Her movements are turning wild, spurring my harder drives into her body, until she cries out and arches against me. I nibble her neck, not quite ready to let go. She’s wet and tight and fits me like a velvet glove. If I could stay inside of her forever, I would.
“Sloane,” she says in a hoarse whisper that sends me over the edge.
My groan is harsh and guttural as I empty into her, the orgasm felt from the bottom of my spine, straight to my balls and my head. It’ll take me a moment to recover, so I rest my chin on the crown of her head, shivering at the brush of her lips near my shoulder.
Afraid to rest my weight on her too long, I turn over and close my eyes.
Urgent shakes bounces through me and I lift my lids. Blearily, I glance at the clock. 2:30. I must’ve fallen asleep.
Another shake and Georgie leans over me. She sniffles.
“What’s wrong?” I demand, leaning behind me and flipping on the bedside lamp.
Georgie’s wide awake with tears in her eyes.
Heart racing, I shake the last of my sleep from my brain and sit up, dragging her with me to do a quick inspection. Other than reddened skin from where I sucked her neck, and abrasions from the stubble on my face, she seems fine.
Then why is she crying?
“Georgie, baby, what’s wrong?” I ask, frantic. “Are you ill?”
“N-no. I’m hungry,” she cries.
My mouth drops open. I stare at her in disbelief. “Fucking hungry? You scared the fuck out of me because you’re fucking hungry?”
She nods.
Maybe, that’ll be her birthday gift. Adding her fingerprint to the access upstairs. Knowing she needed me to be able to return to the bedroom, it still annoys me that she frightened the fuck out of me. “Come on,” I snap begrudgingly. “Let’s go downstairs.”
“No!” she wails, like a spoiled brat. “I want pork chops, mashed potatoes, gravy and…and…and…” Unable to finish, she collapses in a heap, finally sobbing, “We don’t have that in the kitchen.”
The wind is almost knocked from me, rendering me momentarily speechless. My thoughts race.
Girls wake up all the time in the middle of the fucking night crying for a pork chop?
Right?
Right. Sure, Sloane.
They wake up wailing for that shit when they’ve had cum spurting into them periodically. I count back over the days. The day after we arrived, Georgie and I made up a chart for her cycle. We’ve been in Denver for a month. She had a period about nine days after we arrived.
Fuck.
She grips my wrist and shakes me again. “Sloane, please! I want—“
“I heard you. I fucking heard you,” I mutter to myself. Not that she can hear me. She’s sobbing again. “Fuck, Georgiana.”
Exactly. That’s exactly what you’ve done. No one wants to eat what she’s requesting at close to three in the morning, unless they’re rough dock workers or pregnant women. And Georgie is not a fucking dock worker.
“Sloane! Are you listening to me?”
I do something I never thought I’d do. Not even to save my fucking life. The Kiln stare, that cold laser smirk that always makes me want to fuck him up.
She bows her head and cries against her hands. I know I’m fucked. Like a dead man walking, I get out of bed.
No way in hell can I have her suffer over a fucking piece of pig. I need to deliver what she wants to slake her craving.
The only place I know where I can get what she wants, is from my cook, so I make a quick call and wake her up.
“You want what, Mr. Sloane?” she asks.
I understand her incredulity. I’m right there with her.
“Please. I haven’t had your home cooked meals in weeks.”
She’s silent, then she huffs, “You’re the one who gave me the time off.”
“I know,” I snap, walking back into my room. Georgie’s wide-awake, no longer crying, and curled in my spot.
“Five grand, Zelda,” I tell her, desperate on Georgie’s behalf. Fuck it. “Twenty grand,” I amend. “Delivered tomorrow via cashier’s check.”
“You got a girl pregnant?”
Yes. “No. Fuck, Zelda, thank God my mother loved you, and I didn’t want to leave you either without employment or with my father after she died.” I thrust my fingers through my hair. “Fuck, fifty grand.”
“If you want me to retire, you just need to tell me.”
I growl in frustration. “I don’t want you to retire. I need a fucking pork chop. With mashed potatoes and gravy. That’s it? Tell me what I have to do to get it.”
“Why didn’t you say that, Mr. Sloane?” She instructs me to get a notepad and pencil, then gives me a short grocery list. “No need for all that money either. You and your daddy sure like to flaunt your big bank accounts. Of course, he only did it for—“
“My mother,” I snarl, recoiling at the idea that I’m anything like Rand Mason.
“How long before you get here?”
She lives twenty minutes away. I have to find an all-night grocery store, buy the shit, and then get it to her. “An hour.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Sloane.”