The Dirty Girls Book Club by Savanna Fox Page B

or charming, and his idea of seduction was to rub his erection against her. Admittedly, he’d been generous in giving her that first orgasm, but then the only thing he’d devoted himself to was getting his own rocks off. The Comte had ensured Emma’s second climax before finding his own release. Woody hadn’t even known if Georgia had come.
    And yet she had. A second time. The memory of it, combined with reading about Lady Emma’s seduction, had her body all atingle.
    She clicked off the light. The bottom line was, she’d been unprofessional. A part of her didn’t regret it, because the experience had been incredible, yet she knew it couldn’t happen again.
    Orgasms weren’t like chocolate. She could enjoy those first two wonderful ones, and not become addicted.

Seven
    Woody drifted into consciousness gradually and painfully. He lay absolutely still, inventorying the damage. Oh yeah, this hurt a lot, and it wasn’t just the shoulder he’d dislocated a couple of weeks ago, which hadn’t had time to heal and which had taken another hard hit against the boards last night. He opened an eye, winced, and then groaned as the movement shot splinters of pain piercing into his brain and gut. The last time he’d had such a massive hangover was almost a year ago, when the Beavers lost the Stanley Cup in double overtime in the seventh game of the finals.
    He sure as hell couldn’t show up for practice like this. Gritting his teeth against nausea, he hauled his ass out of bed and into his jogging shorts. He added a ratty T-shirt and gingerly bent to put on socks and running shoes.
    Each step was more agonizing than the one before. Out the door, down the hall, into the elevator where the sickening swoop downward from the penthouse floor almost made him toss his cookies. Into the street. Fresh air, thank God. His condo was in Vancouver’s Yaletown, and he always ran along the seawall. His trembling legs took him across the grass of David Lam Park toward the water.
    It was a beautiful morning, which added insult to his injury. Sunshine stabbed his eyes like shards of glass, penetrating and lodgingdeep in his brain. He closed his eyes, but that made the nausea worse.
    For the first mile, he figured he would puke or die. Probably both. Sweat ran in rivulets off his body.
    He spent mile two trying to remember why he’d tied one on. After handily winning the first game in the Western Conference finals on the weekend, they’d lost the second last night. A home game, with all those fans rooting for them and being disappointed.
    Woody hadn’t played his best. The shield drove him crazy, and it reminded him of the fucking contract, and the fact that his near-naked body would soon be on billboards. Not to mention the fact that he’d nailed Georgia Malone with the finesse of a rookie at training camp. His performance in that boardroom had been …
    As bad as his performance on the ice last night.
    But none of it was an excuse for getting hammered, especially during the finals. He thought back. A bunch of the guys had gone for a beer after the game. He’d ordered a Granville Island amber ale. Usually, he drank out of the bottle, but before he’d noticed, the waitress had poured the beer into a glass. The amber bubbles had reminded him of Georgia’s eyes. And somehow one beer had turned into—
    No, he didn’t want to remember. He was into his third mile and his stomach was almost steady.
    Woody’s head came up and he started to appreciate the blue sky and puffy white clouds. In the fourth mile, as he turned for home, the bark of a frolicking terrier, the shriek of wheeling gulls, and the glint of sunlight off the ocean barely made him wince.
    Mile six. His legs pumped fast and strong, his shoulders had loosened up, and his head was clear. He’d call his mom in Switzerland and see how she was doing, then have breakfast in the players’ lounge and get in a good practice.
    After practice, Woody drove to Dynamic Marketing.
    At the