Jock Royal (Jock Hard 4)

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.

I never would have guessed her for the coy type, but here she is flirting with me like a pro.

She scoots closer across the mattress in my direction—it’s a huge bed, probably a California king with plenty of room for several people—wiggling her way over until our bodies are almost pressed together.

Until I’m staring down at the reality of what she’s wearing under the covers.

Just.

A.

Pair of.

Panties.

She gives me a pair of doe eyes, looking innocently up at me at the same time she gingerly places her feet between my legs to warm them up, my body a hotbox of fire. They don’t feel all that cold to me anymore, but I’m not going to complain that she’s touching me voluntarily while wearing only a thin scrap of silk and a skimpy thong.