Page 32 of Blindsided By You

The heady combination of rhythmic thrusting fingers and relentless mouth ignites my body. I climb higher and higher, my back perfectly arched, ready to dive off the cliff. Finally, I plunge over the edge, allowing a shuddering orgasm to rock me to the core, before I collapse boneless and weak, with only Geordie’s arm preventing me from sprawling across the desktop.

Still panting from the rippling waves of sensation, I open my eyes. Geordie’s blue-grey ones watch me with a satisfied smile as he withdraws his fingers with a slick, wet sound. I wince slightly, my muscles still clenched so damn tight, reluctant to releasethe hand that’s coaxed so much pleasure from them. He raises his fingers to his mouth, sucking each one clean.

“You taste so good, Jenna.” He leans in again and his words warm against my thigh. “Think I want to taste some more. I warn you now, I’ll be going back for seconds.” His tongue traces my length and my overstimulated nerves respond with a crackle, my legs jerking reflexively.

“You OK?” he asks.

I nod, even though the desk’s edge is becoming uncomfortably hard beneath me.

As if sensing my discomfort, Geordie rises and lifts me into his arms. With my legs wrapped around his waist, still chasing friction between us, he spins and strides across the room, carrying me as effortlessly as a tiny doll.

“Changed my mind,” he says. “Seems a shame to waste this big comfy bed, don’t you think?” He smirks, supporting me with one arm while whipping back the covers with the other before lowering me gently onto pristine sheets, cool against my overheated skin.

The bed is enormous, high off the ground, wide and sprawling.

“Fuck you’re beautiful Jenna,” he growls, “and I think you’re going to look more beautiful with this buried inside you.” He fists his cock one stroke, before reaching for the bedside table. He tears open the condom with his teeth before tossing it to me.

“That’s if this is still OK, sweetheart. I’ll stop right now if this isn’t what you want.”

I sit up, giving him a nod. Speech has deserted me as I bask in the afterglow of the orgasm.

“You need to tell me yes or no, sweetheart,” he says. “I can see you like me to boss you around, but honey, there’s one thing you’re still the boss of.”

“Yes,” I manage to say. “I want you. Inside of me.”

I open the condom and lean forward, allowing myself one stroke, feeling his weight, skin so soft yet hard. I unroll it down his length as he groans under the pressure of my hand.

He enters me—tender at first, then forceful. I relish the stretch and fullness as he finds his rhythm. We resume our dance, Geordie the choreographer, dictating the steps, me following, willing to go wherever he leads. It’s a dance of searing heat and reckless want, our bodies moving in perfect time to the music of our pleasure. Then suddenly, there’s no holding back, no finesse, just a relentless race to the finale, before he collapses exhausted beside me.

I lay sprawled across the centre of the bed, the body he’s tasted every inch of exposed in the glow of the bedside lamp.

“I’ll go deal with this.” Geordie pads across the lush carpet, hand curled around the condom.

My eyes follow his nicely rounded arse, taut skin, the long, lean muscled legs, the body of an athlete. In all my years of working with sportsmen, I’ve never once crossed the line, always kept it purely professional. Geordie may be in Dad’s team, but this isn’t pro sport. The line doesn’t exist here, and that thought triggers a rush of exhilaration.

I want Geordie, and for once I can have what I want. One taste of him, and I’m addicted. I want to drink him in completely. Get drunk on him. And I can, knowing there isn’t a hangover waiting for me in the harsh light of tomorrow morning.

Chapter 17

JENNA

Istretchlikeasatisfied cat in a patch of afternoon sun, except I’m basking in the wonder of this, the warm afterglow of Geordie and me. It’s not only the sex, which left me trembling and breathless with its damn near perfection.

There’s a connection with this man, and a sense I’m standing on the edge of something exciting, about to throw myself off a great height. It’s not the same as the time I actually did that—poised on a bungee platform, anticipating the terror and exhilaration of free fall. Rachel insisted we do a jump when we went on a girls’ holiday to New Zealand and damn if it wasn’t a thrill, but right now I sense I’m one small step away from a thrill of a different kind.

More like I’m on the side of a pool on a stinking hot day, and having dipped my toes into the deliciously cool water, it’s inviting me to plunge in. I want to, knowing it’s exactly what I need.

Geordieiswhat I need—he’s kind and funny; and he’s caring. He acts like I’m precious to him. I feel as if he wants to look after me, and while the outside world might find it surprising, I like it. I’m tired of being the person worrying about everyone else. I might appear hardon the outside—I’ve had to be in this job—but inside I’m just a girl like any other who wants to be loved and is soft enough to be hurt.

The question remains—what does Geordie want? And am I it?

I need to know. I wasted too many years with Adam, thinking I was what he wanted, although I never asked him outright. We met through work, struck up a friendship, and it morphed into more. It was easy. Too easy. We never laid it on the line, ever, not even when we got engaged.

Just like we did with everything else in our relationship, Adam and I simply fell into an engagement. Everyone else around us seemed to be doing it—why not us? And so, one night, sitting in his car outside a restaurant where he’d taken me for my birthday, he said, “I suppose we should get married then,” the words matter-of-fact. I accepted his sort-of proposal as evidence Iwaswhat he wanted for the rest of his life. I was so wrong.

While Adam leaving me a week before our wedding almost broke me, it taught me, too. In the painful weeks of soul-searching afterwards, I vowed I’d never go beyond something casual unless I had some surety. I’m too old to waste time investing my heart in a relationship where there’s no possibility of it becoming something long-term.

As I hear the soft approach of Geordie’s feet, I know we need to talk about this. I’d rather the short, sharp heartbreak now; him telling me this was just an enjoyable one-night stand, a bit of fun, rather than carry on, my hopes raised, blissfully ignorant that I’m not end-game material for him.

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