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could work with this. If she wanted it slow, we could take it slow, but that didn’t mean I was not going to torture her every step of the way. I threw her a lopsided grin and then lifted the beer bottle to my lips, swallowing the cold liquid and watching her fuss with her hair and averting her eyes from mine. Georgia was mine, whether she knew it or not. This was our new beginning.

A few weeks into taking it slow and things were perfect, or as perfect as they could be without having her in my bed every night. But nearly just as good was seeing her beautiful smile over dinner each night and having coffee together every morning, just like we had every day last summer.
      That night after we, or she, had decided to take it slow, she'd insisted on getting a tour of my cottage. So much had happened to us there. One night at the end of the dock in the sand, and it had changed my world forever. Yet she’d never been inside the place. So I held her hand as we wandered down the beach, Charlie trotting happily in front of us.  
    We walked up the boardwalk and avoided the uncomfortable silence that stretched between us when we passed the end where we’d shared our first moment this past summer. I laid my hand on her back when she stepped over the threshold, being the perfect gentleman I thought I was, and then she busted down into a fit of giggles. She'd finally admitted there was no way she was taking another step into this house until it had a fresh coat of paint and some fixing up.  

    Two weeks later, she was putting me to work. Saturday morning, bright and early, I was near salivating as she was tramping through my door: hair in a messy knot on the top of her head, yoga pants hugging the curve of her ass perfectly, and paint rollers in hand. She’d sent me to pick up cans of paint the night before and, because I had zero concern for style, I’d let her pick out the paint color.  
    She'd insisted it be a surprise.  
    And was it ever when I lifted the lid. “This is pink.” I narrowed my eyes.  
    “It’s not pink. It’s salmon.” She grinned as she set up the paint trays.  
    “Not putting pink on my walls.”
    “Salmon, and you are. I seem to recall you relinquishing control of this decision.” She arched an eyebrow at me.  
    “There was an unspoken understanding there would be no pink.”
    “Salmon.” She stood, hands on her hips, and faced me.  
    “Fucking pink. And it’s not going on my walls.”  
    She shot me a nasty look before stepping closer. We stood head to head and determination flared in her eyes. It was so fucking hot, I had to adjust myself. Fuck discretion. Her eyes flickered down at the movement before her gaze met mine again, a smirk playing on her lips.  
    She leaned in close to me, one hand threading in my hair, her lips dusting along my jaw, her breath whispering in my ear. “It’s salmon, and if you know what’s good for you, you’re going to help me lay it on your walls.” She gave a tug before turning and bending over to pour paint in the tray.  
    I heaved an exasperated sigh as my eyes took in her long legs, her ass facing me, bent at the waist.  
    “Vixen.”
    She giggled and shot me a grin around her back. She knew exactly what she was doing.  
    “You wanna play that game, baby?” I stepped up behind her and brushed my hips lightly against her ass. I trailed a hand down the expanse of her back, feeling each and every dip and curve in her spine. Finally, my hand trailed across the curve of her bottom and I grabbed both of her hips in my hands and pulled her harder into me. I rotated my hips suggestively, my cock running the length of her cheeks. It felt so fucking good to relieve the pent up pressure. She moaned and rocked softly back into me.  
    My eyes fluttered closed and I relished her body pressed tightly to mine before running my hand up and underneath her shirt to connect with her skin. I pressed my fingertips into her spine and worked my way up her back