Page 24

JENNA

A little after eight, I hear the front door open and Geordie’s footsteps on the stairs. I exhale in relief. There’s no time left for the ridiculous parade of questions that have marched through my brain for the past two hours. I’ve spent too long debating where and how he should find me. Like a teenager on a first date—not a woman who’s already had sex with him two times. Or was it three? No matter, it’s crazy for me to make such a big deal of this.

In the end, I’m in my bedroom, sitting on the small sofa by the window, my book in hand, dressed in a pair of shorts and a singlet top. There’s a tentative knock and Geordie comes in.

His damp hair triggers a memory of him just days ago, in my hotel bathroom—rivers of water cascading over us, and me gazing up to see his head thrown back, his hair soaked, darkened wet curls framing his face, eyes clamped shut in pleasure, while I took his length in my throat. I swallow hard and drag my focus back on the present.

“Hey,” he says, his mouth tipping up in a small smile, dimples still visible beneath the scruff on his face .

He’s let it get a little untidy since the weekend and thoughts of how that might feel with his head between my thighs, his mouth rough and hungry, come rushing in. He slides onto the sofa beside me, taking up the space, so there’s nothing between us, his muscled body warm as he slips an arm around my bare shoulder and presses a kiss to my forehead. I close my eyes a moment, drinking in the smell of his body wash, fresh like a summer breeze off the sea.

Putting my book down, I lean back to survey his face properly, glide a hand across his cheek, and ruffle the beginnings of a beard.

“Quit shaving, huh? Trying to amp up the cowboy vibes?”

“Yeah,” he grins. “Do you like it? I’ll get rid of it if you don’t.”

“Yeah, I like it,” I say, tilting my head up to kiss him.

It suits him, makes him look older, and maybe I like that too. I’m honestly still a little awkward about the age gap. It’s stupid, I know, but thinking of Geordie as more my age, helps me push aside the not insignificant and mildly disturbing fact that he’s my friend’s younger brother. Sure, I’ve been out with a couple of younger guys before, but none where the difference in age is so clearly defined by years of memories like it is with Geordie. It’s why I deflected Rachel away from the topic of Edinburgh and her brother when she phoned this afternoon. I know I should tell her, but I’m uncertain of her reaction.

“You’re still OK with this, sweetheart?” he says, leaning in, his mouth working around my neck and along my bare shoulder, small licks, nips and kisses sending shudders through my already sensitive body.

“A-ha,” I say, lounging back against the arm of the sofa, giving him greater access as a hot tongue skims along my collarbone. Hands, and then mouth, rove across my stomach and breasts .

“Not good enough, Jenna,” he insists, his words a hot breath through the fabric of the singlet, searing my skin. “I need more than an ‘a-ha’. It’s a yes, or we’re not doing this.”

“Yes,” I squeak out as he plucks at a nipple. “Yes.”

“Then be a good girl. Lie back there for me, honey.”

I love all these little endearments, almost as if the western clothes have taken over his speech patterns too. In these intimate moments between us, Geordie might have been plucked straight out of Yellowstone, a gentleman cowboy. Or maybe not such a gentleman once the clothes come off.

One large hand is already busy undoing the zipper of my shorts, while the other flicks open the button. Within seconds, my shorts are around my ankles and my already drenched thong joins them, removed with a little more finesse than last time. He’s learning.

I’m no longer left to imagine what his beard might feel like between my legs as he sinks to his knees, and my breath hitches as his mouth settles deliciously on my centre. Between the attention of his hands and the relentless caress of his lips, Geordie sets to work with determination, within minutes taking me to the edge, then pulling me back again, until I’m begging him not to stop. Who’d have known my kind Geordie was capable of inflicting such exquisite torture?

“I’m going to come,” I gasp as I reach for it once more, and he draws away again.

“You get to come when I say you can come, pretty baby,” he says, scattering kisses along my shuddering thigh, while I lie panting in frustration. “But I’ll let you in on a secret. You only have to ask. Are you ready to ask? Something tells me you might be. ”

He drops his mouth to my clit, blue eyes looking up, locked on mine as he watches me climb the heights again until I close my eyes, riding wave after wave of rippling pleasure. This time I’m ready to ask. Beg even. Anything to make him take me that bit further and plunge right off the crest.

“Oh, God, oh God, please,” I gasp, my need overwhelming every thought, as if without release I can’t even breathe…and the bastard pauses once more.

“Last time I checked, my name wasn’t God.” I feel his smile against my centre, even that minute flicker of his lips, a taunting taste of the pleasure they hold.

“Geordie, please, please, let me come,” I plead, fearful I’ll slip away from where I’ve been teetering on the edge.

He drops his head to that little swollen bud that’s pulsing, every nerve end jangling with tiny shocks like electricity, and with his soft lips sucking and licking and swirling relentlessly, Geordie takes me where I need to go.

Lying back, I try to steady my breathing. With my body still a little fragile after days of migraine, I wasn’t ready for this rush of heat and sensation. I don’t want to be done with this, but I need a moment.

“I promise I’m not finished with you yet, sweetheart,” he says, grinning down at me, “But I think that was a pretty good start?”

“The best,” I say.

Geordie stands, undoes a couple of buttons and yanks his shirt off. In the lingering daylight, it’s like I’m seeing his body for the first time. Beneath the western clothes lies a piece of classical art. He might be a sculpture in an Italian gallery, chiselled to perfection by the hand of some long dead master, muscled without bulkiness, washed in gold by the rays of sun that filter through my curtains .

His hair glows bright as he bows his head to unbuckle the heavy belt of his jeans. They crash to the floor revealing the strong muscular thighs and I shiver a little, thinking of him trapping me between them, and an excited pulse runs through me, as he frees his large erection from the confines of his boxer briefs.

Now unclothed, Geordie returns his attention to me, carefully removing my shorts and knickers from around my feet, then kissing his way slowly up the bare skin of my legs to drape his body across mine. He deftly reaches around to unhook my bra, freeing my breasts. He worships each exposed nipple in turn, leaving me humming in pleasure. Heat pours back into my centre and my hand involuntarily edges its way between us, my fingers chasing the remembered sensation.

“Ah, ah. Not yet,” Geordie says, abruptly pulling his mouth away. “I want to be in you next time you come. Feel those strong muscles of yours around my cock.”

He stands and scoops me up. Just like on Saturday, within his arms there’s this sense of being precious, while at the same time, the ease with which he whisks me onto the bed emphasises how powerful he is, like a golden panther, and me his beautiful new plaything, totally at the mercy of his whims.

I’m perfectly happy to be that for him, following his direction as I ease a condom onto his thick length, spreading myself wide and taking him deep inside me. Soon I’m seeing stars again, as the rhythm of his body sets up exquisite friction, and this time with my name on his lips he screams his release into the overheated air. I join him with an earth-shattering second orgasm.

Afterwards, he grabs a flannel from my bathroom, cleans us both up, and slides back in under the sheet beside me. He curls his body, bracketing me protectively within his long limbs, his head nuzzling into my neck.

After the frantic pace of our coming together, we can indulge ourselves a little, take some time to just doze here together. I’ve set an alarm on my phone for nine-thirty. The sports programme finishes at ten, and Dad’s never home before ten-thirty. Grant has no difficulty twisting his arm for one more whisky, a nightcap before he leaves.

We adjust ourselves so I’m lying with my head on Geordie’s chest, blissfully relaxed while we talk about our day and I love the quiet thud of his heart beneath me. There’s something steadying in the rhythm.

I tell him about my efforts to get back to normal after those two lost days.

“First thing I did after you left this morning was call Skylar,” I say. “She came right over and walked me through everything she’s handled while I was...away.” The girl is a wonder; it’s as if God left her specially here for me in little old Cluanie. Maybe in his kindness, he brought Geordie back here for me too.

I deliberately leave out my conversation with Rachel—wanting to keep her separate from whatever is developing between Geordie and me, at least for now. But the omission sits like a stone in my stomach.

Geordie fills me in on his afternoon. He took care of a couple of non-urgent jobs from Sparky’s list, and organised to move in with Nathan tomorrow. He’s wasted no time in finding us a place we can be together without the looming possibility of my father catching us out, and there’s an edge of anticipation as we discuss possible times we could meet .

I feel the energy rise in his body as he moves on to talking about rugby practice. He loves the game and being with the guys. Selfishly, I hope the joy he finds in playing for Cluanie again will keep him here till the end of the season in November, while I’m here too. Having found Geordie, I’m not ready to lose him yet.

True to our agreement, I try not to make too much of this interlude, lying here together sharing about our day like we’re actually in a relationship, with our lives intertwined. That can’t happen, but there’s no reason I shouldn’t enjoy the simple intimacy of a conversation about ordinary things.

“Smith was so damn solid under the high ball tonight,” he says. “Totally unfazed. He’s going to run rings around the Ardnish blokes on Saturday.”

“The word’s out about him. Bet they’re shaking in their boots.”

“You’re coming to the match?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” I say, snuggling into his chest. “But I’ll let you into a secret—I’m not coming to see Brandon—I’ve got my eye on a certain blindside flanker.”

“Never had my own fangirl before,” he says, smiling into my hair. “Best you don’t bring one of those signboards with my name on it though. Might be a bit conspicuous, eh?”

“I’ll show how much of a fan I am after the match.” I trail my lips down the line of hairs that runs to his navel, nipping at him lightly as he folds across me, chuckling to himself.

I’m just calculating if we’ve got enough time to take this further when there’s the sound of a car in the driveway. We both jerk upright. The automatic garage door rumbles open and closes again. The car’s engine stills, and there’s a click of a door opening and a matching clunk as it closes. Familiar animated yapping echoes up from below, drowning out all other sound—Andy. And Dad.

Houston, we have a problem.