“Guide me,” he says in a low voice, his fingers flexing against my butt. “Take me in.”

His gaze locks on mine, his eyes darkening, as I close my fingers around him. With my other hand I pull my thong to the side.

But instead of guiding him in, I torture us both, slicking the velvety tip of him against the wetness between my legs, forcing him to feel what he does to me.

“Georgiana.”

“Georgie,” I correct, leaning forward to take his bottom lip between my teeth.

Then I position him at my opening, and he takes over, his hips thrusting forward, pushing me against the wall.

Again. Again. Again.

He kisses me as he fucks me, and our mouths are as greedy as our hands, demanding ever more from the other person. Demanding everything.

Andrew tears his mouth from mine with a gasp. “Come, Georgiana. Come now.”

His rough command undoes me, and my body clenches around him a half second before I cry out, shattering.

He captures my cry with his lips, his own harsh shout mingling with mine as he comes inside me, his shoulders heaving with the strain of holding me up, even as he shudders against me.

When my heartbeat stops feeling like it’s going to gallop out of my chest, I nip his shoulder and wiggle to be let down.

His grip gentles, and I slide down his body until my feet touch the floor.

I swallow. “So.”

Looking completely unembarrassed by what just transpired, he tugs his pants back up and fastens his belt, returning to his usual Andrew Mulroney, Esquire, perfection. “So.”

Feeling an unexpected—and unprecedented—wave of affection, I reach out and cup his cheek. “I like you.”

He reaches out a hand and gently tugs my bra strap back into place, his eyes watching the motion of his fingers as he repays the same gesture on the other side, tidying me up in a way that makes my heart melt. “I like you too.”

“Does this mean you’re going to start calling me by my real name?”

“Georgiana Frances? If you’d like.”

“One day, Andy. One day you will break and call me Georgie,” I say, patting his cheek and then pushing him aside, because this time I really do want the water.

I move to the counter, draining the entire glass in three swallows. He does the same.

“You staying over?” I ask.

“Would you like me to?”

So much. I nod.

His eyes flick toward the living room. “Any chance you’ll let me catch up on the ESPN recap? See the baseball highlights?”

“Depends. Can I cuddle next to you with a bowl of ice cream and talk over the announcer at all the pertinent parts?”

“Depends,” he counters as he heads into the living room, picking up my remote and turning on the TV.

“On?”

He glances back. “Do I get my own bowl of ice cream?”

I let out a mock gasp. “Is it possible? Have I found your junk food weakness?”

He winks, then sits on my couch, not slouching, because this is Andrew we’re talking about.

But the moment is so casual, so natural, so perfect . . .

I feel the breath knocked out of me, because there’s no more denying it, no more denying my heart.

This is it for me.

This is what I want, not just for as long as I can have it, but for always.

Georgie

SUNDAY MORNING, BRUNCH TIME

It’s official: I’m getting the hang of this relationship thing, and, um, I’m sort of good at it.

Andrew and I’ve somehow achieved the holy grail of getting our fix of each other without losing our prior lives. He still works like a maniac, exercises like Superman. I still have long lunches with Marley and the girls when it suits me. We’ve even taken another step forward in merging our worlds. There was his work party on Thursday, and then last night he came out to dinner with my friends.

He headed home before we went dancing, because . . . baby steps.

Still, I’m all but skipping as I drop my purse on the entryway table of my parents’ place, humming to myself.

Andrew opted to head for the gym instead of joining me. Something about being behind on workouts, as I was keeping him up all night. I didn’t apologize.

But I’m pretty sure it’ll only be a matter of time until I can coax him into the meet-the-parents phase.

I mean, three workaholics in the same room? They’d all be fast friends. I’m the one who should be worried. Although, on that note, I’ve kind of been considering asking my dad for a job.

I know. I know. You’re like, What? But as much as I love my life, really truly love it, this little part of me has accepted that I’m a tiny bit bored. There are only so many fundraisers, and it’s been bugging me lately that they seem more like a social status thing rather than caring about the actual cause.

I want something I can sink my teeth into.

For now, though, I want a mimosa and to sink my teeth into some bacon, and . . .

Thoughts of food and champagne scatter when I walk into the dining room as I have a million times before, only the scene is different.

Dad isn’t in his chair at one end of the table. Mom’s not in her chair at the other end of the table, phone glued to her ear.

Both parents are seated beside each other, their hands folded, their expressions frozen.

In other words? The type of scene nightmares are built on.

I’ve seen it once before: when they told me Grandma Georgie had passed.

So whatever they have to tell me now is not gonna be good news.

I feel a little jittery as I slowly sink into my usual chair, opposite both of them.

My eyes flick between the two of them, trying to get some inkling of the news before the bomb drops. Is one of them sick?

Of the two of them, my dad looks worse. He’s pale, and there’s no trace of his usual easy smile. My mom merely looks tense, but then, she’s always had a damn good poker face.

No clues on either side.

“Don’t make me ask,” I whisper, my voice only a little bit shaky.

My dad stares straight ahead, and my mom swallows. “Georgie. Honey. Your father and I have decided to get a divorce.”

My shoulders slump a little in relief. They’re not sick. Not dying. But the relief is short-lived as reality sinks in. Even though on some horrible, in-denial level I’ve known it was coming, it’s still a shock.

“No,” I say. “Why?” I clench my hands in my lap, embarrassed that my eyes are watering like I’m six instead of twenty-six.