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She almost praised him again; he’d kept hold of the chair, but better to keep him guessing. She moved her hand over his length. “Listen to me and no more talking.” He grunted an acknowledgement. “I’m going to let you take my hair down, but if you try to touch me anywhere else, this stops. Nod if you understand.”
He nodded, looking directly at her, seeing her as his demanding lingerie-clad mistress. She moved her hand and stepped out from between his knees and he groaned at the loss of contact. She hitched her dress up and told him to bring his knees together then straddled them, sitting safely on his thighs, laying her forearms over his shoulders.
He brought his hands up, cheating in a way she couldn’t resist letting him get away with. He could’ve gone to her head with an orienting touch or two, but he started with hands on her thighs, scooting under her dress, palms hot and sliding, then around, over her underwear, he took two hands full of her butt and squeezed, forcing a gasp out of her. He stared into her face and ran his hands slowly back outside her dress, to her waist, over her ribs and around to cup her breasts, making her eyes flutter and her body hum, before he stepped his hands one at a time to her head.
He didn’t have to say anything; everything he felt was in his face. He loved her, he loved her, he loved her. Right now, that’s what he was drunk with.
He pulled the hair stick out and found the pins in her twist easily. They pinged on the cement floor as he dropped them. He made her feel like she was the wanton sex kitten she’d described. When the last one was out she shook her head, shaking her hair out over her shoulders and letting him tunnel both hands through the tousled strands to her skull, pulling her to him, stopping when their noses bumped and their panted breath collided. Oh God.
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Technically he was in breach, practically she was shattered and he knew it, her whole body was trembling. She could not have stood if the building was collapsing. But she could shift forward and press against him, filling the room with their moans. He gave her long seconds to decide who was in control and then he decided, bringing their lips together for one of those kisses to end all kisses that stopped time and rewrote history. Rewrote hers for certain. She was heart and soul, past, present and future his.
He tasted of the beer and the smoke and the need he had for her, and the kiss was deep and long and tangled with emotion, but pure like the finest alcohol is distilled to its essential elements. They were earth, air and fire. He was shelter, belonging and esteem, and she was her best self in this life with him.
“Fuck, Georgia, fuck,” he said raggedly against her neck, where he coughed heat and breathed tension. And then his lips were on hers, his hands rolling her hips, working to turn her into liquid and burn her off like fuel. But this was supposed to be for him. She broke the kiss and took it to his neck, his throat, his chest, scooting back on his legs to get her fingers to his zipper.
“Jesus, baby.” His hips lifted to her hands and she unhooked the stud. His eyes slammed closed and his chin tipped up, and the door opened.
Angus said, “I’m getting a tattoo tonight and you’re coming with me.” He locked eyes with Georgia in shock.
Both men said, “Fuck.” Damon through clenched teeth.
Angus added a sorry, but he kept coming towards them. “No sex in the green room, unless it’s a free show.”
Georgia pressed her face into Damon’s neck to hide. She was hot, her whole body aflame with arousal and embarrassment. Damon folded around her, trying to catch his breath.
Heather was behind Angus saying, “No, you’re not.”
“I’m not that drunk, I’m getting a tattoo,” Angus said, reasonably. Though it was utterly unreasonable he was in the room at all. She shifted to stand, but Damon wasn’t letting her go. He relaxed his grip on her enough so she could pull her dress down.
“I’m getting a tattoo too.” That was Jamie, amusement in his voice that changed tenor, he must’ve seen them. “We’re all getting drilled by the looks of it.”
Damon’s laugh began as a huff of air, but by the time they heard Sam say, “I’m in,” he was shaking with it. Lust gone the way of lunacy.
He lifted his head from Georgia’s shoulder and kissed her forehead. “I hate these people.”
Heather looked worried. Angus had the devil in him tonight too. “Damon, you in, or are you a pussy-whipped blind boy who wouldn’t appreciate a tattoo anyway?”
“That,” Damon said, laughing.
“At least someone has sense,” said Heather.
“No one has any sense tonight. There was something in the beer,” said Jamie.
“Alcohol,” said Sam, straight up.
Everyone in the room looked at him except Damon who’d gone silent, choking with laughter, his face in Georgia’s shoulder, his body shaking.
Sam said, “What?” with raised hands, but he was clowning, laughing at himself. “Damon needs a tattoo.”
“No, he does not,” said Heather. “None of you do.”
“Too late,” said Jamie.
“I need one bad and I’m doing it tonight. We’re all doing it,” said Angus. “Come on Dame, you have to be in. You can get a cartoon of bloody Captain Vox on your willy and no one will have to see it except Georgia.”
Damon straightened up, hand over his mouth coughing, laughing. “I’ll get a tatt, but it won’t be Vox and it won’t be there.”
