Jock Royal

by Ney, Sara

  Last night wasn’t how I imagined sex with her to be—

  “Good morning.”

  Georgia has her eyes open and she’s slowly blinking at the light filtering through the curtains.

  Blinks toward me, focusing.

  She smiles groggily.

  “Morning, sunshine.” Gross, did those words just come out of my mouth?

  “I feel hungover.”

  “That’s because you’re a little lightweight.”

  “Yeah, who knew.” She scrunches up her forehead and yawns. “I would probably feel better if you weren’t so far away.”

  Her arm moves across the mattress, hand reaching for mine, twining our fingers together.

  It’s all the invitation I need to close the gap between us, moving toward her and lying on my side so I can run my hands over the bare skin of her back.

  “That feels so good,” she moans in a tired morning voice, face pressed against the pillow, still looking sexy as hell.

  Her eyes drift closed.

  Georgie’s hair is matted in the back, a combination of sex hair and bedhead, the long strands sticking out every which way but still looking adorably fetching.

  A smile plays at her lips as she cracks her eyes again then slowly rolls to her back even as my hand travels along her flesh; my palm has no choice but to run from her back to her stomach.

  I lean down, kissing between her breasts. Kiss the tip of each puckered nipple, trailing my hand down over her lower belly to her inner thigh where the skin is soft and sensitive. Her hand comes up and buries itself in my hair as she watches me touch her.

  “How do you feel about morning sex?” she whispers sleepily.

  “Is that an actual question?” Still… “We don’t have any condoms.”

  And the last time I checked, the pull-out method was a fucking terrible idea.

  Georgia worries her bottom lip, but then almost immediately her eyes light up again with an idea. “Um, this is Vegas. Maybe…maybe we could call the front desk?”

  “Fuck me sideways, Georgie—that’s brilliant!”

  She preens under my approval, and I peck her on the lips before catapulting my body across the bed to reach for the phone, scrambling for the button that will connect me to the concierge.

  It rings three times before someone answers.

  “Front desk, how can we assist you this morning, Miss Parker?”

  “Hi. I’m wondering if you have any condoms you can send up? Seems we’re out.”

  The person on the other end doesn’t hesitate. “How many?”

  I glance over my shoulder at Georgia wriggling around in only the bright white sheet and give her a thumbs-up to let her know we’re in business.

  “Ten?”

  Georgia lets out a snort behind me. “Wow. Someone is optimistic.”

  That’s me. I’m someone.

  “We’ll send someone up to room 2417 right away, sir.”

  Sir. That makes me chuckle.

  I disconnect the line, launching back onto the bed, mattress bouncing under me. It has Georgia bursting into a giggle fit.

  “Ten condoms? What the hell are you trying to do, make it impossible for me to walk?” She puts a hand over her bare crotch and feigns a shudder.

  “We’re in our twenties—how is ten rubbers too many for twenty-four hours of shagging? Should I call back and tell them to bring twelve, to err on the side of caution?”

  “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 e
ach 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…

  …a thing?

  I chew on the end of a piece of bacon, gnawing whilst I think, still stroking Georgia’s leg.

  “Oh, I’m getting so full,” she says, putting down her fork and pushing the sheet off of her body. I take my hand off her leg so she can roll off the bed, toward the bathroom. Her feet hit the ground and her arse wiggles.

  “I’m going to use the bathroom and brush my teeth—be right back.” She gives me a little smile as she disappears behind the closed door.

  Satisfied by my own breakfast, I begin stacking all the plates and clearing the mess whilst she’s doing her thing, picking up the napkins, placing everything back onto the room service cart. I push it toward the door so it’s out of the way, taking a healthy swig of water that’s been sitting there, swishing it around in my mouth.

  I should definitely brush my teeth, too.

  Georgia doesn’t take long, so I slip in the bathroom after her to take a piss and brush my teeth, eyeballing the gap in my mouth quizzically from another perspective.

  The imperfection is something Georgia likes about me.

  I clench my teeth together and stare at it in the mirror.

  Bruises have mostly all gone away, cuts are healed. A few light scars here and there and I’m no worse for wear.

  There’s mouthwash on the counter and I swirl it around—I want to feel minty fresh when I finally fuck her again.

  The morning sex foreplay has been drawn out so long my body starts to buzz with anticipation, knowing that soon, I’ll be getting my rocks off.

  Lowering my head, I run the cold water on the tap and splash my face.

  Blot it dry with a towel.

  Clenching my teeth again, I give myself one more cursory glance before flicking off the light and rejoining her in the bedroom.

  “Hey stranger, what took you so long?” Georgia asks, patting the spot on the bed beside her. She’s lying on her side on top of the covers, playfully flirting at me with her eyes.

  I crawl up the bed to join her on all fours, up over her body as she moves to her back to accommodate me.

  “You are a vision, Georgia Parker.” I kiss her shoulder.

  She blushes. “A vision? I’ve never been called that.”

  I wager there are plenty of things that’ve never been said to her that she’s been missing out on all these years, but then again, she hasn’t really dated anyone either so any little thing I say, I want to make sure it’s sincere so she never has room to doubt me. I brush the hair back from her shoulder after kissing it to make room for my lips at the base of her neck. It’s something I noticed she loves—any time I put my mouth anywhere near her jawline, she begins to purr like a kitten.

  Soft, butterfly kisses lightly touching her skin make her shiver.

  “I wager there are things I could say that would make you blush more than you are right now.”

  “Oh yeah? Like what?”

  “Like…the first time I saw you wasn’t when you walked up to me at the house party.”

  Her eyes go wide at that information.

  “I saw you walk in when you first got there.” How could I not have noticed her? She’s a head taller than most women and beautiful to boot with her long brown hair and big, innocent eyes. “Saw you looking around the room.”

  “I was looking for you,” she murmurs.

  She was looking for me; she just didn’t know it. But isn’t that how these things work?

  Fate and destiny and shite, all that mushy stuff?

  “You walked in and I thought you were so fucking pretty.”

  Georgia does blush again, tilting her head slightly.

  Coyly.

  “You did?”

  “Why are you surprised by this?”

  It’s light outside and we’re having this moment stone-cold sober.

  What if we put the roommate and the friendship stuff aside and have fun this weekend without thinking about it?

  What if, what if, what if…

  I wouldn’t be saying any of this if we weren’t in Vegas, no fucking way.

  “I would never assume I was anyone’s type, physically.”

  “Bollocks.” I laugh, kissing her lips. “You’re probably everyone’s type.”

  “You’re just saying that because you like me.”

  Georgia has a point; maybe I am just saying it because I like her—but that doesn’t make it any less true.

  “What else you got? That didn’t make me blush.”

  She’s lying—it did make her blush; she usually does when the attention is on her.

  “One of my favorite things about you, as I’ve recently discovered, is your boobs.” The word tits almost leaves the tip of my tongue, but I don’t want to be unnecessarily crude.

  “You’re a breast man?”

  I am now. “And an arse man, and a leg man.” I run a hand down each body part as I say it. “I’m an everything Georgia man.”

  “Stop it,” she demurs, pursing her lips as an invitation for a kiss.

  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.