Georgia grasped the hotel key card so tight it cut into her hand. She had one mission: to seduce the quarterback she should have slept with ten years ago on prom night.
She slumped against the wall across from Brandon’s room, wondering if her behavior could be considered stalking. The hallway was spinning, and even drunk off her ass, she knew what she was contemplating could most definitely be considered sexual assault.
If he said no, that is.
He can’t say no.
He won’t. She exhaled, trying to calm her rocketing heartbeat. She’d gotten his room number and key from the late-night guy at the front desk by flashing only a sexy smile and the hinted promise of what she planned to literally deliver to Brandon. It might not have felt like it in the last five years, but Georgia Cahill got her way.
The elevator dinged, opened. She stiffened, tugging the top of her robe over her chest, fluffing her blond hair, preparing to deal with more embarrassment than she’d endured already at the reunion, but no one exited.
She had an excuse ready. She was on her way to the pool. Not that anyone would have believed her. It was 12:00 a.m., she smelled like a liquor store, and she was ogling her ex-boyfriend’s hotel room door like it held every male cast member from Magic Mike.
Georgia had hoped the third margarita would quiet the imagined whispers around the ballroom at the Kenmore High School ten year reunion, and if not the third, then definitely the fourth.
Georgia Cahill peaked in high school.
But even the fifth hadn’t been enough.
She could have lied and said she was working as an actress, but her ex-classmates would have kept pressing, started Googling. Are you on any shows, in any movies? She’d been on auditions for more of each than she could count, but none of that mattered. If career legitimacy came from auditions, the Hollywood Walk of Fame would span from Earth to Pluto.
Instead, she’d gone with the truth, or at least where the truth of five years ago had led her. She’d been broke, living in L.A., and within a month’s rent of becoming a statistic. Her status of struggling actress had careened down to never-going-to-be-an-actress just as her sister gave birth to her niece, Bailey. Fate was slamming a door and opening a new one a crack. With no other appealing options with central air, she moved back home to suburban Kenmore, NY, to help out.
Well, moved into her sister Hannah and husband Joel’s home. Where, she thought, her head awash with tequila and how the hell could it have been five whole years, she still lived now.
She understood it didn’t sound impressive, but she adored being Bailey’s nanny and she’d accepted her simple life. That is, until her ex-classmates had met her reality with judgmental smirks. The failure that she’d dealt with years ago, now fresh and raw in the eyes of all the people who used to look up to her.
The fourth margarita might not have quieted the whispers scraping around inside her skull, but she was hopefully about to change that.
She slipped the key into the lock and closed Brandon’s door behind her, breathless. The complimentary hotel robe was scratchy on the skin that wasn’t covered by her bra and black lace thong. It was dark when she entered, but it was obvious she hadn’t just stepped into a room, but an enormous suite. Brandon was a back-up quarterback for the New York Jets, but he never used to care about being ostentatious. Hopefully his taste in women hadn’t elevated similarly.
For this to work, he had to want her as much as he had when they were in high school and she’d dumped him to move to L.A. He’d not only have to get over ten years of aging, but also ten years of bitterness. She fought the tequila and guilt washing up and slipped off her robe.
He’d asked her to come to the University of Michigan with him, and instead she’d chosen to go after her dream of being a movie star.
Her life plan was what Dateline episodes were made of and beyond stupid in retrospect. She’d actually thought she would make it, but being head cheerleader and “Hottest” in the Senior Superlatives at Kenmore High didn’t have the cache she’d needed on her headshots. She was just another pretty face in the monsoon of them that was replenished hourly. At least L.A. had taught her one thing. Humility.
A chill rattled her exposed skin, and everything went wobbly from alcohol and nerves. She glanced down—crap. She wasn’t wearing one of her few matching sets of lingerie, but a black thong and one of her everyday bras: the color of a Band-Aid and just as puffy.
Maybe her ex-classmates were right about her. She couldn’t even get a simple seduction right anymore.
She turned, ready to run, but she needed to finish what she’d started. She had no choice. There was nothing waiting for her back at Hannah and Joel’s. Bailey was going to enter kindergarten in the fall. Georgia had to try and grasp at a new life. It was either rewind backward ten years with Brandon or move back to L.A. and try again. No one who left L.A. was crazy enough to go back, especially at twenty-eight. Seducing Brandon was the saner option.
She slipped off her granny-panty bra and let it fall to the floor with her robe. Lesson learned, never plan surprise sex while you’re drunk and desperate.
Georgia entered the bedroom and paused above the bed. Sheets rose and fell over the small of Brandon’s back; his hair was tousled and his face lay flat against the pillow.
Her pulse screamed against her neck; everything in the room seemed to hum. She wasn’t usually so forward. Of course, this was beyond forward. This was jumping vagina-first into penis-infested waters without a lifeguard.
Her world would be totally different now if she’d just said yes to Brandon ten years ago.
They would probably be married and have 2.5 children, or at the very least she wouldn’t have had to ask Hannah and Joel’s permission every time she wanted to have a guy over.
Not that she’d had to ask them for that in a very long time.
She gazed down the length of Brandon. The boy she’d left all those years ago had grown into a seriously sexy man. Her eyes glided along the outline of his broad back, his powerful hands squeezing the pillow and his rigid biceps cradling his head.
She said a little thank you to her fifth margarita as she inhaled deeply and nestled her body behind his, pressing her breasts into his back. Her abdomen tumbled like a gymnast in the wake of the first skin-to-skin contact she’d had in years.
Her nails trailed along his shoulder blades, and lower. She snaked along his side, and her heart shot into her throat as she traveled across his tight stomach and underneath his boxers. He stirred, the bed squeaking under his weight. She circled her hand around him and he released a sleepy gasp. His cologne smelled of musk, of pine.
He was better endowed than she remembered, but it had been ten years since she’d been with him and more than two since she’d been with any man. She might just have forgotten what a cock was supposed to feel like. She teased him slowly, her fingers finding a rhythm up and down, up and down the length of him. Turning what was sleeping into something awake and rock hard in less than a minute. Heat jetted from her breasts to her face.
She clearly hadn’t forgotten how much she liked feeling a cock. This one was the intoxicating combination of silky, rigid, ready, and about to be hers. Her mouth went dry and her lips fell to his shoulder, frantic to taste his skin.
An animalistic moan floated from his lips like a searing whisper in the dark, driving quivers between her thighs, shooting radio waves from her core to her brain that screamed touch me. What had been an idea in the hallway became a dizzying mission with him solid in her hand, with her spooning half naked against his back.
“I’ve been wanting to do this since high school,” she whispered, hoping the directness of her words would fully wake him.
She applied more pressure to her grip, giving him exactly what he seemed to be asking for. His flesh was hot and needy under her attention, but his breath caught and his whole body paused.
Is he going to tell me to stop?
There was embarrassment to consider, but what she hadn’t expected was how badly she wanted this. A swirling need clawed in her gut, dampness swelled in her panties and drowned out everything but those same two words—touch me.
He flipped onto his back and forced her hand to rest at the base of his cock. She could see nothing but an outline of his chiseled features in the dark.
“It’s Georgia.” She hoped confusion was the only reason for his hesitation.
She smashed a finger from her free hand to his lips. “Who else would it be?”
“What are you doing here?” His voice was like Tabasco against her finger and deeper than she’d remembered. But he’d only been a boy when she’d been in the dark with him ten years ago. He was a man now. That was clear from what she had in her hand. It was blistering against her skin, pulsing like a current was running through it. She squirmed, urged her thighs together. She wanted it inside her in the worst way.
“I know I said no back then”—she wriggled closer—“but now I say yes. Let’s do it like it’s prom night.”
Gideon Neill was not used to waking up to a woman in his bed. And he definitely wasn’t used to finding the woman whose group of friends used to call him Gilligan—as in the island—with her hand around his cock.
He’d expected people at the reunion to treat him differently now that he wasn’t just the geek who they predictably shoved into lockers but, according to Forbes magazine, “co-owner of one of the most promising internet startups of the year.”
Still, this was one hell of a welcoming committee.
He and his business partner, Kurt, were in the last stages of a much-needed seed investment in their one-word social media platform, Say! He knew he’d have to get used to more feminine attention, but this was beyond anything he’d expected. Especially from someone whose boyfriend used to make him pretend to be sick so he could stay home from school to avoid his taunts.
No, he wasn’t going down that rabbit hole. He’d come to the reunion to prove they’d all been wrong about him, not to open old wounds. He hadn’t even planned to speak to Georgia Cahill this weekend, and now she was in his bed.
What the hell was she doing in his bed?
Her hand tensed around him and her fingertips brushed the head of his cock—a throb blasted right to the center of him. He tried to ignore how much she was turning him on, repeated I fucking can’t stand you like a drum beat in his brain. Unfortunately, that was being stamped out with the equally passionate I want to fuck you.
Of course he’d fantasized about her in high school. Rubbed his cock thinking about her perfect cheerleader body until his hand was raw and tissues filled the trash can in his bedroom. But he hadn’t thought about her in years, and now she was here, jerking him off like a champ and sighing into his ear and fuck…
Even though his yearning was declaring otherwise, his pride was not having it.
“You’re going to have to do better than prom night, Peach.” He kept his voice as heavy as cement.
Her hand stopped pumping and he tried to ignore the protest screeching from his cock in its absence. Peach was what everyone called her in high school, her name being Georgia. It was a much nicer nickname than Gilligan had been, based not only on the island but also his skinny neck, sharp shoulder blades, and perpetually wet hair from daily jock-stipulated swirlies.
He hadn’t thought about that in years, either. About the day he first became the focus of her group’s taunts and every terrible day after that. Bad memories mingled with good old uncontrollable desire as her legs crisscrossed like scissors along his side—hot, smooth skin and her need slicked his thigh. Her nickname had another meaning. She was a juicy peach through and through.
“Are you coming up with ideas?” The timbre of his voice was low and direct. He couldn’t, wouldn’t get lost in her.
Her hand started working his cock again, fingers skimming from his base to his tip. He bit back a moan. She was a cheerleader to the very end. It felt good, ten years better than good, but he needed more. For making his life hell during high school, she’d have to give him a show, a damn parade.
“Tick tock, Peach.” It was bold, to be sure. He figured she would balk and leave. Intellectually, he wanted her to. She couldn’t expect to treat him the way she had and then just climb into his bed and expect all was forgiven—though his cock definitely seemed willing to hear apologies.
She straddled him, laid her legs on either side of his hips, and rubbed along his straining length. “Better?” she mused, grinding and teasing. Her tits jostled against his chest with each thrust. She was sopping through her panties, and the contact drowned his nerves into a pool of lightning.
He’d wanted it to not be enough, but it was all he could do to stay secured to the bed as she writhed and thrashed. Her pretty, pouty mouth nibbled on his neck and she pounded against his cock at the pitch of his heartbeat, turning that lightning to thunder.
Her breath was ragged as her tongue tasted his earlobe. The mouth that had teased him all through high school was teasing him in a different way now. A burn he’d suffered years ago was being soothed by her hot skin.
He sank lower into the bed, and bursts of glow-in-the-dark pom-poms flashed behind his eyes. If he didn’t push her off of him, he was done for. Who was he kidding? He was done for already. It was too much. It might have been ten years past his fantasy, but Georgia “Peach” Cahill was giving him a private lap dance.
More than that, she seemed to like it. With each lunge, it was like she welcomed the jab of his cock against her waiting and willing pussy. It didn’t matter why she’d snuck into his bed, because she was here for him now. For Gideon, the man he had become. He’d give her what she was asking for. Prove to her that his unexpected windfall wasn’t all that had changed about him.
He urged against her with more force, hitting the spot that would make her ride him even harder, reveling in the pressure of her sweet softness against his cock. Her breath escalated, and she moaned in gratitude. He wanted to see what other noises he could force out of her. He longed to make her squeal, to make her beg. To make the bright blue eyes that had rolled at his nerdiness now roll back in her head in ecstasy.
She might have started this, but he was going to finish it. He spread his thumb along her jaw. “That’s enough playtime; panties off, Peach.”
Her breath rasped, but she didn’t acquiesce.
“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To fuck me—to get fucked by me?” He wielded more power by forcing her off of him and positioning her against the bed, his legs locked on either side.
She let out a surprised gasp. “Yes, but I’m supposed to seduce you.”
“Things change, and I don’t seduce.” He snaked his tongue along the center of her body, between her tits, and down to her belly button. She tasted of vanilla incense. “I own.”
Ten years ago, he never could have said something like that to her, but now it rolled out easily. Like everything else in his current life, he would be in control of this, of her.
“And right now, your body is my next acquisition.”
She whimpered, seemingly breathless for his next move. Her silhouette was a dream against the bed, waiting for him. It was just as he’d pictured when he’d seen her in the tiny red and white cheerleading skirt she wore on game days. Her tits were at least a C, her stomach was as tight as the sweaters she used to wear, and the pussy he’d dreamed about for all four years of high school was soaking, ready to be owned by him. It was obscured only by a thong, a tiny pirate-patch-size thong.
He’d had to hide his erection back then, but now it dug against her leg as he licked at her. He glided the strings of her thong down, his tongue flicking at her hips, her sweet stomach. He slid it off and tossed it behind him, like he’d seen people do with salt and a wish.
This had been his greatest wish in high school and his greatest shame. He’d scorned her and revered her, like everyone else.
But unlike everyone else, he was about to taste her.
He cupped his hands around her ass, the skin there taut and silky, and squeezed her closer to his hungry mouth.
Holy shit. He brushed his hand along her perfectly trimmed bikini wax—an arrow guiding him down, though he didn’t need direction. She was naked and ready for him, wet and sweet and purring like a kitten as his fingers slid her open. His tongue grazed her clit and her pussy tightened.
“When was the last time you came, Peach?” he hummed against her.
“Why?” she whimpered.
“I want to know how much you can take.” He feathered his tongue in a slow circle. “From how wet you are for me already, I should probably be gentle, but I don’t think that’s what you want, is it?”
She thrashed up, meeting the pressure of his hypnotic lapping, her body completely under his spell.
“Oh yeah,” Gideon murmured as he dipped in farther, “show me how badly you need my tongue.”
She squirmed below him—squealed—her voice sculpted into a performance of the moans he had only dreamed about hearing from her pretty pink lips in high school. He wanted more; he needed more.
He slid one finger inside, then another, her entrance yielding to him, her hips crashing against his hand, begging for it—begging for him.
“This is just a sample, Peach. My cock is what you came for, what you’ll come for.” He dug his fingers deeper, preparing her for the erection straining against his mattress. But before he could fill her with his cock, she clenched against him, her orgasm beginning to surrender.
He was about to make the most popular girl at Kenmore High School come in five minutes flat.
She sure as hell wouldn’t call him Gilligan ever again.
Georgia’s control was a ribbon unfurling from her core. She tried to hold on, but desire slid through her before she could grasp it. She’d snuck into this room to seduce the man who now truly did own her.
“Not waiting for my cock to come?” He tsked. “You’ll pay for that, Peach.” He plunged his tongue into her folds, causing her climax to expand, explode. She couldn’t stop the impending surge. His mouth was her lifeline, her nemesis. She reared against him as the current unleashed, molten decadence firing through her.
She couldn’t breathe for a moment, couldn’t see, or hear, or taste. Her only sensation was the trace of a tongue streaking up to her belly.
She’d never had an orgasm like that from just a few minutes of contact. Brandon had also never called her Peach in high school, but he’d learned a few tricks since then. If he could do that to her with his tongue and fingers, imagine what he could do with what she’d had in her hand. What he’d told her she’d come for—would she ever. She’d been unsure at first, but his commanding nature had stirred something in her. The way he took charge made any nervousness she’d had melt away.
She collapsed her head against his chest, trying to slow her breathing. She wasn’t drunk anymore. That orgasm had sucked the alcohol out of her.
“That was…” She didn’t have a word.
“Unexpected.” His voice wavered.
She rolled her fingers along his biceps. “Sorry if I startled you.”
Wouldn’t any man have been happy to find a half-naked woman in his bed? Wouldn’t any man have been ecstatic to make a woman wail like she just had?
He huffed, no louder than a whisper. “I don’t get startled, Peach, I’m not Scarlett O’Hara.”
“What?” Scarlett O’Hara? Where had Brandon pulled that from?
“We read Gone with the Wind in senior English. I guess you don’t remember.”
Georgia jerked back from him. Brandon hadn’t been in her English class. Her heart careened down into the pit of her stomach, mining in vain for consolation. She jumped from the bed and clicked on the light, the warmth she’d been drowning in now flooding ice cold.
Brandon wasn’t in the bed.
It was Gilligan—AKA Gideon freaking Neill. AKA someone who never should have touched her, never should have had his mouth… She fought against dizziness, the margaritas coming back up.
“Gilligan?” she finally croaked.
The name hung between them. He cleared his throat. “People call me Gideon now, but if you insist on calling me that, I suppose I can call you Ginger.” His eyes traveled down to her pubic hair. “Well, I could, if you weren’t a blonde.”
She attempted to cover herself, her throat and cheeks blazing. Her climax-induced stupor was replaced with a knot in her chest, but she couldn’t stop staring.
She might not have meant for Gilligan to be the recipient of her seduction, but she had no reason to call him that anymore. He didn’t look anything like the skinny dork he’d been in high school.
She’d avoided him at dinner earlier. She hadn’t wanted to announce her failure to a phoenix who had clearly risen from the ashes she was drowning in, but there was no avoiding his chiseled face now. It boasted a square jaw and high cheekbones. The eyes they’d described as Swamp Thing–colored were a dignified shade of green, and the brown hair that used to be thin and unkempt was a sexily bed-headed brush cut as dark as root beer. She might have attributed the unexpected ten-year change to drunk goggles, except she’d had her hands all over his muscles, the fine hairs of his abdomen, her body slick with sweat against his own. He was all too real, all too magnificent.
“I thought you were Brandon,” she managed, her teeth chattering, her brain seemingly shaken up like a snow globe. She tried to process the chain of events that had brought her here—into Gilligan’s room, half naked, with the taste of his skin still on her lips. The guy down at the desk hadn’t fallen for her sexy smile at all.
This had been a huge mistake.
Gideon’s skin was ashen at first, but he recovered quickly by squinting and sitting up taller. “This all makes a lot more sense now.”
He seemed upset, but why? She was the only one who deserved to be upset. He’d known who he was in bed with.
She couldn’t hear anything but her galloping heart. “I’m so embarrassed. If I’d known it was you, I would never have—”
“So you’re not embarrassed because I’m not Brandon,” he interrupted. “You’re embarrassed because I’m me?”
She attempted to chase her frenzied thoughts. She should have been. Ten years ago, Georgia Cahill and Gideon Neill wouldn’t even be breathing the same air, but now she had allowed him to breathe in and swallow her deepest secret desires. Her stomach swayed like an abandoned swing in a windstorm.
“You didn’t seem to care what my name was when I had my tongue inside you.”
“Excuse me?” she huffed. “Don’t you dare talk to me like that. Whatever just happened between us had nothing to do with you.”
“I think it had something to do with me.” He crossed his arms, his pectoral muscles becoming even more pronounced.
“Because you tricked me.” She put her hand to her mouth and covered her lips, like she couldn’t bear to have him look at them. It was then she remembered she was totally exposed, with the light on.
She clicked it off, and stars whirled in front of her eyes.
He clicked it back on. “Peach, I’ve tasted you. I don’t think my seeing you naked should matter at this point, but if you’re feeling modest, here.” He passed her a blanket and she wrapped it around herself.
No words would come. Nothing would surface but the question banging around in her mind like an echoing car crash. Why am I still standing here? Because, as offended as she was discovering she’d been with Gilligan, the shock could not erase that she’d more than enjoyed being with Gideon.
She needed to get the hell out of this room. But that wouldn’t change what had just happened. Nothing would.
“How could you do this? You took advantage of me,” she tried, searching for any excuse.
“Did I sneak into your suite?” His eyes were pointed. “Did I wake you up by sliding my body against you in a skimpy thong, my tits out, stroking your cock, and—”
“Stop.” She pulled the blanket tighter around her, but nothing could slow her trembling.
He looked down, his face tight. “How was I supposed to know you weren’t here for me?”
She let out a sharp laugh. “Be serious.” But, when his eyes met hers again, she was the one who had to look away.
“You’re the one who came like I was paying you.” He reached for a pair of square black-rimmed glasses and slid them on. “Actually, you came without any incentive at all.” His gaze settled on her stomach and lower. “But at least now I know the amount of licks it takes to get to the center of a Peach pop.”
Hot rage spilled down her throat, tore into her belly. “Fuck you, Gilligan.”
“We could have, if you would have been able to hold out, Peach.”
Her blood was molten, bubbling at her neck, dissolving her heart. Who the hell did this guy think he was? Of course, she was the one who hadn’t known who he was. She was the one who had let him…
She held up a finger and pointed. “I never, ever”—the words came through clenched teeth and breath as thick as syrup—“would have done that if I knew who you were.”
His eyes were flat behind his glasses. “I think that’s been established, but thanks for the reminder.”
She attempted to swallow, to slow her breathing, but nothing inside her worked. Her control was gone. Gideon had been able to make her his, had turned her body into his slave. No matter what she said to him, he was not Brandon and she had failed again.
There was no use continuing this. Georgia rushed from the bedroom, the blanket circled around her like a towel. What the hell had she just done? What the hell would she do tomorrow when she was at the obstacle course, or the barbecue, or any of the other stupid activities Reece Freedland, head of the reunion committee, had planned for this weekend and she had to face Gideon again?
Was she drunk enough that he wouldn’t remember the next day what she’d done? No, it didn’t work that way.
“Peach,” he called from the bedroom as she opened the door to the hallway, “you forgot your thong.”
Candy Sloane is a pseudonym for a Young Adult & New Adult author who needed to write some naughty books her mother couldn’t read. She lives in Portland, OR and loves Lifetime movies. She would tell you more, but this persona is a secret.