by Ney, Sara
“No. No, you always seem cool—you’re not the easiest person to read. We should have played poker while were in Vegas. You might have won.”
“I’ve never played poker a day in my life.”
“Hmm. Well, we both sure do like to gamble.”
She’s being metaphorical, kissing the corner of my mouth, my bottom lip. Her hands slide over my bare waist and begin running up and down my spine.
Georgia loves touching me, and I’m here for it all day every day.
“Roll to your back,” she instructs softly, and I comply, rolling so I’m staring up at the ceiling, moving my hands so they’re behind my head.
Georgia gently trails her fingers along my sternum, tracing my collarbone—one of her favorite places to touch me. It’s gentle, like a whisper, breezing along my skin faintly.
I can tell she’s concentrating, as if trying to learn the lines and curves of my body even though she’s touched me countless times already. We always have the lights on, too, so we can see each other, vulnerable and bare and thrilling.
I’m wearing navy sleep bottoms tonight, already having discarded my t-shirt, but nothing underneath. No boxer briefs or underwear, so when her hand slips beneath the waistline of my pants, I inhale a sharp breath of anticipation.
Fuck yes.
Honestly, my thighs quake a little when she begins moving her body lower, positioning herself to suck me off, something she hasn’t done yet.
I’ve gone down on her plenty, but she’s never blown my cock.
I watch her head move lower, hands fumbling for the drawer of my bedside table; there’s lube there, and apparently she’s keen to fetch it.
Squirts plenty on her palms, giggling nervously when she makes a sticky mess, dripping some on my thigh.
God she’s adorable.
“I apologize in advance for not being a pro at this.”
“Babe, don’t.” Don’t bloody apologize. “You cannot fuck this up.”
She rolls her eyes, the unsexiest thing to do when you’re about to give someone a handy slash blow job, but it’s classic Georgia to do so.
“If you say so.”
I do say so.
Her hands encircle my dick before her mouth touches the tip, moving in a circular motion at the base.
My lips part, watching her lower her head.
Yes, yes, bloody hell YES.
Fuck yeah.
Fuck, fuck yeah.
Georgia licks the tip, humming as if she’s sucking on a sweet, sugary lollypop. I’m not a fucking moron—I know it doesn’t taste like one, but I’m willing to suspend reality for the next five to twenty minutes or so and pretend she’s enjoying it as much as I am.
Her hands work the base as her mouth devours my dick as far as her throat will let her.
She bobs up and down, in classic BJ mode for the next few seconds…up…down…up…down, a little humming inside her throat while I watch.
Then.
From out of nowhere, Georgia removes one of her hands, reaching behind her. Produces her small, pink, bean-shaped vibrator, pushing the tiny power button until it begins a low buzz whilst sucking away, not missing a beat.
“What are you doing with that?” I ask nervously.
“Shh, no talking,” she tells me.
I fall in love with her again when she places that pink, vibrating wonder behind my cock…right at the base, above my balls. It buzzes on low, sending a shockwave of pleasure through my entire bloody body.
I need to hold on to something.
If I were standing, my knees would buckle and I’d be on the ground.
My thighs spasm when Georgia resumes sucking.
I’m going to explode all over the bloody fucking place, I just know it, oh my fucking god…
“Holy shite…shite…oh my god…” I might be crying, I don’t know it feels so fucking…fucking…
Pardon my French, pardon my language, shite…
I need it to stop.
I need to come.
I need…
She sucks harder. “Mmmhmm.” She nods knowingly.
The little devil knew this would send me over the edge, putting an end to the blow job in a matter of minutes.
Less than five fucking minutes, I’d wager.
The she-devil.
“Fuck I love you,” I blurt out. Love-bombing during a blow job—not my finest moment.
Still.
I mean it.
Twenty-Four
Georgia
I’m not doing this for the sole purpose of seeing England.
I’m not.
Fine. I mean…that’s part of the reason—which isn’t a big secret—but not the entire reason I accepted the Dryden-Jones’ invitation to visit.
I’m nervous as hell.
Halfway across the ocean, I got nauseous and wanted to throw up, blaming my knotted-up stomach on plane turbulence.
One hour before landing at Heathrow International Airport, I wanted to rock myself in a corner and turn the plane around, spending fifteen minutes in the bathroom fixing my hair and putting on lotion and brushing my teeth.
Ten minutes to landing, I stare out the window, watching for castles and looking at the English countryside, vying for any glimpse of Buckingham Palace or Big Ben or the city of London.
My heart races.
Across the lowered partition between our seats in first class, Ashley takes my hand and squeezes it.
My sweet, caring boyfriend…
…who I happen to be married to.
We have to figure out a way out of this mess, but if I’ve tried to bring it up once, I’ve broached the subject a thousand times—he’s just not ready to have the conversation, and lord knows I can’t hire an attorney to do the work for me.
Plus, we had exams.
Finals to get through, then graduation, though neither of us walked in the spring ceremony.
Walking in a cap and gown is the least of our worries right now.
I thought the Dryden-Jones would meet us at the airport, but I was wrong; they sent a car, giving me more time to fret and worry on the ride to their home.
Home?
Ha.
The house Ashley grew up in couldn’t be called a house—I believe he referred to it as a hall? Talbot Hall something or other, a stately “stone pile” in his family for generations.
Stable yard. Grand entrance with pillars flanking the end of the drive that goes on for miles, through—what did he call it…a park? Talbot Park. Deer and sheep graze. A pond with a fancy building next to it looking like something out of Pride and Prejudice.
I don’t know if I could get used to this…
Or perhaps I could.
Ashley is the spitting image of his father, tall and large. Lord Talbot (as I discover he’s called) is more personable than I was expecting him to be.
I thought I’d be meeting an ogre. A man who was going to lecture and look down his nose at not only me, but his son, displeased with his life choices and shouting about the shotgun Vegas wedding.
Not so.
I’m baffled by the entire scene.
Warmed by it, too, if I’m being honest.
Guilt settles in my stomach; I still haven’t told my parents, and Ashley’s are celebrating this as if it were wonderful news.
My parents are going to flip out.
There will be no chill with Susan and Bill Parker.
None.
Seriously, I can already hear my mother screaming and crying. Not even a chance to appear on a home improvement television show would calm her down.
As supportive as they’ve always been, I cannot see them supporting this.
As it stands, they do not know I’m in England. They think I’m visiting a friend before coming home for the summer and working like I always do, at a law firm in town where Dad’s best friend is an attorney.
I am shocked by Ashley’s family.
Shocked.
Even his brother Jack is here, sitting at th
e dining room table sharing jokes.
Jack clears his throat and all eyes turn his way. “Since we’re sharing news and having a spot of fun at Ash’s expense, I thought I’d share a bit of news myself.” He shifts in his chair, obviously uncomfortable. “Caroline and I…”
“Oh god don’t say it,” Ashley mutters under his breath, just loud enough for me to hear. “Please don’t say you’re engaged.”
“Caroline and I broke up.” Jack plays with one of the many forks resting next to his dinner plate. “Well, I broke it off with her, and she threatened to castrate me.” He laughs. “We’re done.”
Lady Dryden-Jones sets down her wine glass. “Jackie, why did you not tell us anything!”
“I’m telling you now. I had to sort it out—I knew she would be hysterical, and she was.”
“Rightly so—that girl was expecting to marry you,” Lord Talbot gruffly declares, though he doesn’t seem to care one way or another.
“She was a stiff,” Ashley adds. “He’s better off.” He looks at his brother admirably. “Well done, Jack. Well done.”
“Ashley! Boys.” Their mother looks distraught. “Jack, I thought—”
“I know what you all thought, Mum, but it’s over. We’re done.” His head gives a definitive nod, ending the discussion. “I want what Ashley and Georgia have.”
Whoa.
Whoa, whoa, whoa.
Ashley and I are not the poster children for a happy couple. We are a hot mess.
“With all due respect, Ashley and I barely know one another. I wouldn’t call us the model of the perfect relationship.”
“But that’s why it’s so perfect! You see?” Jack is getting excited, almost coming out of his chair. “You’re a bloody disaster, and that’s what makes it so brilliant!”
“Bloody disaster.” Ashley scoffs at his brother. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
“You went and got leg shackled in the single dirtiest city in the blasted United States—you wouldn’t call that a disaster?”
“Hey now,” I put in, feeling slighted myself. “Las Vegas is not the single dirtiest city in America…it’s maybe the third dirtiest city.”
Okay, that came out all wrong.
I should stop talking.
“I’m giving you a compliment, mate—relax. It’s a good thing. You have yourself a wife.”
Ashley runs a hand down his face, frustrated. “Listen, we—Georgia and I—the whole wedding thing was…”
A mistake.
A bad idea.
An accident.
The list goes on and on, and I wonder how he’s going to finish the sentence.
Everyone waits.
“The whole wedding thing was…is…” He falters and tries again. “The whole wedding thing is something we still have to sort out. Don’t go hitching your star to our wagon.”
“Hitching my what to your huh?” Jack laughs. “You’re daft.”
“Don’t copy me.”
“I’m not going to copy you. I just…need to be single for a time.”
Single for a time.
They’re all so polite and articulate.
We sit in the dining room for what feels like hours, talking. Ashley argues with his mother while his dad comes in and out of the room, taking phone calls then returning. Leaving again while his wife and son disagree on the state of our union.
It’s a strange place to be, sitting here listening in as if I weren’t here.
Wanting to observe.
Agreeing and disagreeing with many of the things being lobbed back and forth.
I’m tired when we finally go upstairs to Ashley’s giant bedroom. There’s a fireplace in the center, with a couch and a love seat. Two leather chairs—an entire sitting area! Dressing room off in one direction, bathroom in the other.
The bed is a dark, wooden canopy with forest green fabric, like something you’d see in a bed and breakfast, matching green wallpaper behind it on the walls.
It’s dark and masculine, everything an English bedroom should be.
And just when I think I have him all to myself…
The bedroom door blows open and Jack struts in, making himself comfortable at the foot of the bed as Ashley himself slides in on his side.
I pull the quilt up to my neck.
“Bugger off, mate—we’re knackered. Jesus, Jack, go away.”
Jack flops down on his back, ignoring both our objections. “Caroline won’t leave me alone.”
“Ugh!” Ashley buries his head beneath the covers with a groan. “No shite, mate—she’s mad. I told you that when you started dating her.”
Above the covers, I laugh.
Could I live without his brother barging in on us? Yes.
Am I enjoying his misery? Also yes.
“What should I do? She dropped in at my flat last week, just rang her way up and the doorman let her in.”
“Did you try telling the doorman she’s not allowed up anymore, you idiot?”
“Well no. That doesn’t seem very nice—Caro practically lived with me.”
My boyfriend’s snort is loud and undignified. “No, Jack, she fancies herself living in a London flat—she didn’t fancy herself living with you in the flat.” Ashley reappears, red-faced from lack of air. “Why did you finally break up with her—and don’t say my wedding.”
“Your wedding.”
“Jack! What the fuck.”
“What! When Mum told me you’d gone and tied the knot with an American girl, it made me wonder if I truly wanted to marry Caroline, and the answer was no. She’s not…” His voice trails off.
“Nice?”
“Stuff it, arsehole.”
“Well she’s not. She’s a monster and we both know it.”
I put my hand on his arm to stop him from talking—so his brother can speak.
“Sorry, Jack. You were saying? She’s not…”
“She’s not fun. Caroline isn’t fun. We haven’t laughed in ages, and all she cares about right now is social media. Her mobile is always out and she complains nonstop. I’m not saying she’s a bad person, she’s just not…”
“Pleasant to be in the same room with.”
“Ashley!” I scold him with a laugh. He needs to stop interrupting.
“We’re not the same people we were four years ago when we met.”
“Amen.” Ashley applauds, actually applauds, his slow clap echoing throughout the bedroom. “Now get the fuck out.”
His brother disregards him. “When are you moving home?”
“In a few weeks.”
Jack and I both look at him. “That soon?”
He nods. “That soon.”
Twenty-Five
Georgia
One month later…
That soon came too soon.
I miss him.
Ashley is gone and I miss my roommate.
My friend.
My husband.
Weird.
So, so weird.
We haven’t gotten the marriage annulled yet—we said we’d wait. Give it time and see how we felt after he went home to England and we had some time apart.
A long-distance relationship is not something I predicted or saw for myself; it wasn’t something I wanted.
And.
It does suck.
Twenty-Six
Ashley
Two months later…
“Jack? Do you have a second?”
I knock on the door to my brother’s bedroom.
I’ve been staying at his flat since moving home—on his sofa—not wanting to live with Dad and Mum. They’re so far out in the country, away from the hustle and bustle and the city.
Young people.
No offense to them, but they’re old.
Did I want to stay in the States with Georgia? Of course I did, but…I have to work.
Life had to go on.
Now that I have my degree, I have to fulfill the promise I made to my dad, his company, and—well, it’s time to start
earning a living for myself.
I can’t chase a girl I’ve only known for a semester around America; it wouldn’t do. Granted, I married this girl, but still—it hardly counts.
She hasn’t even told her mum and dad as far as I know.
Jack is on his laptop in the middle of his bed, back against his headboard. He takes his glasses off when I come in, setting them on the comforter.
“What’s going on?”
I shuffle in and rest on the end of his bed. “I don’t know, I’m just…” I lift one of my shoulders in a shrug.
“I can see that. Does this have anything to do with your absent wife?”
“She’s not my wife.” I fiddle with the band on my left hand, having worn it since I left her at school, after packing my belongings and hers, stacking her boxes near the door so when her parents came, all they would have to do is load them in the car.
It wasn’t much, but it was enough.
Some of it we sold online, some of it was left at the curbside.
For now, the house will remain empty until the lease is sublet.
“I mean…she is though.”
It’s been nearly two months since I was in the same room as Georgia. Sure, we video-chat and sext and do all those things—but it’s not the same.
Soon, we have to shite or get off the pot.
Fill out the paperwork or don’t.
Georgia keeps saying she wants the annulment, but has she done anything about it? No.
I don’t think she’s even gone online to look at the paperwork.
“Brother, what are you going to do? You should see yourself—you’re miserable.”
Am I miserable?
I miss her.
I miss every last little thing about her, including the annoying stuff, like the loud way she eats carrot sticks, or how she sometimes would snore at night and steal the blankets.
Dumb, little things.
But am I miserable?
A long-distance relationship is not something I predicted or saw for myself; it wasn’t something I wanted.
And.
It sucks.
“Mate, you should talk to Dad,” my brother says at last. “You need a plan—you can’t keep on like this. You’ll make yourself sick.”