Public Relations by Tibby Armstrong Page A

fully understand. “Just. Please.”
    His hands remained on her hips. The frenzy of his thrusts increased. Each graze of her G-spot became a revelation of sensation, lifting her higher. Who needed intimacy when you had the runaway train of an orgasm barreling down your track? Her fingers slipped, squeaking against the glossy paint. Peter shifted and leaned into her. The band of one arm became a fulcrum against which he held her aloft when she would have collapsed. Warmth infused her skin at the press of his torso against her spine. She keened, incoherent. So close, yet so far.
    Breath coming through his nostrils in a labored rush, he seemed to grapple for control. “Wrap your legs around me. Lock your ankles.”
    Somehow, facing away from him, she did as he asked. With her forearms pressed against the wall, one of Peter’s arms and the pressure of his hips held her aloft. With his free hand he plucked at her nipples, pinching them to aching points. Then he moved lower. He trailed over her bunched dress to her clit. Fingers poised against that bundle of nerves, he drew his hips back for a full-seated thrust.
    “Come for me.” The hoarsely worded demand might have been a whisper, but it registered as a shout.
    Spasms racked her limbs, pushing her up the last steps of an internal mountain until she leaped off the precipice. Down, down, down, tumbling over and over until she drifted to the bottom of a wide, deep chasm.
    An eternity later, he withdrew from her. Georgia realized he must’ve found his own release while she’d been in the throes of the most incredible orgasm of her life. Legs unsteady, ankles wobbling, she turned and leaned against the wall while he smoothed her dress.
    He brushed the fabric downward, then cleaned up. Leaning through the door of a small bathroom, he found the paper-towel dispenser. The whir of the device and rip of the towels said he wrapped up the leavings of their interlude and tossed them into the rubbish.
    Facing her once more, he hesitated. One hand brushed her shoulder, his thumb a quiet stroke of regret she saw mirrored in his gaze. His attention lingered on her mouth. When his lips parted, she closed her eyes in anticipation of his kiss.
    His warmth left her. Sound and light cut through her awareness. As she opened her eyes, the door back to the gallery clicked closed. He was gone.

Chapter Eight
    The scent of hazelnut and dark roast tickled Peter’s nostrils. He breathed deeper. Felt the bed shift. His brow tightened as he tried to remember who he’d gone home with. Coming up empty, he opened one eye.
    Georgia, her hair wound into a messy topknot, considered him over the rim of a paper coffee cup from her position at the end of his bed. On one elbow, Peter sat up and examined her cross-legged posture. Bare feet. Pink toenails. His gaze traveled up jean-clad thighs to a trim waist and the swell of pert breasts molded against a pink mohair turtleneck. Bluish circles painted the delicate skin under her eyes.
    He hadn’t seen her since he’d left her in that hallway last night, and his morning erection waved all sorts of flags, trying to get him to renew his attentions in her direction. She’d been spectacular. Genuine in her need and pleasure, as well as her apprehension. He’d read the opposite pulls of dread and desire in the way she moved into his touch even as her eyes had skittered away. Despite his reputation, or maybe because of it, she’d come down on the side of bravado.
    Fuck her against a wall indeed.
    He’d not had uncalculated, uninhibited sex like that in years. He toyed with the idea of sleeping with her again, now, and quickly discarded it. Women he hadn’t paid for were like a socialite’s outfits. He never wore them twice. Georgia had known what she’d been getting into when she’d made that offer and hadn’t wanted any more attachment than he.
    “You overslept,” she said, barely meeting his gaze.
    He glanced at the clock on the nightstand. It flashed an