The Boss and His Cowgirl (7 page)

She allowed a wry smile to tug at the corner of her mouth. “If I kept a diary, I'd describe them as cognac.”
And burnt umber. Decadent as sweet toffee.

“You keep a diary and I'm in it?”

Georgie's cheeks heated as he spun her away and back again.

“What else do you write about me?”

“No. No. I don't keep a diary.”

“But I'd be in it if you did, right?”

The music ended and though Clay stopped dancing, he didn't release her. He studied her face through half-lidded eyes and Georgie shivered beneath his scrutiny. It was as if he peered into the darkest corners of her mind and if he struck a match, he'd see the secret room of a stalker. Pictures of him—snapshots of moments they'd shared, only without his knowledge or acknowledgment—lining the walls. His name traced over and over surrounded with hearts and flowers. She was so pathetic.

“Georgie?”

She stared up at him, horrified at the direction her thoughts had wandered. “I...uh...”

His cheeks creased as his grin widened. “I
am
in your diary.”

Where was a desk when she needed one to bang her head on? “I don't keep a diary.” Not now anyway. And thank goodness the darn thing was buried in the back of her closet in her room at her dad's house. The next time she was home she would burn that sucker.

A waiter passed by with a tray of crystal flutes filled with sparkling champagne. She grabbed one and tossed it back like it was water. It didn't help. Clay relieved her of the glass and set it on an empty tray. “Don't look now but Mrs. Hudson is headed this direction. We should dance.”

He didn't give Georgie a chance to catch her breath before he whirled her out on the dance floor. The music was slow, bluesy, and she just sort of melted into his arms. She couldn't help herself. She fit against him. Of course, the four-inch heels helped. And his broad shoulders. His arms curled around her, his strong hand held hers.

His lips brushed her forehead and he whispered, “I think it's time we got out of here and went back to my place.”

She should say no. She should call Boone to come extricate her. She should— Georgie looked up, saw a tenderness in Clay's gaze that turned her boneless. She was in so much trouble now.

Eight

T
he limo slid to a smooth stop beneath the East Wing portico. The same army officer from before opened the rear door. Clay handed Georgie into the backseat and ducked to follow. Hunt would be driving and he already had his instructions.

Georgie fidgeted beside him and winced.

“Problem?”

She offered him a nose squiggle and shrug. “My feet are killing me. I don't wear high heels for a reason.”

There was his opening. “Why doesn't your building have an elevator?”

“It does. But...” Her cheeks flushed. “Claustrophobia?”

Now her blush made sense because his thoughts went right back to that evening in Scottsdale, too. Red was definitely her color and he wondered if her lingerie matched her dress. He fully intended to find out.

“Ah, yes. Claustrophobia and nyctophobia all in one package, tied up with a red bow.”

“Go ahead. Make fun. Must be nice to be perfect.”

Clay laid his head back against the buttery-soft leather seat and offered a rumbling helping of laughter with a side order of self-deprecation. “Sweet pea, I am far from perfect. Just ask my father.”

“Ha. Just goes to show he doesn't know jack.”

She'd muttered but he heard what she said and hid his smile. “I'm glad you have such faith in me, Georgie.”

Swiveling on the seat, she faced him. Her earnestness almost created a halo around her. “I do. We all do, Clay. Don't you get it?” She took his hand without noticing she'd done so and continued gazing into his eyes. “You care. Here.” She patted his chest over his heart with her free hand. “So many don't. You do things not because they're expedient or make you look good or help out some lobby group. You do things because they're the right things to do.”

Georgie's hand landed on his thigh and he barely held on to his poker face. He liked the weight and heat of her touch. A lot. She looked so earnest as she continued.

“I know people want you to run for president. I think you'd be an amazing president. I'll vote for you.” Her voice trailed off and she looked down. Surprise blossomed in her expression when she realized they were holding hands. She tugged but he didn't let go.

“I hear a
but
in there, Georgie.”

“The senate will miss you.”

The import of her words kept him silent on the rest of the drive. The car stopped in the alley behind Clay's house. Hunt exited, checked for any possible threat, then punched the code for the secured gate next to the garage while Clay helped Georgie out.

“Come inside for a nightcap.” He didn't ask, but it wasn't quite an order, either.

Georgie offered him a lopsided smile and limped beside him. He chuckled—not at her discomfort but at the twists and turns their conversation had taken. How did they get from her feet hurting to his position in the senate? He glanced back over his shoulder and dismissed Hunt with a short nod. Georgie would be staying the night.

Inside, he settled her on the couch—a piece of furniture chosen for comfort far more than design. Deep, long and covered in aged “bomber-jacket” leather, it was a couch a man could nap on during a football game or could sit on and read countless bills, feet propped on the overstuffed ottoman.

“Wine?”

“I'd prefer decaf coffee. Or a Diet Coke?”

“I can handle that.” He checked the fridge. No Cokes. Time for Plan B. Microwaves heated water, right? And somewhere in the pantry was a jar of coffee. Hopefully. Rummaging, he got lucky—a box of Starbucks single-serve tube things. Vanilla latte flavor. Georgie must have left them after one of their marathon strategy sessions. He emptied one in a coffee mug, added water and stuck it in the microwave for four minutes.

While he waited, he tugged on the ends of his black tie, unraveling the bow, and popped the first two buttons on the stiff white shirt. The microwave dinged and the water was boiling when he reached in. Maybe four minutes was a little long. He found a bigger mug, poured the boiling water in and added a splash of cold water from the tap. He stopped dead. Did Georgie use cream or sugar? Did vanilla latte need extra? He had milk, if it wasn't sour. And sugar, if he could find the sugar bowl.

“Georgie? I fixed one of your Starbucks vanilla latte things. Do you need milk or sugar?”

“Thanks, but no. It's good just the way it is, Clay.”

Her voice wafted in from the living room and he breathed in relief but made a note to restock his fridge and pantry. He carried the mug out and handed it to her with a caution. “It's hot.”

Dropping to the ottoman, Clay reached for Georgie's feet.

“Wait! What are you—”

He slipped off one shoe and started massaging the ball of her foot, effectively cutting her off as she let out a whimpering moan that went straight to his groin. “Want me to stop?” She whimpered again, and he chuckled. “Drink your coffee, Georgie. You did me the favor of coming to the dinner tonight at the last minute. The least I can do is rub your sore feet.”

“Mmmhmmm.” Her eyes closed as she relaxed against the back of the couch.

Divesting her other foot of its shoe, he rubbed them both simultaneously, using his thumbs to massage the balls of her feet. He had to stop when she almost dropped her cup. Clay snagged it and set it aside then went back to work. In moments, she was all but purring. He continued for a few minutes, stopping only when she struggled to sit up.

“Keep doing that and I'll be asleep in moments.”

“Can't have that happening.” He shifted, lightning-fast, from ottoman to couch, gathering her onto his lap. He teased his finger around the neckline of her dress, from one shoulder across the swells of her breasts to the other shoulder, and back again.

“Clay—”

“Georgie.”

“We shouldn't be doing this.”

“Maybe.” He buried his nose behind her ear and nibbled the soft skin he found. “Want me to stop?”

He continued to kiss her, nuzzling along her jaw to her mouth. Full lips. Soft. Sweet. Just like the woman. He deepened the kiss, waiting for her to open for him.

“Georgie?” He murmured her name against her lips.

She leaned back and stared at him, looking helpless and unsure.

“Sweet pea? What is it?”

“I've wanted this...you... I've dreamed about it...but...”

“Shhh, darlin'. This is good. We're good.” And it shocked him to realize he spoke the truth. This wasn't a simple seduction. He
liked
Georgie. As a person. And was just now discovering how truly sexy she was. Coming into a relationship from this direction was a revelation. “We're more than good, Georgie.”

He recognized her surrender in the way her eyes softened and went unfocused, in the way her arms crept around his neck, in the way her lips sought his and her body pressed against him. “Will you stay with me tonight, Georgie? In my bed?”

At her sighing yes, he gathered her into his arms and stood up. She gasped and her arms clutched around his shoulders and neck. “I promise not to drop you.”

Her green eyes flared with something he'd never seen there before—desire. And trust. “I never thought you would.”

A soft light came on as he pushed the bedroom door open. He should thank Hunt for installing the motion sensor. Clay gently lowered Georgie to her feet. Cupping her cheeks in his palms, he kissed her. He wanted to strip her and take her right there, but his practical side poked him. Once he started making love to her, he wanted no interruptions, no distractions.

“Contacts?”

She blinked up at him, bemused and dreamy. “Oh. Um...”

“Your bag?”

“Oh. Yes.” She seemed to give herself a mental shake and smiled. “Yes. Case and drops.”

“If you need to...ah...” He waved toward the set of French doors on one wall. “The bathroom. I'll be right back.”

“Clay?”

Something in the tone of Georgie's voice stopped him dead in his tracks. “Yeah?”

“Can you...uh, will you...unzip me?”

He turned around and schooled his features. Even in the low light, her face flamed. He wanted to be the one to strip her out of that gorgeous gown, but he could see the impracticality of that. And bless Georgie, she was always practical. “I can do that.” Damn. Was that gravelly rumble his voice? He swallowed hard and returned to her.

She turned her back to him and he futzed with the hook at the top then pulled the zipper to reveal some sort of... His brain drew a blank. Red satin and lace did that to a man. Bustier. That was the word for what she wore. Oh, yeah. He could strip her out of that. It looked like a hellava lot more fun than her dress.

“Um... Clay?”

“Mmmm?”

“I...need to...uh...you know...go?”

Embarrassed, he released her. When had his hand curled around her waist? When had his mouth dropped to kiss the nape of her neck as his other hand cupped her breast? “Yeah. Me, too.” He needed to go somewhere. He did his best to focus. To the living room. That was it. To get her bag. So she could take her contacts out. He pivoted and trotted out because if he stayed, he would have watched her step out of the dress, would have followed her into the bathroom like a stray dog begging for a kind word.

When he returned, she was still in the bathroom. He knocked on the door, passed her purse through when it opened a crack and retreated to his bed. Damn but he felt awkward, like a pimple-faced kid in the backseat of his daddy's Oldsmobile. Only he'd never been that kid. Ever. Not his first time, or any of the times after. Not until now.

And that was when it hit. Tonight—Georgie. This was something more, something special. She was definitely something special and he'd been an absolute idiot and blind to boot. He stripped out of his jacket, resisted the urge to rip his shirt open, scattering the studs. Instead, he studiously removed each one. Took off his cuff links. Kicked off his boots and sat to strip off his socks. He was still sitting on the edge of the bed when Georgie stepped out.

Her legs were long and muscular, with thighs rounding into her very lovely butt. Nipped-in waist, full breasts, and... Clay dragged his gaze to her eyes—blinking owlishly at him sans glasses—and hoped to hell he wasn't drooling. He stood up, suddenly needing the extra room in his slacks. He held out a hand in silent invitation.

When she arrived, stumbling a little as she walked with one hand extended as if she was afraid of bumping into something, he gathered her against him. His hands traced up her sides, smoothed down her back. Over and over. He didn't think he'd ever be able to stop touching her. Her forehead connected with the bare skin of his chest and he forced air into his lungs. Breathing had suddenly become overrated. Her fingers clutched his shirt plackets and he felt the shiver that slid through her.

He pulled the pins and clips from her hair and tunneled his fingers through it until it framed her face. The bustier she wore was unhooked and gone with nimble flicks of his fingers, and her red panties followed with the whisper of silk against skin.

“I want you, Georgie,” he murmured against her hair. She nodded, her silken hair rubbing across his lips. He twitched when she kissed his chest. “Ahhh, baby,” he sighed. Scooping her into his arms, he carried her to the bed and settled her toward the center. “I've wanted this since Arizona.”

She blushed and looked down, almost coy in her reaction. Then her gaze met his and Clay's pulse rate tripled. The need and want on her face were as naked as she was. He climbed on the bed, still wearing his shirt and slacks, wanting only to touch and pleasure her.

* * *

Running her hands down the hard, muscular plane of his back, Georgie found the hem of his crisply starched shirt and snuck her fingers beneath. His skin felt warm, smooth, but for the feathering of hair sprinkled across his chest, which was now gently abrading hers. His muscles flexed under her touch.

She had one too-short moment to savor the sensations of hot skin and starched linen before he pushed up and slipped his shirt off. Capturing her wrists in one large hand, he pressed them to pillows above her head. “I get to touch you first.”

She might have protested, if her brain still had the ability to form words she didn't have the breath to utter. Wide-eyed, she gazed up at him, watched his mouth curve into a predatory grin, his amber eyes looking almost feral. He simply watched her, touching her only with his breath, her hips pinned by his, her wrists still shackled.

“So pretty.” His expression shifted from wonder to possessiveness. “And now mine.”

Clay released her wrists but she didn't move, captured in his heated gaze. He pushed away, sat back on his knees between her legs. His gaze roamed over her, as visceral a caress as if he'd stroked his palm across her skin.

She shivered uncontrollably, not from cold, but from the heat building up inside her. He made her feel hot, crazy with need, all common sense scattered into the shadows of his bedroom. Now that she had given in to the desire, all she wanted was to touch him, to feel his weight on her, to know what he felt like buried deep inside her. Only that would satisfy her now.

Georgie didn't know where her feelings came from. This eruption of desire might stem from her long-standing crush, or it could have ignited from the look in his eyes. She ached, deep inside, needing him. Wanting him as she'd never wanted anyone else. She couldn't deny her feelings any longer.

His hand, surprisingly callused, followed the path of his gaze, stroking the curve of her cheek and down over her throat. He skimmed across her collarbone and lingered at her breasts, palm cupping her, fingers gently kneading until her breath hitched, fast and uneven. He didn't hurry, giving each breast attention, treating them to touch and tweaks until she bucked beneath him.

“Shhh, Georgie. I want to take my time.” He smiled, holding her gaze a moment before the warmth and weight of his body disappeared. She heard something soft hit the floor—his slacks. Clay was back in a moment and his hand continued the journey lower. Rough fingertips teased across her belly, making her quiver and reach impatiently for him. He caught her hands, banding her wrists easily, refusing to be rushed.