Page 5 of The Cocktail Bar
“I see.” She raised her eyebrows, and if River wasn’t mistaken, he could detect – just for a fleeting moment – that quirky little Blake’s sibling trait of hers: calculation. And then like a puff of smoke it was gone, as if it had never been.
“Me?” she asked, the cogs in her brain having evidently resumed their usual pattern. “I’m doing a bit of everything at the moment. Dog walking and sitting, hence being up here at this ungodly hour, some waitressing, cleaning and shopping for a few of the elderly neighbours, you know, that sort of thing. Pays the bills, helps Dad out with the mortgage aftersheditched us for the fourth time and ran off to Benidorm to be with that utter tosser for ever. At twenty-nine it’s hardly the way I saw my life panning out.” Georgina sighed, “But I’m the woman of the house now, somebody’s got to look after the men.”
“Well you’re looking good on it… really good,” said River with a smile, hoping in futile hindsight that she wouldn’t interpret it as anything more than the hung-over compliment it was; the hung-over compliment he should have kept to himself, for she would always be the younger out-of-bounds sister of his childhood best friend. Some things were simply never meant to be explored.
“And what’s this?” she changed the subject, not before raising those perfect brows once more, then sitting by his side, dog now (thankfully) already in a semi-slumber.
“Nothing, just a scrapbook of junk.” He tried in vain not to sound protective as he attempted to cocoon The Bible in the hood of his sleeping bag.
But she snatched it off him, resuming the role of annoying brat like it was some kind of lifelong prerogative.
“I’d rather you didn’t, Georgie.”
“Georgina,” she corrected him.
“It’s precious actually.”
“Oh, now he says it’s precious all of a sudden,” she smirked.
“Years of notes and stuff.” A trickle of heat began to cover his body as he made a pathetic tackle to grab it back and she childishly tugged it further away. “But they wouldn’t mean anything to anyone else.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” she said. “Blue Lagoon,” she softly traced the outline of the highball glass in which River had sketched the liquid swimming pool and its disc of lime, “very tropical.” She leafed through the pages again, a provocative smile, quite different to anything he remembered adorning her teenage face, curled her lips.
“Can you make me one of these?” She looked at him, a coquettish glint in her eyes, something he fast realised was not his mind playing tricks on him since she was now also biting gently at the corner of her lip.
“When the bar’s redecorated, up and running in a few weeks, yeah?”
“I’ve always had a thing for you, you know.” Georgina put the book down slowly as if to back up her declaration with only the most sensual of movements. River swallowed. Despite their banter, he had not been expecting the dialogue to take him quite so far in this direction. Georgina smiled as she removed her gloves, careful not to take her eyes off him. And then she straddled River’s still swaddled legs and to his utter astonishment began to undress. He found he could do no more than swallow yet again as one by one the layers unpeeled themselves, and he let her take his rough hands in hers, directing them to a pair of superbly pert breasts as she sighed deeply.
“I um, I don’t think this is a good idea. Like, what about Blake?”
River forced the memory of the navy and red shell-suited keepy-uppy obsessedTake Thatfan into his head, willing it to stay put. But the football bounced off, and the George of yesteryear faded fast. There was just no escaping the fact that 2017’s version of Georgina was a vision and a temptress all at once. He knew he shouldn’t. This was the ultimate treason but god he was so horny he didn’t care. And he realised, somehow rolling back the months in his mind as she parted his lips with her tongue and pressed her body urgently against him, that he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d gotten laid. The thrill of getting caught in the act by an early morning passer-by only added to his hunger, but she’d catch her death like this. Spring or not, this was Somerset.
He unzipped the side of his sleeping bag, inviting her in. They fumbled and twisted, slipped and slid, and before common sense got a look in, he was deep inside her, groaning and bucking in pleasure.
“Still want to try that Blue Lagoon?” he found himself whispering into her ear.
“I want you to line up every cocktail on the bar, she stopped to softly bite his lip, “so I can drink it dry before you strip naked and take me… over and over.”
“And over?” he said with a suggestive smile, their eyes locking so that phase two was inevitable.
“But… mmm,” she panted as he grinded, hands possessing her backside, “I get the feeling my favourite tipple will be the Screaming Orgasm.” She kissed him greedily, as if unleashing the pent-up lust of a starved adolescence and the fantasy of bedding a rock star.
“You’ve got yourself a job,” he said, coming up for air, blinking Blake and his warning away, as well as Georgina’s cringe worthy suggestion that he’d serve up anything so seedy and classless. “Just so happens I’m looking for bar staff… and I think you’ll find I pay rather well.”
