Page 45 of Over You
“Georgia Anne?”
“I didn’t say you did.” The pot bubbled. When she reached for the pepper shaker, I grabbed her wrist.
“We’restillmarried, and I just said, Inevercheated on you.”
“Oh, come on, Spencer. I’m not that—”
“Not that what?”
“You had condoms.”
“Nash was messing around with me. Stuck them in my wallet.” That comment got me an eye roll.
“Why wouldn’t you when you could have any girl you wanted?”
I took her chin in my hand, forcing her gaze to mine. “Because I’ve only ever wanted you. Since the day I kissed you in my kitchen, I’ve never touched another woman. Not once. I may have screwed up a lot of shit, but that—” I caught the tear trekking down her cheek with my thumb. “That’ssomething that will always be sacred to me.” I held up my hand and tapped my thumb to my wedding band.
Her lips slammed over mine, and I stumbled against the cabinets. “Don’t lie to me,” she breathed between hard kisses.
My hands crept beneath the back of her shirt. “I’m not.”
She grabbed the waist of my jeans and popped the button lose. I tugged her shirt over her head, then dropped it to the floor before removing my own. Warm skin pressed against mine, her tits creating the perfect pressure.
Georgia’s touch alone could drive me to the brink. Her naked touch—drove me mad.
I kissed along her jaw, down the side of her throat while working her jeans over her hips. I nipped at her breast when she shoved down my pants, then wrapped her fingers around me with a squeeze. I grabbed her bare ass, and I lifted her onto the counter, kissing her hard and deep. She was the air feeding my fire, and I couldn’t get enough until everything around us had been burned to smoldering ash.
“Tell me again.” Her legs hooked around me, her heels digging into the small of my back as she pulled me closer. “Tell me there was no one else.”
“It’s only been you.” The damp heat of her body touched my tip. My legs hit the cabinets. “What is it with you and kitchens?” I yanked her to the edge on a kiss and groaned at the instant relief I found inside her. Like a shot of morphine or a finger of whiskey, she was something my mind and body craved.
I wanted to take her by the ankles, spread her legs, and drive into her without relent. Turn her over and pull her hair while biting her neck. I could have fucked her on every surface in that kitchen and left dishes broken across the tile, and it wouldn’t have been enough. So instead, I kissed her in a way that said, “I love you.”
Each thrust was slow and steady. I knew that’s what would make her toes curl and her breaths come in short pants. It always had.
“Is that good?” I watched us connect, and she gave a breathless nod.
The slower I went, the deeper her nails sliced into my back. She gripped the edge of the counter, her chest rising on ragged swells while her teeth sank into her bottom lip. When her legs began to tremble and her cheeks slowly flushed pink, when she swore under her breath and begged me to stop, I let go, tumbling over the edge of a love-induced high right along with my girl.
Her head dropped to my shoulder, her arms tightened around my neck, and I swam in the post-orgasmic buzz still inside her.
“You’re the only high I need, Georgia.”
The next morning,I woke to a note on the nightstand.You looked too comfortable to wake. I’ll be back by three. Seven days. Then seven more. . .
I rolled back over, clutching her pillow underneath my head, and believing I could do this.
By noon, I’d been sober for closing in on forty-eight hours, and that itch had turned into a massive, oozing whelp. The text alert from my phone pulled me from my thoughts.
Becca: When you get back from whatever drug-induced, sideshow carnival you’re on, we need to set some clear boundaries. You have become a massive liability.
That got a selfie of me flipping her the bird.Me: My contract’s up in less than a year. And I won’t be resigning.
Becca: There wasn’t going to be an offer.
I swiped a hand over my jaw. I could tell Becca and Ricky to screw off all day long; I didn’t care if they broke my contract. But Midnite Kills wasn’t just about me; it was about all of us. What was going to happen to Nash and Leo? Sure, they could hire another singer. Plenty of bands had done that. Journey. Stone Temple Pilots. Van Halen. Sometimes bands survived. Guns n’ Roses turned into Velvet Revolver—but remakes never did as well as the original.
A list of mistakes a mile long cycled through my head until they formed a churning whirlpool I couldn’t escape. My thoughts were bullies with loaded shotguns, and the drugs had served as the Kevlar vest that deflected the bullets.
