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As my balls tighten and ripple, I grip my cock and aim it right at her tits, and, two seconds later, I’m streaking the glass with the physical evidence of my need. When the deed is done, and my painting complete, I press both palms against the glass, yearning to touch her. It’s a good thing I don’t do coke anymore. Because, I swear to God, if I were high on blow in this moment, I’d grab that armchair from the corner, crash it into this window, and leap through the jagged, gaping hole to get to her naked body two floors below. Which, obviously, wouldn’t be good.
“Come to me,” I mouth.
And she immediately responds by rising to her feet, her tits aimed right at me, and lapping at the air with the full length of her tongue, like she’s licking up every last drop of my cum off the window.
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” I murmur, every cell in my body exploding with desire. “Come. Here. Right. Now.”
A naughty smile breaks free across her sultry face, telling me she’s understood my command perfectly. To my thrill, she moves from her spot... but not to come to me, as instructed. No. Georgina is having too much fun torturing me to do that. She grabs a towel off a nearby lounger and returns to her spot, which is where she begins drying herself off, for my benefit. Slowly, Georgina towels off her arms and shoulders. Slowly, Georgina dries off her perfect tits and stomach and pussy. And, finally, with a little wink, she turns around, bends completely over—thereby giving me a view that nearly gives me a heart attack—and slowly proceeds to towel off her feet and shins and calves.
“Oh my God, you evil woman,” I whisper, pressing my forehead against the glass. “You’re the devil.”
Her task complete, she straightens up and turns around to face me again, her tits pushed forward and her nipples erect. And then, with a little swish of her hips, she strides across the patio toward the French doors... and disappears from my line of sight.
My heart crashing with anticipation, I race to my bedroom door and press my ear against it, awaiting the sound of her footsteps in the hallway. She’s got to be coming to me now, right? She wouldn’t be so cruel as to leave me alone tonight after that.
Finally, after what feels like half my lifetime, I hear movement in the hallway. But the sound stops before it gets to my door. Is Georgina standing at the far end of the hallway, deciding whether to come all the way to the end, to my room? Or is she summoning the resolve to head to her own room, just to emphasize her point that, although she’s staying here with me, she’s far from a sure thing?
Yeah, I know exactly what’s going on inside that glorious, devious mind of hers. She’s standing at the end of the hallway, deciding which she wants more in this moment: to fuck me... or punish me?
I spear my fingertips into the door, wishing I could physically claw my way through the wood to get to her. Frankly, I’d wear my fingers down to bloody stumps to get to her, if I thought it would convince her to come to my bed tonight. I’d open a vein and give her every last drop of my blood, if it would mean she’d open her thighs to me tonight. I’d pay her any amount of money. The only two things I won’t do? Lie about that fucking demo. Or beg. I begged her once, that very first night, right before she double-flipped me off and peeled away in an Uber. And I swear to God, I’ll never do it again.
There’s movement in the hallway again. Footsteps, as plain as day. I hold my breath and wait. And pray. But the brief footsteps are followed by the distinct sound of a door opening and closing at the other end of the hall. And that’s that. The house is silent now. Apparently, Georgina decided she’d rather punish me, than fuck me, tonight.
Chapter 7
Reed
At a quarter past eight, wearing cycling shorts and nothing else, I greet two deliverymen at my front door, lead them upstairs, and direct them where to unpack their big box. Most mornings, I get up quite a bit earlier than this to fit in my workout, but after yesterday’s marathon day that began in Manhattan and ended with me jizzing against my bedroom window, I fell into a deep slumber until about twenty minutes ago—which was when Owen called and woke me up with the news that my delivery was about twenty minutes away.
I rap on Georgina’s closed door. “Wake up, Bobby Fischer,” I call out. “Rise and shine.” Georgina moans softly behind the door, sending arousal streaking through me. Because, apparently, any moan from this girl, no matter the context, registers as something sexual to my brain. “Wake up, Georgie girl.” I knock again. “Even if you hate my guts, you’re going to be my shadow today. And right now, I’m heading into my gym for a workout.”
