Chapter 28
TWENTY-EIGHT
Mathematically satisfying dick ratios
Georgie
My head throbs with each heartbeat, and my mouth tastes like a fish died in it, despite brushing my teeth until my gums protested. But honestly? The hangover’s nothing compared to the vertigo from what Patrick just said.
You’re in my head now.
I feel like I’ve accidentally wandered into someone else’s story.
If this were a rom-com movie, I’d be the quirky sidekick, not the girl the brooding hero actually chooses.
Any minute now, someone will burst through the door waving a script, yelling, “Sorry, mix-up! He’s supposed to fall for the confident blonde, not the girl who owns Periodic Table pajamas. ”
Patrick hands me a fluffy towel, warm from the dryer. “Bathroom’s first door on the left.”
I scuttle off, heart pounding somewhere near my tonsils.
In the bathroom, I wriggle into Fee’s red bikini and stare at my reflection.
I don’t recognize the girl in the mirror.
Her eyes are brighter, even through the hangover fog.
Her skin carries a constellation of faint marks—the gentle scrape of his stubble along my jaw.
I trace one faint mark near my collarbone, and my whole body remembers the heat of his mouth.
I take a breath that does nothing to slow my racing pulse, then make a decision that would horrify sensible Georgie. The bikini comes back off.
If I’m doing this—if we’re doing whatever this is—I’m doing it properly. No hiding, no half measures.
Towel wrapped around me, I pad back out.
The cold air hits my legs, raising goosebumps, but it’s nothing compared to the heat curling low in my stomach as I watch Patrick. He tips his smoothie glass back and downs it in one long swallow, Adam’s apple bobbing, and I swear I’ve never seen anything more sexy in my life.
That white T-shirt clings to his chest, and those grey joggers… dear God. Whoever invented grey joggers deserves a Nobel Prize for services to women everywhere. There’s no mystery in those things. None.
I drag my eyes up just as he catches me staring.
He drags his hand across his mouth. “Ready?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I say, lying through my hangover.
Out on the deck, I dip a finger into the tub. The cold is instant and violent. “Fucking hell!”
Patrick chuckles behind me, the sadist.
Screw it. Before I lose my nerve, I drop the towel.
Patrick goes completely still.
His eyes drag over every inch of my exposed skin. My nipples harden under the weight of it, and my skin prickles like I’m standing naked in front of a bonfire, not a tub of frozen water.
Maybe bravery isn’t about climbing mountains or throwing yourself into ice baths. Maybe it’s standing here, bare and goose-pimpled, choosing to be seen by someone who could so easily hurt you.
“This is the best way to do it, right?” I force my arms to stay at my sides, instead of clamping them over my breasts.
“It absolutely is,” he says, voice rougher than before.
A tiny thrill sparks in my chest. I did that.
Then I step into the ice bath.
The scream that tears out of me could probably be heard in London. I’m pretty sure I’ve just traumatized every sheep on Skye. My body is convinced we’re dying.
“Oh my God,” I wheeze, death-gripping the edges of the tub.
Patrick’s smirk deepens. “You’ll adjust.”
“I will not adjust because I’ll be dead.” Somehow, I lower myself further, because apparently my pride is stronger than my survival instinct.
“Breathe.”
“I c-c-can’t breathe when I’m d-d-dying!” My teeth chatter so hard I might bite my tongue off. “This is m-murder. Premeditated ice m-murder.”
“You’re doing great,” he says, which is clearly a lie because I’m about three seconds from becoming a Georgie-shaped ice cube.
“Are you getting in,” I manage through violent shivers, “or are you just going to st-stand there watching me turn blue? Because that’s a bit sadistic, even for you.”
His brow lifts. Then his hands move to his T-shirt hem. The white cotton peels up, revealing his stomach inch by inch before he pulls it over his head.
His fingers hook into his waistband and shove the joggers down.
No boxers.
No warning.
My stomach drops somewhere around my frozen toes.
I have technically seen him before. Last night, in the dark of my bedroom, tipsy and too overwhelmed to really process. Quick flashes on the boat when I felt him hard against me but didn’t dare look. That one shameful binocular incident.
But this is broad daylight. At conversational distance. Nowhere to look except at the six-foot-something naked man standing right in front of me, blocking out the sun with his... equipment.
He’s thick and aggressively male. Veins ridge the length, skin flushed darker at the crown, the weight of it resting against his thigh like he couldn’t hide it even if he tried.
It feels like a standoff. Me on one side, his penis on the other. Neither of us blinking.
The bastard doesn’t fidget. Doesn’t cover. Just stands there, arms loose at his sides, relaxed as you like. A man with zero shame and even less modesty. A fully uncensored dick meet-and-greet.
I can’t remember a single day in my adult life where I haven’t found something to pick apart in the mirror.
“You have such a beautiful dick,” I blurt before my brain can lock my mouth.
He chuckles. “What makes a dick beautiful?”
“The… ratio of length to… um… girth? It’s very mathematically satisfying. Like someone designed you with a ruler and really good math.”
Still chuckling, he climbs into the tub like it’s a warm bath, dunks his entire head without even gasping, then surfaces and shakes like a dog. Freezing droplets hit my face.
I screech, swiping at my face.
He grins, wiping water from his brows. Then he leans back, shoulders rolling as he sprawls out in the tub, arms wide.
I shift, and my foot lands squarely on his cock.
His eyebrow lifts.
Sixty seconds later, I’m clambering out of the tub, every nerve ending confused about whether we’re dying or incredibly alive.
Patrick follows a minute later, chuckling as he wraps me in a fluffy towel. The warmth against my frozen skin feels obscene.
My phone buzzes on the counter. We both glance at it automatically.
He raises a brow. “Cute Fisherman?”
Oh God. That’s what I saved Malcolm under.
I clear my throat, cheeks burning. “It’s technically accurate. He is objectively cute. And he fishes professionally. I’m very literal with my contact names.”
I open the message and can’t help smiling. “He was out until six this morning. He’s checking if I survived—”
Patrick’s hand engulfs my wrist. He takes the phone and sets it aside with a dismissive flick. “You need to get in the shower to warm up.”
My eyes widen. “Your shower?”
“Unless you want to walk home dripping. Though I wouldn’t recommend it.”
I giggle, nerves fizzing in my throat. “The ice bath did help,” I babble. “But… yeah. I could do with heating up.”
His mouth twitches. “We’ll sort that.”
He takes my hand and leads me down the hall, like there’s nothing strange about me padding naked into his bathroom wrapped in a towel.
He twists the dial, and the overhead shower roars to life. Steam billows out, fogging the glass.
“In,” he commands.
I hesitate, fingers white-knuckling the towel. Then I remember I already stood naked in front of him outside.
I drop the towel and step under the spray before I can overthink it.
The hot water is heavenly against my ice-tortured skin. I let out an embarrassingly loud groan. “Oh my God, this is better than... well, most things.”
He drops his towel and steps in beside me, pulling the glass door shut. The tiny click makes the space feel suddenly about twelve inches.
He’s so big, towering over me, taking up every inch, and I’m still just me—awkward, unpracticed, trying not to look like I’m completely out of my depth.
He’s already hard. Cock thick and flushed, pressed up his stomach. My stomach swoops, partly because holy hell, and partly because this is apparently all down to me. Me. Georgie. The girl in Periodic Table shorts.
He reaches for the soap. His hands lather slow over his chest, down his shoulders, ridges of muscle gleaming wet, down the ridges of his thighs. He doesn’t shy away when his palm glides over his cock, stroking himself casually as if he knows I can’t look anywhere else.
A rough chuckle rumbles out of him. “Close your mouth.”
“It’s my turn,” I stammer.
He steps closer. His cock pushes against my stomach.
My breath catches as his hands settle on my waist. His palms span me easily, thumbs brushing just under the curve of my breasts as though he’s testing how much of me he can hold in one grip.
“You’re tiny,” he murmurs over the rush of the water.
I tip my chin up, trying to sound indignant and not entirely out of breath. “I’m five-foot-three. That’s average. Well, slightly below average statistically. But definitely within normal range! I can reach most shelves. The lower ones.”
His mouth curves, not quite a smile, more like he’s humoring me. “Tiny.”
He reaches for the soap, working it between his hands until the scent fills the steam. Then he touches me again, drawing lazy lines of warmth across my shoulder, down my arm, across my breasts. The slick bar drags right over my nipple, and I gasp like a woman who’s never encountered Dove before.
“You missed a spot,” I rasp.
He slides a soapy hand down my stomach. My muscles clamp tight. Then the soap slips, clattering somewhere at our feet.
He rinses his hands under the spray, then they find me again. His fingers trace lower, teasing, then press between my thighs, and the first touch buckles my knees.
“Oh…” I breathe.
Two fingers push inside, slow and deep, stretching me until my body clenches tight around them. My palms fly up, pressing hard against his chest.
His mouth finds my neck, teeth scraping before he groans against my skin. “You’re already dripping. Can’t tell if it’s the shower or you.”