I inch away.
Roll her so she’s on her back and in the center of the mattress, beginning the journey down her body toward the foot of the bed, noting that her legs spread of their own accord—the perfect landing spot for my face.
She is wearing a thong, as I suspected; it’s the same color as her tank top but almost entirely see-through. Where the hell has she been hiding underwear like this? In a magic drawer somewhere? What else is she hiding in that bedroom of hers? She’s barely decorated.
Georgia is already making little delighted moaning sounds of anticipation, breath hitching when my large shoulders part her thighs.
I let my finger trail down the center of her pussy, over the thin fabric of her underwear.
I wouldn’t have pegged Georgia as the kind of girl who waxes herself bare, and I’m not sure why that surprises me. Probably because I wasn’t thinking of her in a sexual way before she moved in.
Leaning forward, I cover her pussy with my mouth and let the warm breath warm her slit. She moans quietly, dark hair fanned out on the white pillow.
She’s beautiful.
She’s smart.
And she’s mine for the weekend.
If there’s one thing I’m good at other than rugby and being big and strong and brooding, it’s going down on a woman. I might not have had a lot of experience with sex and kissing and romance, but I have plenty of experience with oral. I think it’s because I never thought I was that good-looking, though women always wanted to date me—blame it on the scars and bruises on my face, or the gap between my teeth that made me feel mostly unattractive as a teenager.
So I got good at eating girls out.
My finger soon joins my mouth, hooking itself into the edge of her panties, pulling them away from her skin. Pushing them aside and causing a wonderful friction that I know is going to drive her wild.
“Oh my god…” She gasps. “That feels so good.”
Georgia raises herself up on her elbows so she can watch me put my mouth on her pussy, and she does that thing she always does when she’s excited—she bites her bottom lip. It’s a tell I’m learning about her; she does it when she’s nervous or turned on.
And right now I think she’s probably both.
Opening yourself up like this to somebody you hardly know, even if you’ve lived with them for a few weeks, is a vulnerable position to be in, and we’re not even home. We’re in a strange city surrounded by millions of people and a hotel room up in the sky.
It’s a weekend for adventures and great sex.
My tongue licks at Georgia.
At the sensitive nub between her legs, licking and sucking until her legs begin to shake. I have to hold them open because she’s trying to close them, and I want them on my shoulders. I want them to remain open so she comes hard when I want her to and not a minute before.
I’m about to discover whether or not she’s one of those girls who come quickly, who takes a little bit longer, or who doesn’t come at all.
Georgia takes her time.
Her head lolls from side to side, almost thrashing from urgency, her delicate hands clutching the pillowcase.
I’m torn. Do I watch her in the throes of ecstasy? Or do I continue to lick and suck her clit into submission?
I do both, raising my eyes as my tongue lashes out to flick her sensitive spots—the spots I’ve already been that had her moaning out loud and calling my name.
She says it again. “Ashley…”
And again as I suck.
“Ashley…Ashley…”
I used to hate my fucking name. When I moved to the States, everyone made fun of it, but hearing Georgia say it whilst I’m fucking her with my mouth?
Brilliant.
“Oh god…” She uses the lord’s name in vain for the second time tonight, calling up a prayer that he’ll finish her off.
God isn’t going to save her now.
I’m going to be the one to do it.
Me.
Twenty
Georgia
Ashley went down on me.
That’s the first thing I think about as I’m lying here, legs spread, his head between my legs.
My fingers go to his hair, sifting through the strands he just made tidy with a trim in time for our trip, lazy strokes on his scalp as I lie here in post-climax bliss.
He’s still between my legs, hands gently running back and forth along my inner thighs. Occasionally he licks at my crotch, though he’s done going down on me, having made me come a few minutes ago.
It surprises me that he hasn’t climbed off me, or the bed, to wash up or retreat. Or get in a position to sleep.
Ashley Jones is a cuddler—I can see that now in the way he’s watching me, content in the spot he’s at, happy to be touching me.