Light in Mourning (Mourning, #2) (6 page)

Her eyes were wide with shock. Her breath came out in quick pants.
 

She was so fucking turned on it was evident by that hooded look in her eyes, her chest rising and falling, the way she shifted her legs. Fuck yes, I had her. I could work with this. If she wanted it slow, we could take it slow, but that didn’t mean I was not going to torture her every step of the way. I threw her a lopsided grin and then lifted the beer bottle to my lips, swallowing the cold liquid and watching her fuss with her hair and averting her eyes from mine. Georgia was mine, whether she knew it or not. This was our new beginning.

A few weeks into taking it slow and things were perfect, or as perfect as they could be without having her in my bed every night. But nearly just as good was seeing her beautiful smile over dinner each night and having coffee together every morning, just like we had every day last summer.

 
That night after we, or she, had decided to take it slow, she'd insisted on getting a tour of my cottage. So much had happened to us there. One night at the end of the dock in the sand, and it had changed my world forever. Yet she’d never been inside the place. So I held her hand as we wandered down the beach, Charlie trotting happily in front of us.
 

We walked up the boardwalk and avoided the uncomfortable silence that stretched between us when we passed the end where we’d shared our first moment this past summer. I laid my hand on her back when she stepped over the threshold, being the perfect gentleman I thought I was, and then she busted down into a fit of giggles. She'd finally admitted there was no way she was taking another step into this house until it had a fresh coat of paint and some fixing up.
 

Two weeks later, she was putting me to work. Saturday morning, bright and early, I was near salivating as she was tramping through my door: hair in a messy knot on the top of her head, yoga pants hugging the curve of her ass perfectly, and paint rollers in hand. She’d sent me to pick up cans of paint the night before and, because I had zero concern for style, I’d let her pick out the paint color.
 

She'd insisted it be a surprise.
 

And was it ever when I lifted the lid. “This is pink.” I narrowed my eyes.
 

“It’s not pink. It’s salmon.” She grinned as she set up the paint trays.
 

“Not putting pink on my walls.”

“Salmon, and you are. I seem to recall you relinquishing control of this decision.” She arched an eyebrow at me.
 

“There was an unspoken understanding there would be no pink.”

“Salmon.” She stood, hands on her hips, and faced me.
 

“Fucking pink. And it’s not going on my walls.”
 

She shot me a nasty look before stepping closer. We stood head to head and determination flared in her eyes. It was so fucking hot, I had to adjust myself. Fuck discretion. Her eyes flickered down at the movement before her gaze met mine again, a smirk playing on her lips.
 

She leaned in close to me, one hand threading in my hair, her lips dusting along my jaw, her breath whispering in my ear. “It’s salmon, and if you know what’s good for you, you’re going to help me
lay
it on your walls.” She gave a tug before turning and bending over to pour paint in the tray.
 

I heaved an exasperated sigh as my eyes took in her long legs, her ass facing me, bent at the waist.
 

“Vixen.”

She giggled and shot me a grin around her back. She knew exactly what she was doing.
 

“You wanna play that game, baby?” I stepped up behind her and brushed my hips lightly against her ass. I trailed a hand down the expanse of her back, feeling each and every dip and curve in her spine. Finally, my hand trailed across the curve of her bottom and I grabbed both of her hips in my hands and pulled her harder into me. I rotated my hips suggestively, my cock running the length of her cheeks. It felt so fucking good to relieve the pent up pressure. She moaned and rocked softly back into me.
 

My eyes fluttered closed and I relished her body pressed tightly to mine before running my hand up and underneath her shirt to connect with her skin. I pressed my fingertips into her spine and worked my way up her back before moving down again to land at the hollow.
 

So fucking soft. Sweet. Intoxicating. She had me in every way there was to be had.
 

“Tristan,” she moaned my name and my brain fogged up with lust. I gritted my teeth together as my dick begged me to ram into her at full force, while my head reminded me that she’d wanted to take it slow.
 

But my dick argued that we had been taking it slow.
Very
fucking slow.
 

But Georgia needed to be in control of the dance we had been doing the last few weeks.
 

She’d never been in control of her life until now, so I wasn’t about to take that away from her. My fingertips dug into the soft flesh at her hips before I dragged my body away from hers.
 

I stepped back and ran my palm over my face and through my hair, giving it a frustrated tug.
 

“Fuck,” she whispered as she bent at the knees and supported herself on a hand on the floor.
 

“Yeah,” I murmured. “I need a shower.”

“Me too.” She stood and sucked in a quick breath to catch her bearings.
 

“Georgia,” I groaned. “You can’t say shit like that.” I gritted my teeth together and clenched my fist in my hair.
 

“Sorry.” She frowned, but a flirty glint lit her eyes.
 

Such a vixen.
 

“You need a minute? Or can we get on with it?” She tilted her head with a flirty grin. I wanted desperately to tell her I was so ready to get on with it: in my bed, on the floor, against the wall, in the shower. Definitely in the shower—rivulets of water streaming down her body, the curve of her breasts, the dip of her hips.
 

I huffed in exasperation. “So, pink . . . salmon . . . it is.” I lifted a roller in defeat.
 

“I thought you’d see it my way.” She grinned and turned back to the paint tray.
 

“You seduced me,” I mumbled before dragging the roller through the fresh paint and putting the first lick of pink on the wall.
 

I glanced around the room and took in the bright paint color she’d insisted on putting on my walls. Last time I relinquished power to this vixen
ever
. It looked good, brighter than I would have picked, and striking against the white trim of the house.
 

Georgia and I curled up on my couch, watching an old movie. Well, she was watching; I was busy snuggling into her hair and inhaling her vanilla scent, which drove me to distraction. I was also trying like hell to keep from distracting her with my hard-on. It was torture, being pressed to the curve of her body, but it was the sweetest torture imaginable. I wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else. I slid my hand down her torso, my fingertips stroking dangerously close to the swell of her breast.
 

“Hey,” she murmured and pushed my hand away.
 

“Can’t blame me.” I nuzzled deeper into her ear and snagged her earlobe with my teeth.
 

“We’re taking it slow,” she reminded me.
 

“Tortuously slow,” I groaned into her ear.
 

“Calm your raging sexual appetite.” She squirmed in my arms and made the torture that much more unbearable.
 

“Impossible when you’re in the room.”

“Try harder,” she whimpered when I skimmed my hand up her stomach and brushed the underside of her breast with my thumb. My brain fogged over as a moan escaped her throat. She rolled over into me and I adjusted myself, relaxing on my elbow, hovering above her delicious form. My other hand slid up to cup the soft flesh of her neck, my thumb whispering along her jaw. Her eyes fluttered closed as her breathing picked up, her chest heaving.
 

This was it. Could I have her? Right now? Could I drive her to the point of no return?

Maybe.
 

Did she want it? Right now? Was she ready?

“Georgia,” I murmured in her ear.
 

“Hmm?” she answered softly as she pressed her soft body into mine.
 

“Spend Thanksgiving in Jacksonville with me.” I flicked her earlobe with my tongue. She froze in place, her breathing halted, before her eyes opened. Her eyebrows scrunched together.
 

“You want me to come home with you?”
 

“Yeah.”

I watched the thoughts fly through her brain. I knew she was dissecting my words, trying to figure out what they meant. What it meant if she said yes.
 

“Okay,” she finally relented, a small smile lifting her lips.
 

“Okay,” I repeated before brushing my thumb along her full, lower lip. I bent down and touched it with my own lips in a soft kiss. I kissed from corner to corner, rubbing her jaw line gently with my thumb before I pressed a little harder, needier, asking for more. She wrapped her arms around my neck and pressed her body into mine, her tongue licked my bottom lip, asking for entry. I opened and our tongues worked together languidly. I reached a hand up and under her sweater and caressed the soft skin at her hip and around her waist. I teased and nipped at her lips, relishing the satin of her skin under my fingertips. She threaded both hands in my hair and urgently pulled my head closer.
 

She was saying yes. She wanted more. She moaned and writhed underneath me, like I’d been dreaming the past few months. We’d taken things slowly. We’d been hanging out for a few weeks and this was the furthest we’d gotten. I was painfully hard as I thrust my hips into her, dry humping her on the couch like a teenager.

I groaned and sucked her lower lip between my own as I pulled away. She was going to have to work harder than this.
 

“Taking it slow, remember?” I pulled away and flashed her that lopsided grin that left her eyes hooded with lust. She narrowed her browns at me and a scowl crossed her face.
 

“Right.” She pushed herself up from couch and landed a palm on my chest, pushing me back from her. I grinned wider because she was so cute when she was angry and sexually frustrated.
 

“Your terms.” I shrugged one shoulder and settled back in the couch.
 

“Yep,” she murmured as she straightened herself out.