Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 102683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 411(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 411(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
“Shagging.” She smiles. “There are some words I do love hearing you say. Shag, fancy, bloke.”
“Shag. Fancy. Bloke,” I repeat, putting my hand back on her body, palm grazing her flesh to cup one of her amazing tits.
Fuck me if her eyes don’t go soft on me. “But that wasn’t just a shag last night, was it?”
Her finger beckons me over and I get closer, somewhat mystified. Where did this confident, sexy as hell, seductive Georgia come from? Has she been under my nose this entire time but I was too big of a pussy to realize it?
She kisses my lips.
“Just admit it, Ashley Dryden-Jones—you like me like me.”
I do like her like her but don’t have the guts to say it out loud. Bit of a pussy I’m turning into.
Still rallying against that strong rejection vibe.
We’re talking when a knock sounds at the door, and I snag a towel from the vanity as I walk toward it, covering my junk with it but not doing a great job of being modest.
One eye to the peephole confirms it’s room service, the dude in the hallway glancing up and down the hall as he waits for me to open the door.
I crack it open and he wordlessly hands me a brown box, not making eye contact when he says, “Will there be anything else?”
Yeah. “How long is the wait for food, thereabouts?”
“I’d say half an hour?”
Cool. “Thanks, we’ll probably see you in a bit.”
He nods. Stands there.
Oh bugger, he’s waiting for a tip. “Hold on mate, give me one sec.”
My billfold is on a table next to the door, in the little kitchenette that makes up the entryway to the room; I’m able to easily slide him a five through the crack in the door so he’ll get the hell out of the hall and I can get back to tossing off a morning shag.
“Do we still want to go to the pool today? Or the Magic Mountains, or—”
“Bugger sightseeing. Bugger the pool,” I say, diving for her beneath the covers. “Let’s just stay here until we have to be at dinner.”
I could seriously watch Georgia lie in the middle of a bed all day long. This bed, the bed at home.
Any bed.
She’s thumbing through a room service menu with a sheet barely covering her skin.
No shame in her game, that one.
“What do you want to eat?”
I purposely let my gaze wander to the center of her thighs and cock one of my eyebrows.
“I can see a couple things I want to eat,” I say, only half joking.
“Ew.” She laughs. “Stop, that’s gross.”
Instead of setting the box of condoms on the bedside table, I open it to peer inside—I want to see what standard-issue hotel rubbers they brought us. There’s a variety in every color with the hotel’s logo emblazoned on each one. Always a chance to advertise, I guess. Doesn’t surprise me, and I wonder if they will be free or if they’re going to charge us.
Still, it’s saved us a trip to the pharmacy.
Who knows where we’d even find one in this city?
“I think I’m going to get scrambled eggs and a fruit platter.” She drags her finger along the menu as she thinks out loud. “And I think oatmeal? Everything sounds good. Doesn’t that sound good?”
I’m not particularly a fan of oatmeal, but I do like fruit. Have her order me some bacon and sausage, my own order of eggs, and pancakes.
Why not?
I’m a growing boy.
We lie around laughing and chatting until another knock sounds on the door, room service having arrived a second time with a loaded cart. It’s laden with food because I ordered so goddamn much, and I organize the plates on the bed—consolidating a few since the kitchen puts each item on its own giant plate—so Georgia doesn’t have to get up or lift a finger to eat her breakfast. Even go so far as to lay the napkin on her lap for her like the maître d' at the restaurant last night—she’s pulled the sheet up to her breasts and begins immediately forking the fruit, taking tiny bites.
Closes her eyes and moans.
“Oh my god, this is so good, I didn’t realize how hungry I was.”
I plop down beside her, bare arse on the bed, cheeks out. I’d never sit on my bed bare-arsed, but anything goes when I’m at a hotel. No rules apply.
Leaning casually on the mattress, braced up by my elbows, I start with the bacon and with the scrambled eggs, one of my free hands rubbing Georgie’s leg as she eats her breakfast beside me.
It’s an oddly domestic moment.
We are so comfortable in each other’s presence—even at our most vulnerable—it almost feels like we’ve been doing this for months or years. It almost feels like we’re an actual couple. It doesn’t feel like this is the first time we’ve been naked together, or the first time we had sex. Which makes me wonder: what would it be like if she and I were…