her heart.
Chris was still talking. “He said this was the first book ever written by the author, and in his opinion the best. That it was like someone poured their whole heart out into this one book, so that there wasn’t enough left for the others.
She had a heart. She knew because it felt like a fist was squeezing it to death. “What’s it called?”
“Grandpa Bale’s Southern Tales. It was written by a G.V. Bale, so maybe it was about a family member—“