Page 11 of Georgie (Sons of Hell MC #10)

Josie

A short time later, my world came back into focus, but I kind of wished it hadn’t.

I mean, sure, the blur of nausea was unpleasant, but it was nothing compared to the sight of George, all tall, dark, and terrifying, looming in the doorway.

I felt like a sack of potatoes, not just any potatoes, but those giant ones farmers grow, especially for competitions.

You know, the ones that could feed a small village for a week?

Yeah, that was me, a giant spud, and George, my very own Dr. Feelgood, had hefted me like I weighed nothing.

The click of the door locking echoed like the final bell at a boxing match. I was in the ring with a heavyweight champion, and I knew I was going down. My throat felt like it had a vise around it, and I managed a pathetic, squeaky, “Why... why are we here?”

Oh, the drama!

If only it were for a more pleasant reason, like a secret romantic getaway. But no, George, with his smoldering eyes and lips curled in a half-smile, had to go and ruin it with his words.

“Would you rather I spank your ass in front of the entire town?”

My hand flew to my poor, aching backside, still smarting from his enthusiastic vigor during last night’s misadventures. I took a stumbling step back, my eyes wide as saucers.

“Spank?” I squeaked.

George, all tall, dark, and brooding, took a step forward, his coat falling to the floor with a dramatic flourish. “You left me alone in bed this morning, babe,” he rumbled, and I swore the floor vibrated with his voice.

I mean, the man could give Thor a run for his money with that thunderous tone.

The air was so thick, I felt like I was swimming in it, and not in a good way.

Like, imagine trying to do a breaststroke through molasses while being chased by a grizzly bear—that’s how I pictured my graceful escape if this situation went south.

Fear had my skin feeling like a porcupine’s back, and my voice had taken up permanent residency in squeak territory.

I managed a feeble, “I... I had to get the kids to school.”

George, Mr. Tall, Dark, and Brooding, took another step toward me, and I swore again that the floorboards groaned in protest under his intense gaze. His tie, a sleek silk number, slithered to the floor, joining the discarded coat.

“Liar.” He growled again, and I felt it in my bones this time. My composure was in tatters, and I knew I should run, but my feet had other plans, choosing that moment to turn to lead weights. “You ran from me,” he accused, each word a hammer blow.

As he advanced, the air became heavy with the scent of his cologne, a heady mix that made my head spin. It was like being trapped in a cloud of musk and mystery. The dust motes danced in the sunlight, taunting me with their freedom, as I stood there, rooted to the spot.

With each step, the soft scrape of his shoes on the floor was like a countdown to my impending doom... or something far more intriguing. His shirt fell away, revealing a chest that belonged on a Greek statue, all sharp angles and corded muscles adorned with intricate ink.

My breath hitched, and I felt like a deer caught in the headlights—or rather, a spud about to be mashed.

“George, please,” I whispered, my voice cracking with a mixture of want and desire.

I felt like a mouse in the clutches of a very sexy, very determined cat.

“I’m sorry.” My words tumbled out in a rush, like a river breaking free of its icy winter shackles.

His eyes, stormy sea or not, softened a fraction, and I felt a momentary reprieve from the intensity of his gaze.

But it was short-lived, as his jaw clenched and his brows drew together in a dark, brooding line, before he smirked, licking his lips.

“Oh, you’re going to be sorry. I didn’t get my breakfast in bed this morning. ”

I bit my lip, confounded at his choice of words.

Here we were, on the cusp of severing our friendship forever, and he was concerned about breakfast in bed?

“If you’re hungry, I’ll go get you something to eat.”

George took a step closer, his cologne enveloping me in a potent cloud, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “I can think of a few things I’d like to eat right now, and none of them are on Beth’s menu.”

I gasped and for the life of me I didn’t know what caused me to do it, but I ran as if my life depended on it.

Too bad for me I was never good at track and field because I barely made it two steps before I was once again hoisted into the air and set on the receptionist’s desk as the man wasted no time, lifting my skirt.

With determined vigor, George ripped my panties from my body, spread my legs and lowered his head between my thighs, as he firmly cupped my bare ass in his grasp.

“GEORGE!”

My protests were futile. I might as well have been shouting into a hurricane.

The blood rushing to my cheeks made my face feel like a beacon, a bright, embarrassed warning signal.

George’s breath was warm on my most sensitive spots, and his hands.

.. well, they had a mind of their own. I felt their firm grip through the haze of pleasure, and my knees threatened to buckle.

I wanted to stop him, to put an end to this wild roller-coaster ride.

But honestly, who was I kidding? My good intentions didn’t stand a chance against the tidal wave of desire he stirred within me.

I was a leaf in the wind, blown this way and that, and George was the storm, sweeping me off my feet and carrying me away.

With each swipe of his tongue, he branded me as his, and I was helpless to do anything but cling to the desk for dear life.

My knuckles turned white as I grasped the edge, my fingers curling around it like a lifeline.

As I sat there, wobbling precariously, I felt like a character in one of those over-the-top romance novels.

You know, the ones where the hero is absurdly handsome, and the heroine is perpetually swooning?

That was me, swooning like a teenager with a crush, except I was pretty sure teenagers didn’t get swoony over tongue-tied tongue action.

At least, I hoped not. Because if they did, I was in big trouble.

My kids were going to start giving me the side-eye, and I’d never hear the end of it from my dad.

But at that moment, I couldn’t bring myself to care.

I was putty in George’s hands, and he was shaping me into something deliciously naughty as I moaned.

A strangled moan indeed, and there I was, a spud no more, but a woman on fire.

George, with his smoldering eyes and that devilish smirk, had me exactly where he wanted me.

Well, almost. Because despite my best efforts to be swept away, a tiny part of me was still aware of our risky location.

I mean, we were in his office, for goodness’ sake!

?The office of the town’s most revered—and feared—doctor. And I, the town’s—Oh, who cares because I was perched on the clinic’s reception desk, in broad daylight, with my skirt hiked up and my senses being thoroughly, deliciously assaulted by George’s tongue, teeth, and mouth.

George’s hands were a force of nature, and his tongue.

.. well, let’s just say it had a mind of its own.

I felt like a fiddle being played by a master violinist. Each stroke and swipe sent shivers down my spine and set my soul alight.

My fingers clung to the desk like a lifeline, my knuckles white as I tried to maintain my precarious balance.

I was aware of the dust motes dancing in the morning sunlight, mocking my stillness as I sat there, rooted to the spot, a willing captive in George’s expert hands.

As my pleasure intensified, my mind wandered to dangerous territories.

I thought of the risk we were taking, the possibility of being caught, and the scandal that would ensue.

But instead of fear, a wicked thrill coursed through me.

The thrill of the forbidden, of doing something so deliciously naughty in a place that screamed respectability.

I felt like a rebel, a rule-breaker, and it only added fuel to the fire that George had ignited.

My knees buckled, and I surrendered to the waves of pleasure, trusting that George, my very own Dr. Feelgood, would catch me if I fell.

I couldn’t focus on a single damn thing.

Sitting behind my desk regretting all my life’s choices, mainly I thought about smacking that smug smile right off George’s face.

Because of him, I was in this state.

Every nerve ending in my body was wired and ready to fire. I was in a perpetual state of arousal and not because the bastard was good with his tongue.

Oh, he was. I wasn’t disputing that because when he finished his breakfast, I was speaking in tongues myself!

No, I was sexually frustrated because before the smug bastard let me leave his office, he stuck a fucking silver bullet up my hoohaa that apparently contained a titanium lithium battery that could power the Space Shuttle’s next mission!

That bloody vibrator had me walking like a cowboy who’d spent a week in the saddle.

Every step sent a jolt of awareness straight to my core, and don’t even get me started on the constant buzz of anticipation.

It was like having a hive of hornets trapped between my legs, and the damn things wouldn’t stop buzzing!

I glared at the stack of paperwork on my desk, but the words might as well have been written in ancient Sanskrit for all the sense they made.

My mind kept wandering back to George, that infuriatingly handsome devil.

The memory of his skilled tongue—skilled being the operative word—had me squirming in my seat.

It wasn’t just the skill, mind you, it was the smugness that accompanied it.

That insufferable grin as he’d sent me off to work with that.

.. surprise. As if my body hadn’t already betrayed me enough, my traitorous mind wandered down a very dangerous path.

What other surprises did he have up his sleeve?

Seriously, the man was a walking, talking, incredibly attractive Pandora’s Box.

Screw it!

I couldn’t take it anymore.

My inner goddess of decorum was having a screaming match with my inner, well, let’s just say, my inner explorer.

And my inner explorer was winning. I knew what I was about to do was less “ladylike” and more “lady-on-fire-with-a-whole-lotta-pent- up-energy,” but at that moment, societal norms could eat my hat.

With a frustrated huff, I pushed my chair back, spread my legs—because why not go big or go home—and prepared for a little solo expedition.

My fingers had barely begun their, ahem , exploration, when my office door flew open like a horror movie cliché.

Of course, someone had to waltz in now.

LeeAnn McDonald, my future stepmother—a woman whose Southern charm could melt any man—strode in, followed by her daughter, Laurel Dubrovsky, who looked like a startled fawn, and Bailey Montclair, whose expression I couldn’t quite decipher.

“Josephine, it’s time to plan...” LeeAnn began, her voice as smooth as warm honey.

I froze, hand still intimately acquainted with, well, myself, realizing I’d been caught red-handed. Or should I say, red-fingered?

Their eyes widened.

Mine, I suspected, bulged like a startled goldfish. My face, I was sure, blazed with the incandescent heat of a thousand embarrassed suns.

I yanked my hand away with the speed of a caffeinated cheetah, trying to adjust my posture to something vaguely resembling composure.

Too late.

Bailey, bless her sharp eyes, had already witnessed the spectacle.

“Well, well, well,” she drawled, a mischievous smile spreading across her face. “Looks like someone’s been having a little fun at work.”

‘Fun’ was an understatement of epic proportions. I wanted to spontaneously combust. Or perhaps teleport to a deserted island populated only by fluffy kittens and unlimited supplies of chocolate.

Laurel tried to suppress a giggle—a giggle that sounded suspiciously like a strangled dolphin. LeeAnn, however, merely raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, the silence punctuated only by the subtle whirring of the office air conditioning.

“I... uh...” I stammered, my brain suddenly short-circuiting. “I was... uh... stretching?” I offered, hoping that sounded less ridiculous than it actually was. Clearly, my inner explorer needed a serious lesson in discretion.

“Stretching?” Bailey repeated, her smile widening. “A very... thorough stretch.”

“Josephine,” LeeAnn interrupted, her voice the perfect scandalized Southern Belle, but with a hint of something else—amusement, maybe?

Curiosity, possibly? Perhaps she had similar experiences in her younger years.

The thought oddly comforted me. “We need to finalize the arrangements for the wedding. And, Josephine, perhaps you could bring a more appropriate level of enthusiasm—unless this new method of stretching is also your secret weapon for planning?”

Laurel finally lost it, bursting into laughter.

I joined her, partly from relief, partly because the absurdity of the situation was overwhelming.

Even LeeAnn cracked a small smile.

“Well, at least it’s efficient,” Bailey quipped, and for the first time, I felt a glimmer of camaraderie amidst the chaos.

Perhaps my little self-exploration had unintentionally broken the ice, albeit in a rather unconventional way.

And maybe, just maybe, this ‘new stretching technique’ would become our little secret.

After all, who needs a stress ball when you have, well, yourself?