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.”