Wrong Bed Reunion
Candy Sloane
Release Date: July 11, 2016
Fake relationship, real temptation.
Most Likely
To #2
Georgia
Cahill is at her high school reunion to seduce the quarterback boyfriend she
left behind ten years ago. Unfortunately, one too many margaritas accidentally
land her in bed with Gideon Neill, the class geek, instead. By the time she
realizes her mistake, she’s the one being seduced.
Gideon
Neill is a new man—confident, gorgeous, and about to make the biggest business
deal of his life. He just needs a girlfriend to land it. Georgia provides the
perfect solution—he’ll help her make her ex jealous if she’ll be on his arm for
his business deal.
But
he quickly realizes he likes her in his arms even better!
Who’d
have guessed that sleeping with the enemy would be so hot? But it isn’t long before
their act becomes all too real. Could this truly be love? Or is it just the
best sex
they’ve
ever had?
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.
“Georg…?”
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.
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