Jock Royal (Jock Hard 4)

“Uh…do you regret transferring here?” There. That’s decent, and I want to know the answer.

“I used to—not that I’ve been here all that long. I know things take time, but honestly, after that night you and I met, I wanted to leave. I hated it here. Didn’t like those girls, blamed them for what happened even though it was my fault. But…” Her fingers reach for some of the floating bubbles. “Not anymore. I’m happier and it’s getting easier.”

“That’s good. That you don’t hate it anymore, I mean.”

She smiles across the water, the blue glow casting shadows on her skin—probably on mine, too.

Her turn.

“Have you ever been in love?”

Whoa, Nelly—that escalated quickly, but the answer is easy. “No.”

It’s impossible to read her expression from here, but judging from her silence, she was expecting me to elaborate.

Now it’s my turn, so she’ll have to hold her horses. “What’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever done?”

Georgia snorts. “That’s easy—letting Ronnie and the girls haze me.”

Now I’m snorting. “Please, that cannot be the dumbest thing you’ve done. Haven’t you ever…I don’t know. Pranked someone and had it gone wrong? Or slept with someone and felt gross about it afterward?”

“No.” She laughs. “And this isn’t a debate. You asked, I answered, now we move on.”

Fine.

Sullen, I wait for her next question, desperate for a chug of alcohol, wishing we had something stronger than the fizzy gold piss.

“Why are you single?”

Her question is bold and unexpected, and it seems now we’re getting to edgier inquiries that’ll make this evening more interesting.

“I’m single because I don’t do casual.”

“What do you mean, you don’t do casual? Sex? Or just casually dating?”

I don’t answer because she got her one ask. “This isn’t a debate. You asked, I answered—now we move on.”

Her mouth pops open. “Stop throwing the rules back in my face.”

“I don’t make the rules, I only follow them, love.”

Love.

I use the word intentionally and watch her intake of breath—the breath she tries to hide by taking a chug of champagne. I let it pass without mentioning because neither of us have even drunk any of it and it’ll wind up going to waste if we don’t.

Seems this is one game of honesty we’re not backing down from.

Georgia tilts her chin up. “Your question.”

Fine. “When was your first snog?”

“My first what?”

Shite, that’s right—they don’t call it that here. “Kiss. Your first kiss.”

“Oh.” She laughs nervously. “Um, seventeen?”

Seventeen? How had blokes not kissed her sooner—are they mad?

“Is that your final answer?”

Georgia’s laugh sounds bashful and cute. “Final answer.”

I nod.

Wait.

“When was your first snog?” she copycats, giggling because she used British slang.

“Sixteen, I think. Victoria Channing on holiday at her parents’ house party.” It wasn’t any good. I biffed it up, having zero clue what I was going on about. Too much tongue, too much spit. Victoria roasted me to a few mates and I still haven’t lived it down.

Have I gotten better at snogging? Who knows.

It usually only happens when I’m shagging someone random after a long dry spell, too sauced to boot.

Desperate isn’t a word I use, but…

If the shoe fits.

“Do you want to snog me?”

Is she trollied? I thought we were sobering up since we haven’t had a drop since dinner, if you don’t count our tiny, secretive sips.

“You just asked two questions in a row.” I can’t help but blurt out.

“Is this you refusing to answer?” She counters.

Is it? No it’s not me refusing to answer, it’s me trying to play by the rules.

“Now that’s three.” Suddenly cheeky, the minx raises her brow. “Give me an answer or you have to drink.”

Fuck.

She’s a feisty little thing, putting me on the spot like this.

If I say yes, she might think I’m a sodding pervert. If I say no, she’s going to think I don’t want to snog her. If I choose not to answer, she’s going to make up her own assumption and—

I’m overthinking this.

Just answer the bloody question, you twat.

The little savage dares me to puss out and not respond; just look at her over there, smirking at you, so cocksure.

Wipe that smile off her face.

Do it.

“Do I want to snog you?” I repeat to draw it out. “Do I want to kiss you?”

She rolls her eyes, irritated.

“Sure. What warm-blooded bloke wouldn’t want to kiss you?”

There.

Diplomatic without being too candid, without spilling my entire stomach of guts.

I’m not here for a bloodbath; I’m here to go hot-tubbing.

She sits still on the opposite bench, boobs practically floating surface level, glass clasped between a few dainty fingers. Her hair is piled on the top of her head, and if the lights were up, I’d probably see her face flushed a bright red.

Thank god she can’t see me looking at her tits in the dark—not that I’m getting a good look, but they are wet and reflecting the blue light.