Because I Can (Montgomery Manor) Page 15
She froze, the phone a brick in her hand. They were going to do this, then. “Showers are nice. Would you be wearing all your clothes in it?”
“Probably not. I tend to shower following the same general process as every other sober human being.”
“So you’re naked?”
“For the sake of this scenario? Yes.”
She bit her lip to keep from laughing out loud at his painstaking accuracy. “I don’t suppose you want to glance in the steamed-up mirror and tell me what you see, do you?”
“Not really, no. I doubt my own reflection would be of much interest to me right now.”
Fair enough. She’d have to use her imagination—and that overactive beast was already filling the gaps in with powerful shoulders and a chiseled body tapering down to...ahem. “Okay, you’re naked. The towel is pooled on the floor, and you’re about to step inside. Tell me, what’s the temperature of the shower?”
“Hot,” he answered almost immediately. “Scalding hot. So hot I can barely stand it.”
Mmm. That was a fast answer—and a great answer. Maybe inanimate objects were easier for him to describe than body parts and sex acts. “And how does the water feel as it cascades over you?” she prodded.
“Wet. Slippery. It makes me wish someone was in here with me, to be honest.”
She was feeling wet and slippery enough herself to question the propriety of dropping her free hand down the elastic waistband of her sweats, but that would be inappropriate unless he was doing it too, right?
She settled for dropping her hand to her thigh instead, a few inches shy of brushing against any vital parts. “Is your shower big enough for more than one person?”
There was his chuckle again, though this time it held a long, continued rumble that made her clamp her thighs together with a whimper. “Yes, Georgia. It’s quite large—and growing larger by the second.” He paused. “This doesn’t really count, you know. I haven’t used any of your four letter words yet.”
“Your words are doing the trick just fine,” she managed.
“Are they?” He sounded inordinately pleased with himself. But the next part didn’t come out quite so easily. “Do you want to—That is, can I—”
“Yes,” she gasped. “I want to, and you can.”
There was a pause long enough for Monty to have extracted himself from his clothes or otherwise made himself comfortable enough to begin stroking. She desperately wanted to ask him if that was what he was doing, but despite the fact that she was playing teacher to his pupil here, she was no phone-sex expert. She was no expert on anything related to men. Or women, for that matter.
“So what happens now?” he asked, his voice rough.
“I’m not sure. We could go back to talking about the shower if you want.”
“Is that how you normally do this?”
She made a gurgling sound that might, from a generous listener, be termed a laugh. “Are you kidding? You’ve met me. Do you really think I’ve done this before?”
“You’re the one who set yourself up as my guide. I was merely following your lead.”
They were veering dangerously off topic here, but it seemed suddenly important that she speak up. No, she wasn’t any good at sex. No, she didn’t have much experience with all the other things sex entailed—lolling in bed, drowsily basking in the afterglow, sharing laughter and kisses long into the night. The relationship stuff.
And that was fine. She might be the last woman on earth a man would consider a fitting receptacle for all his love and affection, but if there was one thing she’d mastered through time and extensive longing, it was how to survive on sexual fantasy and sexual fantasy alone.
“Fuck the rules,” she said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Fuck the rules—I think that’s how this is supposed to work. There’s no right or wrong way to talk dirty to me, and you can say and do whatever you want. You’re not John Montgomery the Third. I’m not Georgia Lennox. We’re just two people trapped on an iceberg who have to share body heat or risk dying adrift at sea.”
Pause. “Icebergs are cold.”
“I know.”
“And they might have polar bears.”
“The increased danger only heightens the moment. Don’t worry—I’ll protect you. I’m an expert at bear wrestling.”
He laughed, another one of those semi-restrained, oh-so-warm sounds that pulled her in like quicksand. “I believe you. But it’s not really bears I’m interested in wrestling right now. What I’d like to do is wrestle you.”
That got her free hand under her waistband in a flash. There was no way Monty could know that the two of them being forced to fight under the lustful eyes of the Roman Empire had been last night’s feature—but she sure as hell didn’t mind revisiting it now. Despite their temporary derailment, she was still very much primed and ready to go, and she reveled in the familiar warmth of her own body.
“What would you do if you managed to get me pinned?” Georgia asked. “And that’s a pretty big if, by the way. Probably about as big as your shower.”
Monty tilted back against the headrest of his chair and enjoyed a moment of laughter and mounting desire—a combination he wasn’t sure he’d ever experienced before. Although he would have infinitely preferred to have Georgia’s strong hand—or even better, her strong body—working up and down his erection, her rapid breathing was doing an excellent job of keeping his movements going.
“It won’t be easy,” he said with a hitch in his voice, “subduing you.”
“Of course it won’t.”
“You’ll struggle to get free.”
“Good for me.”
“But I’ll manage to calm you with kisses.”
“Cheater.”
“And I’ll eventually get you exactly where I want you—underneath me.”
Her low moan tugged at his insides. “What do you demand, Monty? Now that you have me exactly where you want me?”
“Not much. I plan to hold you there and make you tell me a story.”
She released a growl of frustration that set him laughing again.
“Don’t worry. I also plan to satisfy all your bodily desires.” It would have been a good time to segue into cocks and balls, but even though his cock and his balls were very much on his mind—and in his hand—right now, he didn’t plan on introducing them into the conversation. “But I want to hear your stories too, Georgia. I enjoy the sound of your voice. I enjoy it almost as much as I do the sight of your bare legs.”
“My legs?” she said in a hoarse voice.
He hoped that was a sign she was close to coming, because he had to clench his hand over his own length to keep from shooting off before she was ready.
“Your legs,” he confirmed. “If you let me, I think I could spend hours between them.”
He interpreted the cry that greeted him on the other end of the line as a confirmation of Georgia’s release. Giving himself up to that sound—softer and sweeter than he could have ever imagined—he closed his eyes and allowed the moment to sweep him away.
And what a moment it was, out of control and expansive, so much more than a man and his hand.
He’d had sex using nothing but words. Him. Monotonous Montgomery. Drudgery John. The man no one wanted to converse with unless they absolutely had to.
“I told you I wasn’t broken,” Georgia said a few seconds later. “Defective, maybe, but not without hope.”
“I never doubted you.” He didn’t move, his limbs heavy with satisfaction. There was something incredibly inelegant about this situation—sitting here sticky and sated—but he found it difficult to care. Elegance was overrated. “It would be a strange thing to lie about.”
“Yes, well as you’ve pointed out before, I’m strange.”
She didn’t respond right away, and a sudden burst of panic seized him. This was why he preferred the moments after sex, when all the uncertainties and questions that arose between two people could be answered with an embrace. He didn’t possess the words to reassure her the way she deserved, and without the ability to wrap his arms around her and hold her tight, he didn’t know how to make sure she didn’t run scared.
Because he wanted to do this again. He wanted Georgia to trust him enough to see this thing through to the end. Sex, friendship, a strange and exciting place where the two intertwined—whatever it was they were doing made him feel good. Happy.
Alive.
“Will you do me a favor and stop by my office tomorrow?” he asked, hoping his desperation didn’t show. If anything, he’d veered too far in the opposite direction, his request more of a gruff command.
“Why?”
“Because I want to give you something.”
He could practically see her dig in her heels. “Nuh-uh. No way. If you think I’m bad at apologies, you should see how I am with gifts.”
“It’s not that kind of gift, Georgia. I promise.”
She ignored him. “And I think we should make it a point not to see each other at the Manor unless we absolutely have to. It’s better if we make this a strictly-after-work-hours arrangement.”
His voice became even gruffer, though it was a rising sense of anger and not desperation that drove it this time. “Why? Because you’re ashamed of what we’re doing?”
“No. Because if anything goes wrong, I’m the one who has to walk away from a valuable client.” She hesitated. “I’ve worked with your family for eighteen years, Monty. I’m not afraid of losing your dad’s business if it comes down to it, but it’s not something I’m going to seek out either.”
He held himself perfectly still, her meaning settling over him like a weighted blanket. “You’d give up Montgomery Manor, just like that?”
“Well, yes.” He could hear the surprise in her voice. “Better me than you, wouldn’t you say?”
He couldn’t say. He couldn’t even breathe. The idea that Georgia would give this place up for him—that giving this place up was even an option—filled him with an inexplicable feeling of warmth. And cold. And warmth.
That weighted blanket refused to make up its damn mind.
“I’ll tell you what—if I find I have a few extra minutes tomorrow, I’ll make a special trip up to your office,” she said. “But I’m not making any promises. And I’m serious about the no presents thing. I hate presents.”
He struggled to find his voice, eventually forced to settle for: “No one hates presents.”
“I do. And I hate surprises even more. My brothers tried throwing me a surprise birthday party once. I don’t think you want to know how it ended.”
“Stitches?” he guessed.
“Casts.”
Chapter Eleven
Georgia’s familiarity with the fourth floor of Montgomery Manor stemmed primarily from duty. As a teenager, she’d removed the molding in both Monty’s and his father’s offices to gouge out a space behind the trim to run the necessary cables. She’d also refinished the floors a few years back, and once had to get in the crawlspace above a storage room to clear out the family of bats that had taken up residence inside.
The bats had actually been quite cute, and she still sometimes felt a pang at having so mercilessly ousted them. All they’d wanted was a nice, dark hole where they could hide from the vagaries of a world that looked at them and felt only horror. They’d probably never see such luxury accommodations again.
She felt like a bat herself, flitting through the familiar halls only after she was absolutely sure she couldn’t hear any movement around each corner.
This was a mistake. These gorgeous wood-paneled halls, the stately quiet of wealth hard at work, her own gnarled hand pulling open the outer office door—it didn’t make sense. Maybe she should have made an effort to dress up for this. Or at least put on something other than the blue coveralls that made her feel, for what had to be the first time, like an intruder under this roof.
“Oh, hi, Georgia.” Katie looked up from her desk, her glasses perched daintily on the end of her nose. Like Georgia, Katie had been working at the Manor since she was a young woman, but they couldn’t be less alike as human beings if they tried. The other woman’s quiet efficiency and pertly uplifted nose were pretty much the opposite of everything Georgia stood for—loud efficiency and a heavily robust nose. Katie probably loved yoga and baked cupcakes too. “I think Monty’s on a conference call right now, but he asked me to interrupt with some fake urgent business if it runs past two o’clock. I’ll give him five more minutes, and then you can be my fake urgent business.”
“Oh, I don’t want to interrupt—” Georgia began, but real urgent business rang in, and Katie gestured to one of the fluffy brown leather chairs while she took the call. Unless Georgia wanted to stand there gawping like an ogre who’d never been taught manners, she had no choice but to sit and wait patiently for the man of the Manor to see her.
She sat, but not patiently.
It would have been unfair to accuse Monty of doing this on purpose—reinforcing their social differences, making her feel uncomfortable in a place she’d never once felt uncomfortable before—but she did anyway. This was his fault, with his promises and presents and perfection. He did this, with the sound of his I think I could spend hours between your legs filling her ears as she came.
And she couldn’t even pick up one of the magazines on the table to distract herself, because the options were The Journal of Philanthropy, showcasing a beaming blonde woman in a power suit, or National Geographic, discussing the evolutionary trends of bedbugs. Which are you, Georgia? those magazines asked. A well-coiffed MBA bringing light to the world, or a woman who should probably be worried about the cleanliness of her bedding?
It was the sheets, okay? Her mother was right. Since marrying rich was a joke of cosmic proportions, she should probably get better at doing laundry. And vacuuming. And all adult responsibilities, really. She couldn’t even make toast.
She slouched further in the chair, feeling petulant, when the door directly opposite her swung open. Her heart lifted as if on a string, but the man who appeared didn’t boast the broad shoulders or carefully chiseled jawline that made her shiver in delight.
He did, however, possess a pair of those same, all-seeing blue eyes.
“Mr. Montgomery!” Georgia stiffened, that string winding itself around her heart until she thought the organ might stop. She’d never had one of those get-caught-making-out-with-a-boy moments in high school, but she was pretty sure this had to be a similar experience. “I didn’t know you were going to be here. I stopped by to...”
Oh, hell. What did girls who got caught with boys shoving their tongues down their throats say in this sort of situation? Girl Card members probably knew. They probably had a whole secret list to memorize.
“John mentioned you might be by today,” Mr. Montgomery said pleasantly, no more dismayed to find her sitting in his office reception area than if he’d come outside to find her repairing fence posts. He lowered himself into the chair next to her, his linen suit riding high enough that she could see the tops of his argyle socks and an inch of hairy white leg above that.
She stared at that patch of hairy leg, clung to it like it was a beacon of hope. His hairy leg was a reminder that even though this man could throw her out on her ass and bar her from ever crossing his threshold again, his follicles functioned the same way as everyone else’s.
Or something like that. Mostly she was finding it difficult to meet his eyes.
“We don’t see enough of you upstairs,” he continued. “We don’t see enoug
h of you, period. I hope all is going well with your Homeward Bound project?”
She cast her eyes up, jolted to attention.
“John mentioned your volunteer shortages. I hope you don’t mind.”
She did. She minded quite a lot, actually. It was bad enough that she’d become so desperate she had to beg her family and friends to help dig her out of her hole—a lady wailing in distress of her own making—but it was also weird to think of Monty and his dad kicking back and discussing her over lunch.
Oh, yeah. Georgia’s great with a hammer. She’s also got this weirdly shaped belly button that looks like an old woman screaming obscenities. I kissed it once.
“So it’s true?” Mr. Montgomery prodded gently. “You’re struggling?”
“Oh, it’s not so bad,” she said, the rock in her stomach due more to the reality of her situation than the lie. “I underestimated how much of my time it would take to deal with things like recruitment and retention, but hard work has never scared me.”
“No.” He smiled, the creases of his face folding in well-traveled lines. “No one could ever say that about you. You aren’t scared of much.”
It seemed silly to continue being scared of him after a statement like that, so she forced herself to relax. Mr. Montgomery might be rich and all-powerful, but it wasn’t as if he could make her Homeward Bound situation worse than it already was.
“I go over to the build site when I have a free evening to try and pick up some of the slack, but there’s still an enormous amount of work to do to meet our annual quota,” she said, keeping her voice’s wobble to a minimum. “I only have two hands, you know?”
“It’s never fun to feel impotent in these situations,” he agreed.
Impotent?
“I know John has often struggled with the same feelings, especially when it comes to the Montgomery Foundation. There’s always one more project to fund, one more kid on the street who needs his help. He’d work twenty hours a day if I let him.”