Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 91820 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91820 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
“You seem like you’re enjoying it.”
She’s drunk down half of it already. She keeps going at that rate, and she’s gonna be wasted.
Looks like I’m on drunk-person duty tonight. I mean, she’s here alone, and I can’t exactly leave her to her own devices. Sure, we’re on a small island, and I’m guessing it’s safe. But there’s a lot of trouble a drunk person can get themselves into, even on an island.
The bartender puts my beer down, and I thank him. I’m only two beers in, this being my third, so I’ll cut myself off after this one. I can hold my liquor, but something tells me I’m gonna need to be sober for this, and I wasn’t planning on getting drunk tonight anyway. Unlike my new little British friend.
Look at me, thinking of someone else. See, I can be a good guy when I want to be.
She drains her drink and orders another.
“Oh my gosh!” she exclaims out of nowhere, scaring the shit out of me. “I love this song!”
There’s music playing quietly in the background, but I’ve not been paying attention to it. Clearly, she has.
“Can you turn the music up, please?” she asks the bartender, who is more than happy to oblige her request.
She slides off the stool and starts to dance right fucking there. She literally gives zero fucks, and I like it.
“Come dance with me!” She holds a hand out to me.
As hot as she might be, this is when I tap out.
I might move like a motherfucker on the field, but dancing is not my thing. It’s not that I can’t dance. Dance lessons were forced on me by my mom to get me through the many fucking functions my father would drag us to. Mom always wanted me to dance with her, and I would do anything for her.
But in the middle of a quiet bar, that’s where I say no.
“Nope, I’m good. But you carry on.”
And I am more than happy to sit here and watch her gyrate and move her body around. I especially like it when she bounces on the balls of her feet and her tits move in her top. It is the best thing I’ve seen in ages. I haven’t seen tits that actually move of their own accord in a really fucking long time.
God bless the British girl’s surgically untouched tits.
I could honestly sit here all night, sipping on my beer and just watching her dance.
But it’s also a little pervy—okay, a lot pervy now that I think about it. I’m ogling a drunk girl who doesn’t know better. And I’m not the only one. The bartender and the guy sitting outside, whose wife just went to the restroom, are also getting a good look at the British girl here.
“Why don’t you sit down and finish your drink?” Yes, I’m encouraging more alcohol consumption, but it was the only thing I could think of to say to get her to sit her gorgeous ass down, so the menfolk—me included—would stop watching her tits bounce and her tight ass move around.
“I will when the song ends.”
Okay, so that didn’t work.
“What song is this anyway?” I ask, having zero clue about the song that has her so hyped up.
“You don’t know this song?” She looks at me like I’m an idiot.
She’s right too; I am.
“That would be why I asked you what song it was.”
“God, you’re so sarcastic!” She rolls her eyes at me.
Is it weird that the eye-rolling turns me on even more than seeing her tits move?
She finally stops dancing and sits her ass back down on the stool. Well, after a couple of attempts.
She’s sweating, and it’s sexy as fuck because all I can think about is another way she could be sweating with me. Yes, I’m that sexually depraved. Sue me.
“God, it’s hot.” She fans her face with her hand.
“I’ll get you a water.”
“I’ve got a drink.” She wraps those lips around the straw again.
My imagination sends SOS signals to my dick. Down, boy. Not tonight.
“ ‘Cruel Summer,’ ” she says to me after swallowing another good amount of Long Island iced tea.
“What?” is my response.
“The song. You asked what it was called, and it’s called ‘Cruel Summer.’ ”
“Who sings it?”
“Bananarama.”
I laugh. “What?”
“Bananarama,” she repeats.
“That’s actually a real band name?”
“Yep, ’80s British girl band. My aunt Jenny loves them.” She grabs the glass of water the bartender just put down and gulps the full glass down.
“Thirsty?” I deadpan.
“No. I just want another cocktail.” She smirks at me. “Thank you for the water,” she says to the bartender. “Can I have a margarita now, please?”
“Nothing is gonna stop you from drinking tonight, is it?”
“Nope. I want to get drunk.”
“You already are.”
“Then, I want to get drunker. Until I forget.”
“Forget what?”
“That I’m actually unhappy.”
What am I supposed to say to that? A better man would ask why she’s unhappy, but I’m not a good man.