An Adult Contemporary Romance
The epic romance between an all-American beauty and her Aussie continues in this final installment of The Beauty Series.
Jack McLachlan is fulfilled by more than he dared to dream possible. He finds everything he never knew he wanted—or needed—in Laurelyn Prescott, his last and final companion. Life is beautiful with his beloved by his side but their post-wedded bliss is cut short when his dark past springs into their present happiness. He wants to shelter Laurelyn but keeping her untainted by his previous life proves impossible when yesterday’s sins insist on returning to haunt him. Will it be possible for them to find happiness in their forever with a past like his?
Beauty From Love is an adult contemporary novel and is not intended for younger readers due to mature content.
My eyes are closed and I’m listening to the sound of the waves. I’ve only been awake for a few minutes but the resonance is hypnotic so I’m drifting back into slumber when the bed shifts. My eyes pop open when the bed sheet slides down my body and I feel Jack Henry’s kisses against the bare skin of my lower back. “Are you awake?”
“I am now.”
He runs his hand over the valley where my spine curves inward. “Have I ever told you how much I love this dip?”
Is he kidding? Only like a bazillion times. “I believe you may have a time or two.”
His wet tongue glides upward and I bow reflexively, sending my bottom up from the bed, hitting him against his chest. My hair prickles as goosebumps spread from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. No matter how many times he does this, my body reacts the same. “Good grief. You’d think I’d become immune to that at some point.”
His palm slides up my thigh to my cheek and he rubs it in a circular motion. “Please don’t because I’ll never tire of seeing your body arch like that.”
I relax beneath his touch and his talented hands knead the muscles of my back as they make their way to my shoulders. I haven’t said anything but my body is rebelling after our frolic against the pole yesterday. A massage is very welcomed. “Mmm … you can stop doing that sometime next week.”
His fingers knead in circles and, again, my body erupts into chills. “So you like that, huh?”
“Mmm-hmm … just a little bit.”
“A massage is the least I can do since it’s my fault you’re sore.”
I lift my head from the pillow and peer over my shoulder at him. “I didn’t say I was sore.”
“You didn’t but your body speaks to me in other ways.”
Funny, I didn’t hear it say a thing. “How so?”
“It wasn’t your usual fuck-me-harder moan I heard when I pushed your legs back.” He leans down to kiss the side of my neck. “Your legs were guarded so I knew you were probably feeling the aftermath of our pole excursion.” He kisses the side of my face. “I’m sure it’s worse today so we’re taking a break from sex so you can recuperate.”
I recall how gentle and loving Jack Henry was last night while we christened our honeymoon bed. His whole demeanor was different, but he was that way before, possibly discerning how sore I was. “Is that why you were so gentle with me?”
“What’s the other reason?”
“I wanted to make love to you.” He presses his nose against my hair and inhales deeply. “I’m boorish with you too often. I should be gentler.”
I roll, forcing him to move from my back. “Listen up, McLachlan.” He moves to his side and we’re face to face. “I love your gentle side but I’m not a porcelain doll. I love it when you fuck me hard.” I grab his chin and give it a squeeze. “Sometimes I need you to be a caveman. I crave it. Understand?”
He nods in agreement. “Yes, ma’am.”
About the Author
Georgia resides in rural Mississippi with her wonderful husband, Jeff, and their two beautiful daughters. She spent fourteen years as a labor and delivery nurse before she decided to pursue her dream of becoming an author and hasn’t looked back yet.
When she’s not writing, she’s thinking about writing. When she’s being domestic, she’s listening to her iPod and visualizing scenes for her current work in progress. Every story coming from her always has a song to inspire it.
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