I drop my head, lowering myself above her, pressing our fronts together, my hard dick rubbing against her pussy.
“Where did you put those condoms?” She already wants to know, impatient.
“Eh, they’re around here somewhere,” I tease, knowing they’re in clear sight on the table next to us.
Georgia lifts her pelvis to rub up on me. “Maybe you should grab one now.”
She’s wet—I can feel it.
“Right now? You don’t want me to…” I bow my head and glance down through our bodies, to the valley between her thighs.
“You don’t have to go down on me, just…” Georgia rubs against me again. “I’m already so turned on.”
“Should I tell you about the fun day we have planned instead?” I drag my cock up and down her pussy, smiling into her ear. “Pool time—you in a sexy swimsuit.”
“That does sound nice.”
She inhales when I flirt with her entrance.
“Have a few drinks, then come back and change for dinner.”
Her lips are puckered and pouty. “Stop teasing me, or I’m going to roll over and fall back asleep.”
No one wants to fall back asleep.
She’s not fooling anyone.
Still, unwilling to call her bluff, I scoot and reach to the table for the rubbers, pluck a blue-wrapped prophylactic from the box, tear it open with my teeth.
No ceremony here.
No sexy way of sliding it on to draw out the tension.
Nope, we unroll it onto my dick, check to make sure Georgia is good and slick before I ease myself inside.
We moan simultaneously when I do.
She tips her head back. “Why does this feel so good?”
I don’t know—I don’t have an answer for her because I’m baffled, too. Sex with her was supposed to be about sex, not the way it’s making us feel, but apparently it’s got us questioning our sanity after having shagged each other.
There is no way in hell we can go back to school and go back to the way things were before this weekend.
Not possible.
Twenty-Two
Georgia
“You’re so sexy—like a Viking. I could ride you all night, you hot British piece of Viking ass.” A loud smack echoes in the air as my hand connects with the flesh of his butt cheeks.
“I’m your husband now, you can shag me whenever you want. Are you going to move your shite into my room when we get home, wifey? I love you, you’re so beautiful.”
“No, you’re beautiful. Come kiss me with that gap, you hottie. Put that mouth on me…”
“Where?”
“Everywhere.”
“Here?”
His mouth kisses my hand, sucking the ring I have on my fourth finger…
With a gasp I bolt up, immediately assaulted by blinding light.
My outstretched arm tries to block the sun—dear lord, why is it so freaking bright in here?
I want to die.
How much did we drink last night? How sad is it that I don’t remember?
I press a hand to my forehead; it throbs like there’s been a hammer taken to it, and I can’t tell what day it is. Why can’t I feel my face?
Plus.
I have to pee.
Rolling my head to the side, I gauge the distance to the bathroom by cracking a single eyelid open and staring at the wall.
Why is the bathroom a million feet away?
I roll back toward the middle of the bed, squeezing my lids shut again to block out the sunshine; it’s determined to break in and wake my ass up and get me moving.
“Ugh, what time is it?”
It must be early; I rarely sleep late even when I have nowhere else to be. I’m a morning person who usually eagerly hops out of bed at the first sign of light, so why does it feel like Ashley and I slept the day away?
Clock, clock, where is the clock…?
Must be on Ashley’s side of the bed.
He’s on his back, arm slung across his eyes, mouth gaping open (a tad unattractively). No drool, but still—he looks like a dead fish.
And he’s wearing a ring.
It’s absolutely impossible not to notice, black against his skin, circling a finger on his hand where a ring never existed before.
I squint as I inspect it, leaning in closer on the off chance I’m hallucinating.
“Are you wearing a ring?” My voice is raspy. “Did you have that on yesterday?”
He moves, but barely, removing the arm from across his face, confused and bleary-eyed.
“No, I’m not wearing a ring. What are you going on about?”
I pick up the hand and give it a tiny shake. “Ring.”
He looks at it, doing his best to focus on the solid band now circling his left hand.
“What the bloody hell? Where did this come from?” He fiddles with it, twisting it in circles. Slides it off and holds it up to his eye, staring into the hole.
He looks over at me, gaze trailing down my arm to the same spot on my body.
“What the bloody hell is that?”
“What the bloody hell is what?”
“That.”
He points rudely, and I follow. On the fourth finger of my left hand sits a diamond ring so big my eyes actually bug out of my skull, and I imagine I look like a cartoon caricature from an old Warner Brothers movie gaping down at it.