THURSDAY NIGHT, AFTER THE PARTY

I sigh happily as I open my door and set my clutch on the counter before turning to face Andrew. “That was just about the perfect evening.”

“Just about?” he asks, shutting the door behind him.

“Ninety-eight percent perfect. And you didn’t tell me that Roy was such a sweetheart. And Bertha. Lovely.”

He rolls his eyes. “Roy’s a hard-ass troll who makes grown men cry, and Bertha calls me boy.”

“Well, they were lovely to me,” I say, pulling two glasses down from the cabinet and getting us each some water.

“What was the missing two percent?” he asks. “You said it was ninety-eight percent perfect.”

“Hmm? Oh. There was no dancing. Add in a good slow dance, maybe to ‘Lady in Red,’ and my little brain would have just exploded into a cloud of happy glitter.”

“Ridiculous.” He says it with a slight smile as he accepts the water, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

“You okay?” I ask, tilting my head. “You’ve been a little quiet.”

“Tired,” he says, setting the glass on the counter without taking a drink. “And maybe a bit anxious to have you to myself. Have I told you how much I like this dress?”

“A few times.” I smile, setting my own glass aside and running a hand down his black tie.

He steps closer, leaning in so that his hands can slide up the back of my thighs. “Have I mentioned I like what’s under it even better?”

I tilt my head up, kiss his chin. “You don’t know what’s under it.”

He palms my ass before his fingers explore, tracing the upper elastic of my underwear.

“Georgiana. Are you wearing impractical undergarments?”

“Yes. One might even call them . . . ridiculous.”

He pulls back, eyes gleaming. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

Then he sinks slowly to his knees, running his hands up the front of my thighs, pulling my dress up toward my waist so he can take in the tiny triangle of red lace.

He exhales and runs a finger over me. “Have I mentioned I’m a fan of red?”

I can’t respond. Not when his finger’s slipping under the lace and finding me hot and wet for him. Not when he pulls the lace aside and, without warning or preamble, presses his tongue to my clit.

I clutch his shoulders as he eats me, his tongue and fingers moving in slow, sensuous movements, utterly confident in his knowledge of my body. He has two fingers inside me, his mouth moving hungrily, and I’m too turned on to be embarrassed by my lightning-fast orgasm.

His other hand holds me steady as I come undone around him, against him.

I haven’t even caught my breath yet, and he’s already moving up my body, taking my dress with him until I’m standing there in strappy sandals and matching lingerie when he hasn’t so much as loosened his tie yet.

My fingers move to remedy that, but he’s faster, his hands sliding behind me once more, lifting me easily before turning and walking me toward the kitchen wall.

He slams me into it with so much force that I think I hear a picture frame fall, but I don’t care. Not when his mouth is on my breasts and he’s using his chin to nudge the fabric aside so he can suck a nipple into his mouth.

I gasp, my legs wrapping around his waist, my arms resting on his shoulders.

“What is going on with you?” I manage around a gasp as he moves to the other nipple, flicks it with his tongue.

Andrew’s always been a determined, passionate lover, but this feels different. It feels . . . urgent. Desperate.

I answer his desperation with some of my own, terrified that something this good, this perfect, can’t last. Forget his tie. My hands go straight for his belt, wrangling with his clothing, somehow managing to get his pants and briefs down over his hips as he continues to plant hot kisses all over my chest.

“Guide me,” he says in a low voice, his fingers flexing against my butt. “Take me in.”

His gaze locks on mine, his eyes darkening, as I close my fingers around him. With my other hand I pull my thong to the side.

But instead of guiding him in, I torture us both, slicking the velvety tip of him against the wetness between my legs, forcing him to feel what he does to me.

“Georgiana.”

“Georgie,” I correct, leaning forward to take his bottom lip between my teeth.

Then I position him at my opening, and he takes over, his hips thrusting forward, pushing me against the wall.

Again. Again. Again.

He kisses me as he fucks me, and our mouths are as greedy as our hands, demanding ever more from the other person. Demanding everything.

Andrew tears his mouth from mine with a gasp. “Come, Georgiana. Come now.”

His rough command undoes me, and my body clenches around him a half second before I cry out, shattering.

He captures my cry with his lips, his own harsh shout mingling with mine as he comes inside me, his shoulders heaving with the strain of holding me up, even as he shudders against me.

When my heartbeat stops feeling like it’s going to gallop out of my chest, I nip his shoulder and wiggle to be let down.

His grip gentles, and I slide down his body until my feet touch the floor.

I swallow. “So.”

Looking completely unembarrassed by what just transpired, he tugs his pants back up and fastens his belt, returning to his usual Andrew Mulroney, Esquire, perfection. “So.”

Feeling an unexpected—and unprecedented—wave of affection, I reach out and cup his cheek. “I like you.”

He reaches out a hand and gently tugs my bra strap back into place, his eyes watching the motion of his fingers as he repays the same gesture on the other side, tidying me up in a way that makes my heart melt. “I like you too.”

“Does this mean you’re going to start calling me by my real name?”

“Georgiana Frances? If you’d like.”

“One day, Andy. One day you will break and call me Georgie,” I say, patting his cheek and then pushing him aside, because this time I really do want the water.

I move to the counter, draining the entire glass in three swallows. He does the same.

“You staying over?” I ask.

“Would you like me to?”

So much. I nod.

His eyes flick toward the living room. “Any chance you’ll let me catch up on the ESPN recap? See the baseball highlights?”

“Depends. Can I cuddle next to you with a bowl of ice cream and talk over the announcer at all the pertinent parts?”

“Depends,” he counters as he heads into the living room, picking up my remote and turning on the TV.

“On?”

He glances back. “Do I get my own bowl of ice cream?”

I let out a mock gasp. “Is it possible? Have I found your junk food weakness?”

He winks, then sits on my couch, not slouching, because this is Andrew we’re talking about.

But the moment is so casual, so natural, so perfect . . .

I feel the breath knocked out of me, because there’s no more denying it, no more denying my heart.

This is it for me.

This is what I want, not just for as long as I can have it, but for always.