Owen was absolutely correct - the oversized bathtub is more than big enough to accommodate both of us. It's like the hotel knew somehow.
He also magically produced two small bottles of prosecco from nowhere, and we clink them together before sipping directly from them, sitting at opposite ends of the bath.
"This was a good idea," I tell him, leaning back against the porcelain and closing my eyes.
"It was," he says happily. "Except for one small problem."
"What's that?" My eyes snap open.
He grins, dimples popping, golden eyes squinting at me. He's so cute that my heart practically executes a pirouette. "I can't see you very well," he explains ruefully. My ruse to get you unexpectedly naked has been somewhat ruined by both the bubbles concealing you and my shitty eyesight."
"Your eyes are that bad too?" I ask. I know I'd likely have a similar issue without my lenses. Being short-sighted really sucks sometimes.
"Pretty much," he replies. "I've needed glasses since I was about ten."
"I don't remember you having glasses when we were kids."
"I only wore them at school," he laughs. "I spent most holidays in a bit of a blur until I got contacts when I was a teenager. And that would have been the year I finally noticed how cute you were."
"Aw." I can't help but smile at the sweetness of this statement, my heart now spinning out of control.
"Turn around and come over here," he entices me, reaching out a hand. "Since I can't see you properly, at least let me feel you."
"Okay, pervert." I roll my eyes but set my bottle down and go to him willingly, settling myself in the cradle he's made between his legs, my back against his chest. Briefly, he winds warm arms around me and presses a kiss to the top of my head.
"That's better," he says contentedly. He moves my hair out of the way, and his stubble caresses the side of my neck, just below my ear. I inhale sharply. Goosebumps are already hovering beneath the surface of my skin, apparently threatening to burst free at any moment.
He somehow knows exactly how to touch me; either that or I'm just way more sensitive to touch than I ever realised. But, given it was never like this with Donnie, I'm going to go with the former option.
As his mouth touches my skin, the arm still wrapped around me moves towards one of my breasts. He slides a hand across it, light as a feather, and I gasp again as one finger delicately catches my nipple. "Is that good?" He hums his query against the shell of my ear, and the vibration almost makes me spontaneously combust. And those gathering goosebumps take their cue and pop right out.
"You're so responsive to me," he whispers, something that sounds akin to wonder in his voice. "It's so fucking sexy, Mirren. You have no idea."
My head tips back almost against my will. I'm suddenly taken back to that moment on the beach where he was rubbing lotion into my back. If that was P.G., this is the 18+ version. Rated X. Was that really only two days ago? "Owen," I find myself exhaling on a sigh. Everywhere he touches is suddenly on fire.
I am so turned on right now. So much so that I think he'll die if his fingers don't venture where they're threatening to go. His palm is currently flat against my stomach, but moving lower. Slowly. Painfully. Torturously.
"What do you want?" He asks me softly. I look down at his hand, so teasingly close to where I need him. And, deciding just to go for it, I push it further down between my legs. How's that for a hint, Owen?
YOU ARE READING
The Reluctant Roadtripper (A Romantic Comedy)
Chick-LitI can only see half of his face, reflected in the mirror at the front of the bus, and part of that is obscured by the peak of the black company-branded cap he's wearing. But I can see enough to glean that there's a strong jaw covered in scruff. A wi...
