Chapter 20
My online research for the evening told me just how deep I was in this hole.
Can a lack of sex make your vagina close up?
The second I typed it and the second link was to a rather disturbing porn video. I slammed my laptop closed and poured myself an obscenely big glass of wine.
Tomorrow morning we were heading down to the cabin, or rather, the treehouse. Fallon sent me the address. That had been my original search before my horny mind went wandering. Looking at the images of the stunning place she booked for the weekend, a stab of pride pulled tight in my chest.
I’d watched Fallon struggle for years, first with her shitty job as she nearly killed herself trying to prove how talented she was, and how much she fucking deserved to be there.
Then I watched her pick up the remains of her life and start again.
She was now a burgeoning name in publishing.
The book she’d written about Oliver still sat on the bestseller list after two months.
And her confidence had flourished right alongside her career.
I spent years hugging the stomach she used to be so self conscious of.
Telling her to wear that fucking crop top and who gives a shit what people say.
Slowly, almost glacially, she’d started chipping away at the wall of insecurity she’d built around her beautiful body.
Now Oliver was around, she didn’t just get that validation from me; she heard it in stereo.
I might still have my doubts about him—that I was working to eradicate—but I saw the unapologetic love he showered her with.
Her success meant she could surprise him with a luxury getaway for the entire weekend. I’d never been more proud of someone in my life.
When the pictures of the treehouse popped up, it looked like the perfect couple’s retreat. And that had been the catalyst leading me to inadvertently search for porn.
Roxy’s nervous energy had been filling my flat the entire day.
Times like this, I wished she could understand me.
Because no matter how many strokes I gave, or how many times I assured her she was coming with me, she stuck to my side like glue.
Her unease grew more every hour. My constant nights out had got to her.
Even though she loved going to stay with Mum, her separation anxiety didn’t let her stay calm for very long.
Going to the toilet whilst a pair of sad chocolate eyes stared at you was a unique experience.
My suitcase was splayed open on the end of the bed, several outfits strewn over every surface.
I’d video called Fallon for an hour, trying to figure out what to pack, but our conversation had been derailed into talking about the new season of Love Island.
By the time we’d got back on track, Oliver came home from the gym and her mind hadn’t been in the right zone for helping me pack.
Seeing the way she ogled him when he came through the door—without a shirt on—had my mind going places it had no right to.
Every night this week, my hand would explore my body, whilst my head would fight the image of George doing increasingly filthy things to me.
Apart from that one time in the bath, I’d refrained from thinking about him.
A difficult thing to do when your brain was a slutty cow who decided that her usual methods of getting off weren't cutting it anymore.
For the past week, I avoided the toys in my bedside table. And I was paying for it. My whole body felt itchy. My skin was tight and my pussy was wound so tight, if I bumped against something the wrong way, she’d explode.
My eyes locked on the pairs of underwear on the bed. As I stared at them, an idea formed in the back of my head.
I was playing with fire. Yet I couldn’t find it in me to care.
I grabbed a pair of black lace underwear, embroidered with tiny sunflowers on it.
Tugging off all my clothes, I slipped on the lace and stood in front of my floor-length mirror.
My hair fell in waves around my shoulders, lightly tousled from running my fingers through it all day.
Only a light layer of foundation and blush stained my cheeks.
Covering my breasts with one arm, I jutted my hip out, lifting my phone and turning on the camera.
I took several pictures. That intangible sense of agency thrummed in my veins as I slipped out of that underwear and tugged on another black pair.
This one was crotchless and had an intricate pattern of blue swirls all over.
These were the ones I wore when I was going out.
It provided easy access, and you didn’t have to worry about potentially ruining perfectly good underwear if the guy was too enthusiastic.
Doing the same pose, I snapped a few more and sat down on the end of my bed, scrolling through to find the best one of each. My thumb hovered over the send button.
This was a stupid idea.
My horny brain really needed to stop and think this through. The problem was she didn’t give a shit about anything at the minute.
I was tired.
Tired of pretending this attraction wasn’t there. Tired of forcing myself not to think about him, when he was all I wanted to fixate on.
Giving myself exactly five seconds to rethink, I pressed send on the photos, typing a quick message underneath.
Rosie: Which one do you prefer?
Slumping down on the bed, Roxy curled up in her basket by the door. I brought my legs up to my chest, resting my phone on my knees.
My heart rate pitched when it buzzed with an incoming call. George’s face lit up the screen. I bit back a smile, declining it. We’d been dancing around each other for the past month. I couldn’t get those few times he’d kissed me out of my head. I wanted to play.
My phone vibrated with another incoming call. I rejected it again and sent him a text.
Rosie: Answer the question.
George: Rosie, sweetheart, what are you doing?
Rosie: Flirting. Is that what you do when you’re dating? Consider this one of my lessons.
George: I’ve got an idea for one of your lessons, sweetheart, but you won’t be sitting down for a while after.
The second I read those words, my body lit up like a firework. George, the dutiful son, and brother, had a kinky side.
George: Stop biting your lip.
It popped out of my mouth as I let out a soft grunt of surprise.
Logically, I knew he couldn’t see me. He wasn’t lurking in my closet, watching me bite my lip.
But the alternative somehow felt worse. He knew my moods, my nervous ticks.
Had watched me closely enough that he’d catalogued them.
Those pesky warning bells sounded in the back of my head.
They clanged loudly, trying to stop me from pressing send on the next message.
I ignored their noise, deciding to trust in the very thing that got me into trouble in the first place—my vagina.
Rosie: Answer the question.
Seconds later, his reply came through.
George: Sunflowers.
I picked up the material, feeling the raised bumps of the embroidery under my fingers.
These were my favourite pair. That George had picked them over the sexy, almost porn-stareske ones, shouldn’t have made me want to smile.
It shouldn’t have me slipping them off to don the sunflowers, letting the material slide over my thighs and wishing that he was here to see it.
None of those stupid, ridiculous emotions should come to the surface, because it was George. George. My best friend's boyfriend’s brother. I’m not sure why that made any difference at all, but in my head it was the perfect argument why this couldn’t work.
But my heart didn’t seem to care, and right now it was in cahoots with my libido and the two were ganging up on me.
Getting to my feet, I flipped my hair over my shoulder, power and desire thrumming through my veins as I turned my back to the mirror, holding my phone over my shoulder to get a good shot of the thong tucked neatly into my cheeks; making my butt look like the perfect heart.
I sent it.
The next two minutes had my heart hammering against my chest and my pussy growing wetter.
Was he staring at the photo? Was he busy with something else and didn’t really care all that much?
That last thought made my midsection cramp.
The second I recognised that feeling as doubt, I mentally slapped myself.
I wasn’t doing this for him. I was doing it for myself.
He wasn’t the one who held the power here.
I sat cross-legged on the bed, giving myself a pep talk, when my phone started ringing in my hand.
His face filled the screen and something uncomfortable twisted in my chest.
I pressed the red button again.
George: Rosie, please, answer.
The pleading in those three words rang through and guilt niggled its way into my stomach. When his face popped up on the screen for the fourth time, I took a deep breath and accepted.
A chair squeaking was the first sound I heard before his low breathing echoed down the line.
‘You answered.’ The thick note of arousal in his voice nearly made me moan out loud.
‘Eventually,’ I said.
This was a bad idea. A really bad idea. I should have bit the bullet and taken out my trusty vibrator and watched porn. Anything but this.
Seconds away from laughing and saying, just kidding, I shifted uncomfortably on the bed when his voice rumbled down the line.
‘Are you wet, Rosie?’ What in the holy hell happened to his voice? It dipped so low it was barely more than a growl. The George that held the door open for me and brought me food at work faded into the background. ‘Is your pussy wet and desperate for some relief, sweetheart?’
My eyelids fluttered shut as I stifled a whimper. ‘Yes,’ I breathed.
‘And you called me?’ The hint of surprise cut through his lust.
‘Don’t overthink it,’ I practically begged. This was sex. No need to make it into something it wasn’t. A little voice in the back of my head cackled pityingly at that declaration.