Incapable (Love Triumphs Book 3) (20 page)

There was sunshine and certainty in her voice. He laughed. “You’re sure?”

“I was hoping you were going to hit him.”

She couldn’t have said anything more surprising. “I was worried the aggression was a turn-off.”

She groaned, her face against his throat. “I had a moment of panic when we got here, room full of people, one main entrance, not my favourite thing. Sometimes I need to take a deep breath first. I should’ve told you.”

He should’ve figured that for himself.

“It only lasted a few seconds.”

He sighed, rubbed his palm up her neck where tendrils of hair not swept up on her head curled. “And then I act like an idiot, pushing and shoving.”

She lifted her head. “He deserved it and there were a half dozen people ready to step in and help you.”

“There was probably a better way.”

“I didn’t for a second doubt you had that under control, and yet he was this big heavy guy, taller than you, broader than you. A bully through and through, but the minute you stood up and faced him, he was finished. Did you know people were applauding?”

He’d missed that, too much noise in that room to be able to identify it.

She put a finger to his top lip and traced it. “I am so gone on you it’s ridiculous.”

“Oh God, please let me take you home.”

Her finger gone, she stepped back. “Not until I’ve watched you accept your awards, not until you’ve danced with me.”

“You drive a hard bargain. And the word to amplify in that sentence is hard.
Jesus
, Georgia.”

She laughed, champagne bubbles in a flute. She led him to the ballroom. It took a while to make it to their table, folk stopping him to say hello, wish him luck or comment on the altercation with Groone, who no one had seen since.

He did a short stint on stage announcing the winner of the Hall of Fame award. Then he was back there twice to pick up his Dulcets for lead character in an animated feature film, and best character voice in a television cartoon series.

He’d lost count of the number of Dulcets he’d won over the years, but not the number of times he’d heard Georgia sigh with pleasure against his cheek. That was the real win.

The Dulcet was a titanium dust collector shaped like a vintage microphone. Georgia was temptation in the shape of warm, willing flesh. One he had to find somewhere to store, the other he knew exactly where to put for safekeeping—tucked into a nook of his heart.

She led him to the dance floor, as she’d led him to the stage, competently, confidently. This is the way he wanted Angus and Taylor to see her. Once on the wooden surface, he wrapped her close. They weren’t going to be moving too far, too quickly or with too much vigour. He suffered the occasional congratulatory backslap and a few sloppy kisses, but the more he focused in on Georgia, the closer he held her, the tighter the circle they danced in, the more others were too intimidated to approach, and finally he had her alone and still in his arms in a sea of movement he could only sense, and was no competition for the symphony in his head.

Something in this woman spoke to a part of him with a longing carved from the sanctity of home and the freedom and risk of a deep space exploration. Georgia was safety and adventure made from a body that was beautiful to him, a psyche he knew was damaged and a spirit that fought to recover from her past. He’d not thought to find such laughter and light in her after the despair of her story and now he wasn’t prepared to let it escape him. He wouldn’t endanger this; he wouldn’t move too fast, he wouldn’t push her away by becoming too intent on her.

He spun her around and she laughed, clutching his shoulders. He might well have backed her into someone. He should’ve asked her to lead, but even in her heels she’d never see around him easily, and he was well enough known that anyone who wasn’t watching out for him had it coming.

He kept her there for three songs. Long enough to be sweating in his jacket, not so long she’d grow weary of his lack of grace, his stodgy plodding.

They took up the minimal amount of space for two people who craved each other in the back seat of a limo without it being technically indecent. By the time they were at her place, he was jacket and tie-less, largely untucked and heavily mussed. He was itchy with need, and she was spun out of soft sighs and urgent kisses. He’d tried to keep his hands from ravaging her, because stopping was going to be heart attack hardcore.

She led him straight from the kerb to her front door without a pause, but he checked himself with a tight jaw and clenched fists when he heard the clang of her door keys.

“Last chance to,” he had to clear his throat, “send me home.”
God
, he was breathing like Darth Vader for real, filthy with need all the way to his voice.

“Last chance to run, Damon. You already know I’m likely to be crazy.”

He dropped the Dulcets and his jacket on the floor, an unholy thud, and stepped forward, pinning her to the closed door, crowding forward so their bodies met; heat and tension, rigid and soft. This was crazy, this half-cut madness he felt for her. He might’ve been seventeen again; experienced enough to handle himself, but not so familiar with this dance that he had much control. All he had was a tattered collection of will and intention flayed threadbare by lust.

“I like that dress, but I’d like it a lot better on the floor.”

She groaned and dropped her keys. Unless he backed off she wouldn’t be able to bend down to get them. He didn’t back off; she squirmed until she realised from his increasingly desperate breathing that he liked it.

She leaned back, her weight flowing against him, her arms coming up over her head to wind around his neck. “You’re not real, are you?”

He was near supernatural with the need to get inside her flat, inside her body, have nothing between them except their skin, their heartbeats, and the otherworldly slick wet heat of their joining.

Now he could let his hands wander, down her bare arms, over her chest, up the column of her neck to her face. There were pins in her hair to pull out. He scattered them all over the landing till his hands were full of her hair and she was panting.

His fingers were at the side seam of her dress searching for the zipper when he remembered they were in her shared stairwell. He let go abruptly and she staggered, her heels ticking on the tiles. She swiped her keys up and the lock turned, a click, light. Then her hand at his belt. She dragged him forward, through the doorway, onto a wooden floor, closing the door behind him, then opening it again and leaving him. Tap, tap, tap, tap across the floor, and back again. His forgotten gear, rescued and dumped somewhere inside now. There was a wall behind him, a doorway to his left. Tiles on the wall; a bathroom. He pulled the tie out from around his neck, stuffed it in his pants pocket, moved across the doorway and the wall ran out.

“Georgia.”

Her hand to his and she was in his arms again.

“Bathroom is behind you. Left is the kitchen, right in front is the lounge.”

He was only interested in one room. Perhaps it was a studio, a bedsit. “No bedroom?”

“Yes.” The catch in her voice; a hiccup of nerves.

“Show me.”

She drew him forward, another click, a soft glow, a rug over the floorboards and his hands on her breasts. He toed off his shoes. Found the tag end of the zipper. “Show me you.”

He worked the zip down, his hand shaking, needing the other one to pull the fabric taut. Then his hand was through to her waist, but he got more fabric, not skin, did the thing have lining? He moved his hand and she was gone. “Did I tear it?”

“No.” Said sharply. A veil over the mood.

“What’s wrong, baby. Am I going too fast?”

“No.” Less edge. “Yes.” A jumper on a window ledge; considering the options.

“Georgia, talk to me.” Now he was on the ledge too.

A trickle of muffled, misplaced laughter. Her face in her hands. He found the side of the bed and sat, then lay back, eyes closed, head spinning. No idea what he’d done to make her withdraw again. Then her hand to his chest, the slither of fabric, she straddled his lap. He brought his hands to her silk covered hips. The zipper was undone still, that lining or whatever it was stopping him from feeling her skin.

“I don’t want you to undress me.”

Did she mean to stay in the dress? There was a lot of fabric to work around.

“I have very unsexy underwear on.”

“What?” Oh, no fair. Naked was his favourite underwear, he’d have to teach her that.

“This dress, it was either no underwear or a scuba suit.”

“Scuba?”

“I’m wearing this all-in-one bodysuit so there are no visible lines.”

He laughed. It came out of him with the violence of a shout and echoed in her annoyed gasp. She tried to scramble off him but he flipped them so she was on her back; he leaned over her. “All night I’ve been thinking you were naked under that silk.” He bore down on her, a kiss to her neck. “Drove me insane, thinking about it. Thought you’d done it on purpose.”

“Let me up, please.”

“I don’t care if you’re wearing a scuba suit or a hessian sack.”

“Oh.” Some of the starch in her crinkled.

He dragged his open mouth up to her jaw, turned her head and found her lips. He kissed her until she was limp, pliant in his arms, then he rolled them again. “You are my award tonight. There wasn’t a hetero man or a gay woman in that ballroom tonight who didn’t envy me you.”

“That’s not pos—”

“Shut up. We can do this one of two ways. One, you undress yourself and meet me on this bed. Two, you let me undress you, scuba suit and all. I vote for two, but you get the decider.”

All he got was her stilted breathing. He shouldn’t have told her to shut up. He shouldn’t have dictated her choices. He flopped down on the bed beside her.

She put her hand over his. “I’m scared.” He opened his mouth to reassure her, but she shushed him. “I haven’t done this in a long time. I haven’t wanted to. I don’t want you to expect too much.” She cut herself off, a hand over her mouth.

Oh shit.
Hamish was in hospital when they married and then a wheelchair till he relearned to walk. Damon’s brain scrambled. Could Hamish get an erection? What kind of sex did they have? Was there no one else, before, during, after? Was she trying to tell him she was a virgin still? That wasn’t possible, was it?

“It’s not what you’re thinking.”

He rolled his head on her crispy cotton bedspread. He couldn’t easily put a voice to his thoughts.

“We had normal sex once Hamish got over the worst of the injury. But we didn’t…”

“Okay.” That came out like he’d agreed to a second cup of coffee. Pedestrian, everyday. She was telling him the intricacies of her sex life and he was responding like it was an optional entertainment. “You don’t have to tell me. We don’t have to do anything.”

“It wasn’t the same as before and after a while we just stopped trying. We were more like flatmates.”

He turned his palm so he could clasp her hand. Her voice had the same matter-of-fact quality to it as when she’d told him about the attack; as if she’d said it so many times she’d managed to distance herself from it, but her grip was an iron glove.

“So it’s been a while for me.”

He brought her hand to his lips. Just held it there, breathing against her knuckles.

She inhaled and it juddered in her throat. “I don’t know how to do this with you. With anyone else. I don’t know what you want from me, how I should move or…”

He kissed the back of her hand. “Don’t worry about what I want, Princess. I’m here to do your bidding.”

A noisy exhale. She slipped her hand out of his. He’d gotten it wrong again. Making it easier for her wasn’t the same thing as making light of her experience. Calling her Princess—
Jesus,
where was his head? For this he really needed a well workshopped script.

“Do you mean that?”

“I didn’t mean to make fun.” He had about three seconds to recover this. “I’ve got an idea.”

“If it’s that you want to go home I understand. I’m sorry.”

“Put your Hello Kitty’s on.”

She moved, the bed dipped, her breath on his face. “I don’t really own Hello Kitty pjs.”

He smiled at her. “You a win at phone sex. I was thinking we could go old school.”

“I’m pretty sure I don’t know what that is.”

“Put the sleep back in sleeping together.”

A hesitant laugh. “Are you serious?”

He closed his eyes. “Unfortunately.”

“You’re saying that after the make-out sessions and the dress and the limo and the red carpet and the Dulcets and being just so, oh, amazing, you want to take me to bed and sleep?”

“It should stay in this room.”

Her fingers in his hair. “I don’t know what to say.”

“That you make a mean scrambled eggs.”

“You’re going to make me cry.”

“Then this is the wrong plan.” He frowned and sat up, hauled her up beside him. “I want to make you comfortable.”

“Sex has never been comfortable before.”

He shook his head, wrong again. It wasn’t comfort he wanted to give her. That implied too much about grief and loss. They should be more about pleasure, life and hope.

He looked out towards her hallway. “I want you to trust me, be comfortable with me.” Somewhere out there was a fish he’d given her because he’d wanted to shake her up. He still wanted that. He wanted to shake her up so much he remade her world. “I want the sex to undo you, unknot me and put us back together again.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” That sure didn’t sound like he meant to simply snore in her bed. Her very round-mouthed exclamation didn’t sound like she believed it either.

She leaned into him. Better that than opening the front door to usher him out. “I don’t get it.”

He put his arm around her and tried again. “Let me sleep beside you, hold you, feel you up over whatever pjs you do own. It’s your call if it goes any further, but I’m happy to be with you if nothing but actual shut-eye happens.” He turned his head and kissed her cheek. “Let’s go to bed.”

16: Beneath

Georgia gripped the edge of the bathroom sink. She’d been in here forever and even accounting for the whole makeup removal, hair, teeth, mystery of being a girl getting ready to go to bed thing, Damon must be thinking she’d fallen in. Or gone out for milk.