SATURDAY NIGHT

Some days you do all the things and still worry you’re not doing crap with your life.

Some days you manage to wash and dry your hair and put on mascara and feel like a freaking boss.

Today’s the latter.

I’m feeling a hundred times better than I did yesterday, a million times better than I did on Thursday, although I’m still not in the mood to put myself out there in the world.

I take a rain check on dinner with my mom. I’ll see her tomorrow at brunch.

And I definitely don’t feel like going out with the group for my friend Jackie’s birthday shindig tonight, and duck out of that one as well.

You sure? Marley texts when I tell her. I haven’t seen you in forever—you were being a hermit even before you got sick. You okay?

What I want to say is, No, not okay. Not okay because the stupid lawyer in my building is asking out our friend. And because I was stupid enough to tell him to do it.

But what I really text back is, Totally. I’ll be better next week, just in a homebody mood lately.

She replies, I can stop by for drinks before I meet up with the group, if you want.

I’m tempted to take her up on it. Maybe I’ll feel better if I have a shoulder to cry on.

Then again, sometimes talking about things only makes them worse. You know how when you want to cry but you hold it together right up until the second some kind soul asks if you’re okay, and it’s like those simple words are all it takes to summon the tears?

I’m good. Go have fun. I’ve got a hot date with HBO.

Fine, be a turd. We’ll miss you anyway, Marley texts.

I have to set my phone aside to keep from asking who we includes—if Hailey’s going with the group tonight.

Jackie and Hailey are pretty close, right? Surely Hailey wouldn’t ditch her friend on her birthday just because a guy asked her out.

I glance at the clock. It’s a few minutes after six. I’m annoyed with myself for not snatching Andrew’s stupid phone out of his stupid hand and finding out exactly what he texted Hailey—if he’d asked her out for tonight or for next week. I thought I didn’t want to know, but not knowing is way more hideous.

I plow my fingers into my hair before dropping my arms, shaking my hands, and taking a deep breath. Get it together, Georgie. You are not the girl who turns into a hot mess because of a guy.

I go to the cabinet, pull out a wineglass, and pour a small glass of the wine Andrew opened last night, refusing to think about how right it felt to share a spontaneous meal with the jerk.

I take my wine into the living room and turn on the TV, flipping around blindly for something to watch. Nothing catches my interest, and I wonder if I shouldn’t take Marley up on her offer after all.

I’ve just turned off the TV and taken a sip of wine when there’s a knock at the door.

My head swings toward the door as my heart begins to pound in, well . . . yeah, hope.

I set my wine on the counter and look through the peephole. The hope blooms from seed to flower at the irritated scowl on the other side of the door.

I carefully wipe the smile from my face and swing the door open. “Good evening, Andy.”

His hands are on his hips, and it takes me a second to register that I’ve never seen this version of him. He’s wearing dark jeans and a black shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows.

I’ve seen Sick Andrew, Work Andrew, and Gym Andrew, but this is new. This is Date Andrew. He looks amazing, but it’s hard to get too excited about this, knowing that his reason for looking both casual and delicious is that he’s about to take some other woman out to dinner.

“You forget something?” I ask.

Andrew reaches out one hand, bracing it on the door frame, the other still at his waist, the picture of a pissed-off man.

“You want to know why I texted Hailey?” he asks, leaning forward.

“Um, to ask her out?” I ask, instinctively taking a step back from the anger in his gaze.

“I mean before yesterday.”

I shrug.

“It’s because I wanted to know what sort of fucking flowers you liked. Only she didn’t know what kind you liked, so I texted her for nothing, and then you made me pay for it.”

“I . . . what? I’m confused.”

“Yeah, me too,” he snaps. “How’d you even know that I texted her?”

“She told me,” I say.

“Why?” he says, lifting his other hand so it too is braced on the door frame, almost as though he’s deliberately disallowing me from leaving this apartment or this conversation.

I look away, and he reaches out and grabs my chin between his thumb and forefinger, drawing my gaze back around. “Why, Georgiana? Why would you care if I texted your friend?”

“Because you’ve never texted me!”

“So?”

“So I texted you the other day, and you never texted back.”

“Let me get this straight,” he says, his voice a low growl as his thumb runs lightly along my jaw. “I didn’t reply to your one text, which said hi, and you take that to mean I want to date your friend?”

“Well, it sounds a little ridiculous when you put it that way, but—”

“No, it sounds a lot ridiculous,” he says, stepping toward me, forcing me to step back.

His hand lifts. Slides into my hair to cup the back of my head as his other hand reaches behind him to slam my front door.

My heart is pounding in hopeful exhilaration.

“You know why I didn’t reply to your text, Georgiana?” His fingers press against the back of my head, a gentle, insistent pressure.

I shake my head.

“Because when it comes to you, I seem to make a mess of everything. Because saying nothing at all seemed better than saying the wrong thing. And forgive me if I’m wrong here, but the one and only text you sent me wasn’t exactly earth-shattering, am I right?”

I lick my lips nervously. “I may have made a mountain out of a molehill on the whole texting thing.”

His eyebrows lift. “You think?”

“But last night you texted Hailey to ask her out. I saw you,” I say, trying to wriggle away.

His other arm slips around me, his palm settling against my back, holding me still.

“I was pissed,” he says. “I acted rashly.”

I meet his eyes. “Is that a first?”

“Acting rashly? Perhaps. Being annoyed at you? Definitely not.”

“So are you going out with her?” I ask softly.

“I meant to,” he says. “I made reservations. Dressed for it.”

“To punish me.”

He sighs tiredly and rests his forehead against mine. “To move on from you.”

A few minutes ago I was very determined that my sadness wouldn’t kill me, but the happiness I feel right now? That might kill me. I feel like I’m bursting with it.

I lift my hands, settling them against his chest, my eyes locked on the button of his shirt I’ve started fiddling with because I’m also feeling unexpectedly shy. A definite first.

“And have you?” I ask tentatively, not so sure I want to hear the answer.

“Have I what?”

I gather my courage and lift my eyes to find him watching me. “Moved on from me?”

“Funny thing about that,” he says softly. “Seems I found myself canceling on her, and seconds later I was knocking on your door.”

“Probably because you were annoyed with me,” I say, just a tad grumpily.

“Probably,” he replies with a slight smile. Then he adds huskily, “I may have misled you about something.”

“Hmm?” I say, still basking in the warmth of his closeness.

“When I kissed you the other day”—his fingers spread wide over my back, coaxing me even closer—“that wasn’t a mistake. Not even fucking close. Or if it was, it’s one I intend to make all over again.”

I’m anticipating the kiss, so the touch of his lips to mine shouldn’t be a shock, but the way the warm pleasure consumes my entire body, lips to toes, is a bit unexpected. Maybe even a bit scary, given how much I’ve been wanting this moment.

Wanting him to want me.

Andrew tilts his head, nudging my lips open with his, and I sigh in pleasure as he deepens the kiss.

If the kiss on the sidewalk was the culmination of sexual frustration, this feels like the culmination of something more important, even though I’m not sure I have a name for it.

I give myself over to the kiss, lifting my hands to his face, loving the slight scratch of his five o’clock shadow against my palm, the silky waves of his hair between my fingers.

He continues to hold my head still as he explores my mouth, the kiss slow, thorough, and completely him.

His other hand is everywhere, drifting restlessly over my back, butt, hips . . .

He slides his hand up my side, and we both gasp as the heel of his palm brushes the outside of my breast. Since I was planning on staying home and watching TV, I’m not wearing a bra.

Andrew pulls back, gazing down at me. We’re both breathing hard, and he looks as unbalanced as I feel at how quickly we went from simple kiss to blistering want.

He lifts his hands so that my face is framed in both palms. “Georgiana—”

Terrified that he’s about to say something logical that will make all the kissing stop, I go on my toes and press my lips to his.

“Please don’t put some sort of esquire spin on this,” I whisper against his mouth.

He lets out a quiet laugh, pulling back just slightly. “Esquire’s not an adjective.”

“Sure it is,” I say, trailing my lips over his jawline, since it’s all I can reach. “Synonym: stodgy. Definition: prone to overthinking.”

Andrew slides his hands from my face down my shoulders to my hips, where his fingers curl possessively over my butt. “Stodgy, huh?”

I nip his chin. “A little. Sometimes.”

His head dips as he brushes his lips against mine, teasing, refusing to deepen the kiss. “Perhaps. But not all the time.”

My lips part to tell him to prove it, but he’s one step ahead of me, and the only thing that comes out is a surprised gasp as he guides me backward before easily hoisting me onto the kitchen counter.

He sets his mouth against my throat and my head falls to the side.

“I didn’t ask,” he says, planting warm kisses along my neck. “How are you feeling?”

“Right now? Never been better,” I whisper, pulling his mouth back to mine.

Andrew slips his hands under my sweater as we kiss, his palms roaming over my back, warm skin on warm skin. His breath shudders just a little, and I smile against his mouth, loving all these little chinks I’m finding in Andrew Mulroney’s armor.

He pulls back, raising his eyebrows in challenge at my amusement. He holds my gaze as his hands slide around to my front, fingers tracing the outer slope of my breasts lightly before withdrawing contact.

I whimper, and he watches me knowingly as he takes his time returning his hands to me. Then his thumbs are hovering over my nipples, a torturous non-touch that has me arching my back with a helpless plea.

There’s nothing stodgy about the way he teases me, cupping my breasts in his palms before pulling back to pluck at the sensitive tips.

I wiggle closer, tugging frantically at my bulky sweater, sighing in relief as he helps me lift it over my head and toss it aside.

The look on his face when he sees my bare chest is flattering, but I like even better the greedy way his mouth goes to my breasts. His tongue flicks across a nipple before drawing it warmly into his mouth, hungry for me.

But I’m hungry for him too, and I endure the sweet ecstasy for only a minute before my legs wrap around his waist, my hands tearing at the buttons of his shirt.

I hate that he put this on for Hailey, hate that he was thinking of spending tonight with anyone but me, and I make him pay for it. My nails rake his skin as I take in the upper body that’s every bit as impressive as I expected it to be given his gym-rat habits.

“Not bad, lawyer,” I say, my fingers touching every perfect ridge of his six-pack. His eyes close as I explore his skin, his breath hitching in and out with need, and though I don’t think I’ve ever wanted a sexual encounter as badly as I want this one, I’m struck with an unprecedented wave of tenderness.

I lean forward and set my mouth on the warm hollow at the base of his throat, a gentle kiss that conveys things I don’t know how to say any other way.

I feel his palm against my face, his fingers brushing the hair at my temple in an answering caress.

His lips find mine, and our eager hands explore downward. I’m wearing yoga pants, so he’s got the advantage, easily pulling them down over my legs before I have a chance to undo his belt buckle.

Lucky for me, he’s feeling helpful, and moments later we’re down to the last barrier: my thong, his black briefs. (Of course he would be a briefs guy, and it’s hot.)

I lick my lips as I trail my fingers over the impressive length of his erection. His eyes narrow, his breathing harsh and uneven as he flicks a finger over the pink bow at the top of my black lace panties, his gaze dropping to follow the back-and-forth motion of his finger.

“A bow,” he whispers. “How perfectly ridiculous.”

Then his fingers are slipping beneath the elastic, pulling my underwear to the side as he bends down, lowering his head and tasting me.

I cry out in surprise at his unexpected boldness, my hands dropping to his head, fingers in his hair at the gentle but confident swipe of his tongue.

He presses even closer, the flat of his tongue licking me in unapologetically carnal strokes as his hands spread my legs wide.

I don’t know what I’m feeling—something like ecstasy and torture and maybe a little bit of shock about how wrong I am about Andrew Mulroney.

The man whose head moves insistently between my legs is nothing like the buttoned-up lawyer who has spent the past few months ignoring me. This man is raw and primal, his touch sure and possessive, as though every part of me is his and he’s always known it.

I’m desperate now, my fingers clutching at his hair, wanting, needing everything that he’s offering.

A long finger eases inside me as his tongue begins circling in perfect rhythm to my every cry.

A second finger joins the first, the pressure of his tongue increasing, quickening, and I shatter like crystal in his mouth, the pleasure so savagely intense I’m not entirely sure how to survive it alone.

Except I’m not alone.

It’s like he knows the exact moment I’m too sensitive to take any more, and he straightens, drawing me to him, holding my face against his shoulder, stroking my back through the rest of the tremors, letting me catch my breath.

When I finally come back to reality, he presses his lips to my ear. “Stodgy, huh?”

I laugh, a short, exhausted sound. “I may have been wrong about that.”

“Perhaps I should convince you once and for all.”

His hands go to my waist, tugging me forward, supporting me as he pulls me off the counter, lowering me to my feet.

I start to move to the right, thinking he means for us to go to the bedroom, but his fingers close around my wrist, lifting my hand to his face.

The kiss on my palm is gentle, but the way he spins me around, pressing my belly against the kitchen counter, is anything but.

I gasp at the feel of cold marble on warm skin, but the contrast is unexpectedly arousing, as is the way he shoves my underwear down until it’s in a tiny pile at my feet.

I kick the fabric aside and then gasp in delighted pleasure as I feel the undisguised evidence of his arousal against me.

Andrew’s hand moves to the right side of my face, gathering my hair in one hand and pushing it over my left shoulder.

He presses a kiss to the nape of my neck. “Do I need a condom?”

I tilt my hips back in invitation to hurry the hell up. “Birth control and religious about my doctor’s appointments. And I’m going to guess that’s just one more thing you’re anal about.”

“Well then, Georgiana,” he says huskily as his hands find mine, flattening my palms to the edge of the counter and pushing me forward slightly, “better hold on.”

I catch my breath, wanting—needing—the thrust. Instead I feel the velvety tip of him, teasing among the wet folds. Making me wait. Making us both wait.

Then his hips rock forward and I cry out, my body welcoming the hard invasion like it’s meant for this, meant for him.

Andrew’s fingers grip my hips as he pulls out, slowly, tauntingly, only to thrust forward hard, pressing me to the counter. I meet him thrust for thrust, bracing myself on the counter as I arch my back, angling my hips to take all of him.

His fingers tangle in my hair, his other hand palming my breast, pinching my nipple as he pulls my back to his chest, his hips moving ever faster.

I tilt my head back and to the side, begging for a kiss. He gives it to me, his tongue sliding into my mouth as a hand slides down over my belly, two fingers pressing against my clit.

Once more my body is utterly his, and his mouth swallows every cry, his body absorbs every shudder. And while Andrew Mulroney might not be stodgy, he is a gentleman. He waits until I’ve had my pleasure for a second time before he takes his own, his arm wrapping low on my waist as he thrusts into me a final time, his release coming with a helpless, savage growl.

I enjoy his pleasure almost as much as my own, knowing from his gasps for air, from the way his hands seem to grab at me involuntarily, that whatever’s between us eclipses anything that’s come before it.

At last he rests his damp forehead on my shoulder, and somehow I find the energy to lift my hand to his head, my fingers tangling gently in his hair.

I hear him swallow, then speak. “Believe it or not, I had intended to take you on a date.”

I laugh. “I think I liked this better. We needed to get it out of our system.”

I feel his smile. “Don’t be ridiculous, Georgiana. I am far from done with you.”