Page 72 of Own the Eights
She rolled her eyes. “Yeah! Sex showers that turned into sex out of the shower that brings us back to the sex hair which I do not have.”
“For now,” he teased, that sexy wolfish smirk still pulling at the corners of his mouth.
She leaned into him. It was no use trying to resist. This man turned her body to Jell-O—the good kind that wasn’t prepared with enough grain alcohol to knock out a rhino. He ran his fingertips along her collarbone, and her skin tingled beneath his touch. She hummed a low sated moan, ready to give in to his advances, when a man’s voice cut short their dressing room rendezvous.
“Mr. Marks, are you back here?”
Georgie’s eyes popped open. “What will they think we’re doing in here?” she whispered to the mirror version of Jordan Marks.
“I’m pretty sure the guys will be high fiving me. You look good enough to eat,” he answered, pressing another kiss to her neck. And there was plenty of neck and shoulders to kiss in the strapless metallic silver gown, hugging her curves in all the right places.
CityBeat had tasked a group of personal shoppers, makeup artists, and hairstylists to fancy them up, for what, she didn’t have a clue.
Earlier in the day, when they’d decided to try a particularly naughty sexual position from her research-purpose-onlyKama Sutrabook, their phones pinged with a CityBeat challenge address just as they’d experienced orgasm number six thousand four hundred twenty-two.
At least, that’s what it felt like.
Her sex-hair twisted into a bun that would make even a messy bun cringe, they followed the car’s navigation app and had driven into a swanky part of town with boutique clothing stores and high-end salons. And over the course of the last few hours, she’d been waxed, buffed, polished, coiffed, and now shined like a new penny with anun-sexedupdo.
She gazed at her reflection and had to agree. She looked pretty damn good.
After years parading on the pageant circuit, she’d shunned the primping part of being a woman. But with Jordan by her side, getting the male equivalent of their spa day, it was fun. There were no judges to impress and no scowling fake-eyelashed stage moms sizing each other up. The best part—it wasn’t about her appearance. Jordan liked her for who she was, not what she looked like. His hungry, carnal gaze devoured her both dolled up in a ball gown and while rocking sweatpants and crazy bedhead.
With his knowledge of poetry and British literature and his magical tongue, her trifecta was totally pulling for this ten, who underneath it all, was an eight. But she’d decided she’d let him go on thinking he was a ten. He sure as hell had the abs for it, not that she was looking. Okay, she was. The man was built like a brick house and had the stamina of a suburban housewife camped out in front of a Wal-Mart on Black Friday.
He could go all night—and then some.
The man cleared his throat. “Sir, your tux just arrived. I’d like to check the fit.”
“I’ll be right out,” Jordan answered, then dropped one last kiss to her shoulder.
She shooed him toward the door. “You better go. I don’t know what they have in store for us, but I can’t wait to see you in a tux.”
“A little shallow for an eight,” he teased.
She feigned exasperation. “A terrible habit I picked up from a ten.”
He glanced down at his feet. “I really don’t want to take these off, but I don’t think they’ll go with the penguin suit.”
She held back a chuckle as she watched Jordan admire his Birkenstock-clad feet. “I told you they were comfortable.”
Somewhere in their sex haze, they’d left her place to pick up some Chinese food and popped in the shoe store next door to the takeout place. Twenty minutes later, she’d gotten him to try on a pair, and her Nike-wearing ten experienced a Birkenstock baptism and became an immediate convert.
He took a step back, and his expression softened. “You look beautiful, Georgiana.”
His low, gravelly voice sent the butterflies in her belly into flight.
She felt beautiful. He made her feel beautiful.
She held his gaze. “I’ll see you in a little bit. Try not to make any of the ladies faint when they see you in that tux.”
“There’s only one person whose opinion matters,” he said with a wink as he slipped out of the fitting room.
Her trifecta swooned, and Jane Eyre was back, handing out the fans.
But it wasn’t just these sweet private moments that won over her fictional trio. To the delight of Mrs. Gilbert and her octogenarian clan of Michael Bolton fans and with Gene chuckling in the corner, Jordan had taken part in their weekly needlework time in the shop, not by crocheting but by removing his shirt and running back and forth in front of the shop’s window, for ninety minutes straight, until Mrs. Rothchild’s pacemaker went haywire.
His track pants riding low and his torso gleaming like a Greek god, she may have caught Jordan’s eye a time or twenty as he passed by the shop.
