Georgie’s lips part when I slowly drag my hands up her stomach and cup her breasts, softly playing with her nipples. She tips her head to the side, watching me.

Gorgeous.

Inhales a breath when I pull her forward so I can take one in my mouth and suck, the hands in my hair now plowing through the strands, her nails raking into my scalp.

She moves her hips, dry-fucking me and eventually causing the water around us to slosh.

We kiss.

I cup her breasts and tease her nipples.

We kiss.

I run my hands all over her smooth, wet skin.

We kiss until the timer in the hot tub goes off and the water goes dark and only the lights from the city shine onto the balcony.

My dick is solid as a rock, and I can’t say I’ve ever been more excited to be making out but not shagging—I feel like a teenager at a party. I feel like an adult on a holiday with my bird, though she’s not even close to being my girlfriend.

Eventually, Georgie pulls back and climbs off. “I’m getting cold.” Leans in to kiss me once more, this peck more chaste.

She stands in the middle of the hot tub skimming the water for her bikini top, which has sunk to the bottom.

“I’m going to rinse off.” She yawns. “Then you wanna…watch TV in bed?”

The question is asked as she climbs out, arse practically in my face, a little glance over her shoulder as water drips from her body, her index finger hooking her bottoms to pull them out of her crack.

Do I wanna watch TV in bed?

Does a frog bump his arse when he hops?

Georgia disappears through the sliding doors, and soon I hear the water running in the shower.

Everything about this evening so far has been unexpected: the weird mood at the restaurant, the game in the water, the make-out session I never could have predicted.

You could have bet me five million dollars in the casinos downstairs that she would kiss me, and I would have bet against you and lost my arse over and over and over again.

I hoist myself out of the water, shoving my soggy swim trunks down over my hips then hanging them over the hot tub to drip dry. Pad into the room wet since we didn’t think to bring towels outside.

Luckily, the room has a vanity stocked with several fluffy white towels, and I snag one, wrapping it around my waist.

Patiently, I wait for Georgia to finish rinsing so I can take my turn—the last thing I want to do is climb into the bed smelling like chlorine.

Climb into bed and watch telly…

Is that all we’re going to do? My hands were just all over her tits for Christ’s sake, and now we’re going to sit and watch the telly?

I give the bed a cursory glance as Georgia walks back out the bathroom door, a puff of steam after her.

“It’s all yours, sir.”

She’s wrapped in a plush white robe with the hotel logo emblazoned on it, and she’s wearing matching slippers. I can’t help watching her for a few moments before heading into the shower as she goes to her suitcase and peers inside.

Surely she’ll be in her usual t-shirt and shorts when I reemerge. And surely there’ll be a pillow barricade erected on the mattress with all the decorative pillows, too—the fact that we made out and I felt her boobs means nothing when it comes to bedding down, this much I know.

Never make assumptions.

“I’ll be quick,” I tell her.

She nods, smiling at me over her shoulder. “’Kay.”

All I can think about whilst I’m inside the shower stall is the fact that Georgia was just in here buck naked—I might have seen her bare breasts, but I have yet to see her pussy. And for a brief moment, I wonder what it looks like. Whether or not she has it waxed, or leaves it au naturel the way a lot of girls are doing right now—or so I’ve heard.

It’s not something a lot of the dudes on the rugby team are a huge fan of, but it’s what the girls are doing.

Not shaving or waxing it all off.

Georgia’s shampoo and conditioner and a tiny bottle of body wash are sitting on the ledge, and she’s used one of the hotel washcloths—she has it folded neatly into a tiny square and hanging over the rod.

I take her shampoo and unscrew the top, taking a whiff. I’m not going to use it; I just want to know what it smells like.

It smells like her.

You are not giving yourself a one-hand shandy with Georgia in the other room, arsehole. Plus, you never know…

Never know what, you pervert.

With a shake of my head, I make quick work of shampooing my hair even though it didn’t get wet and lathering up my body with the soap supplied by the hotel.

When I’m done, I shut the water off, towel-dry myself before stepping out onto the cold tile floor, and once again wrap myself in the white terrycloth towel. I brought my boxer shorts into the bathroom so I can just slip into those once my skin is dry and not have to go rooting around for them buck-arse naked in front of Georgia.

I’m cocky, but I’m not a thirst-trapping showboater.

Reentering the room, I try to remain indifferent to Georgia watching me when I open the door. She’s already planted herself in bed, firmly on the left side, farthest from the door. I can’t see much of anything so I’m not sure what she’s wearing, but she’s definitely not wearing her usual t-shirt—I know this because her shoulders are bare.

No fucking way is she naked.

There is no fucking way.

Still, my pulse quickens thinking about the possibility that she might be naked when I pull back the coverlet and slide in on the right side.

The TV is on and she’s flipping through the channels.

“I signed in to Netflix so we can watch a movie and not have to buy one. Is that alright?”

She’s so cute.

“Of course it’s alright. Thanks.”

I have nothing else to do except get into the bed, but first I shut off all the other lights inside the room, lock the deadbolt on the door, and flip the little chain. Better safe than sorry. I’ve seen one too many horror movies that take place in Las Vegas, where someone’s dead body turns up stuffed under one of the mattresses.

I fumble my way back to the bed and pull back the covers on my designated side, the crisp white linen cold when I slide in. I’m relieved to see that Georgia has in fact not erected a pillow barrier the way I thought she might just so I don’t get the wrong idea.

Georgia props herself up on an elbow, facing me from her side of the bed, and my eyes do a quick perusal of her upper body. She’s wearing a cream-colored tank top—but it’s one of those fussy fancy ones made out of a satin fabric.

Or silk, or one of those lingerie materials I know nothing about.

Suddenly a cold toe touches my leg from somewhere beneath the sheets.

“Oh my gosh, I am so sorry. My toes are so cold.” She giggles. I’m not sure if she did it on purpose or if it was truly an accident, but it seems to me like the kind of thing a girl would do when she’s trying to touch you without being too obvious. Now probably wouldn’t be the time to remind her that my hands were just all over her body—including her arse.

I wonder what she’s got on for bottoms.

Pants? Shorts?

Panties?

Her toes give another wiggle.

“Are you looking for an invitation to stick your feet between my legs?” I laugh.

Georgia shrugs.