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Ryan fluttered his eyes open but couldn’t see, momentarily panicking the drink had finally sent him blind.
He squeezed them shut, drew thumb and forefinger across his aching lids and off the bridge of his nose, clumps of sleep rolling with them.
Counting to three, he tried again, relieved this time that his focus began to swim into view.
Gooey shapes gradually gave way to harder lines and edges across the bed.
He recoiled and tipped over the side into a tangled heap atop his discarded jeans.
Groaning quietly, he reoriented and peeped over the rumpled sheets, praying it was a trick of his groggy conscience.
It wasn’t.
Who the fuck was she? Her tousled, dirty-blonde hair fell over face and shoulders, white sheets covering the rest.
It hurt to blink, but he did it anyway, head pounding, mouth lined with silica gel.
With whatever remaining brain cells weren’t damaged beyond repair from the booze, he scraped every synapse in the hope of dredging a match; her name, how they’d met or, most importantly of all, whether anything had happened between them the night before.
Anything at all.
A venue, a glance, a fleeting touch, a drink.
Nothing.
His head just screamed at him to get more rest and take away the throbbing.
Maddening thoughts tumbled and he tried to latch onto one, clutching ineffectually until he figured a proper look at her might kickstart his memory.
Stealthily, he crawled back under the covers, slid across the double bed and lifted the sheets.
Prominent shoulder blades on broad shoulders swept towards him, one sprawling breast partially visible under her weight.
The smooth skin of her back tapered to a waist at least two dress sizes larger than the kind of girl he was used to.
The alabaster surface of her voluptuous bottom curved beyond the horizon, full and meaty.
He winced.
Definitely not his regular fare.
As the curves led deeper into the bed, a flash of colour caught his attention.
He crept closer, drawing level with a tattoo on her left butt cheek of a single-stemmed red rose.
Gingerly, he reached out to trace its form and shut his eyes, trying to recall if those eight centimetres of patterned skin meant anything to his subconscious.
All it did was make his eyes sting behind the lids, willing him to sleep some more.
The girl murmured in her slumber so he withdrew with no more than a glance at the deep crease where her bottom met chubby thighs.
Allowing the sheets to cover her gently snoring frame once more, he stared at the ceiling.
Was it some kind of joke? A trick played on him by his mates to take advantage of his inebriated state.
Would they stoop so low as to pay some chunkster to sleep with him? He looked at her again, shivered and slid away, legs swinging out to sit on the edge of the bed, burying his head in his hands.
His kidneys complained.
Water.
Need water.
Across the room, his wooden chair was upended, papers from his desk strewn nearby.
The place only looked vaguely lived-in due to his minimal tastes.
Adjacent walls sported posters of the bar of soap from Fight Club, and a tasteful nude partially clad in a towel.
Photo frames flanked bookshelves lined with the likes of Harlan Coben, Andy McNab, Philip K.
Dick, and a smattering of textbooks with dog-eared post-its sprouting from worn edges.
The only other sign of life was his Japanese peace lily on the stand in the corner, away from the direct morning sunlight that streamed in from the East window.
The plant helped oxygenate the room apparently, but the primary reason he had it, besides it being difficult to kill, was because Simon Pegg’s character had one in Hot Fuzz.
Having something to regularly nurse other than a hangover not only added to his allure, as if he was in touch with his inner self, it was also a great ice-breaker.
His eyes tracked from the spray bottle of distilled water, following the trail of clothes that led from the doorway in a circuitous path to the bathroom, then to the bed.
He shuddered again at the thoughts of what might have been.
Fucking alcohol.
His best friend and worst nightmare.
An overwhelming urge to urinate overcame him so he padded naked across the room, having to woozily stop twice en-route to prevent himself careening into first the wardrobe, then the door frame.
The en-suite hadn’t fared much better than the bedroom.
Dribbling tap.
Soaked bathmat scrunched up on the toilet seat.
A previously white bath towel streaked with orange, piled on the floor.
He swept off the bathmat, kicking it and the towel into a corner pending some plan for them, and took a long, satisfying leak before washing his hands.
Barely recognized the guy staring back at him from the mirror and ran damp fingers through medium-brown hair in a futile attempt to tame the sticking up parts.
Bloodshot eyes stared back where brown used to reign.
He knew it was the result of too many nights like the last, but just couldn’t stop.
Or wouldn’t.
Deep down he knew, as his mother loved to opine, that burning the candle at both ends would do him no good, but he loved the city too much.
The pace.
The bars.
The women.
Especially the women.
So many drinks, so many girls.
It wasn’t so much the sex he adored, it was the screams and taste as he delivered what they all craved, yet were too often conditioned to deny.
He loved the loud ones.
Those unafraid to let go.
He’d noticed a marked improvement in attitude towards sex recently – probably had that God-awful Fifty Shades to thank for that – but while there was still breath in his body and wood in his pecker, Ryan wanted to ride the wave of sexual empowerment the likes of which hadn’t been felt since the burning of bras some three decades before he was born.
He didn’t have any specific blueprint for what made the perfect woman, beyond being sexy and trim, with little make-up.
A primary criterion was being dirty in bed; the dirtier the better, and he was refining his technique at spotting the signs so he could improve the odds.
Age played a big part.
The closer they were to thirty, the more chance they knew what they wanted so sex became a collaborative experience.
He revelled in the connectedness and energy delivered by a woman in charge, especially when she was horny and knew how to channel that incredible sexual tension to their mutual benefit.
The married ones he talked into bed were even better.
Highly-strung career-driven bitches that needed to let off steam, or those neglected by workaholic husbands, both types were often flattered by the attention of a younger model.
He made them feel like they still had it; sex appeal they thought had begun to wane or had long-since evaporated.
Such specimens broadly fell into two camps.
First the “nurturers” who justified cheating by rationalising they were passing on their knowledge.
The type of woman who would openly masturbate in front of him, so he might learn how she liked to be touched.
And secondly those who had given up hope, resigned to a diet of idealistic trash fiction, having almost forgotten what it was like to be really fucked.
Above all, he loved the realism the married woman offered.
No pretence, no fake tan, no false nails, no clumpy eyelashes.
He provided a necessary service, bringing her back from the self-inflicted scrap heap.
Helped her feel alive, comfortable in her body, despite it not being her vision of perfection.
But there was also a quality he enjoyed about the youngsters like the girl currently in his bed.
Having just taken fledgling steps into the world of work, such creatures were easily corruptible, their willingness to experiment meaning he could coerce them into wholly debauch acts by simply implying they were missing out compared with their peers.
At twenty-three himself, his brash, confident “older man” persona was a significant draw.
To such impressionable minds with Facebook bragging rights as currency, he was their Sensei, their Mr-long-term-forever, their shot at mind-blowing happiness and cult status among her circle of friends.
And he loved demonstrating the benefit of his experience in their tight little pussies, eager mouths and pert bottoms before discarding them.
No matter the specifics, there was something they all shared: contorted pleasure screwed up on pretty features as he brought them to Big O.
That was the best part.
It was what he did, what he lived for, and always tried to catch every drop as they ground against him, drowning in their beautiful, wet, irrational sin.
Ryan splashed water on his face and fumbled for the hand towel.
Filled a tumbler and gulped noisily, then drained two more before returning to the bedroom.
Perching on the bed again he traced the room, re-enacting the trajectory of clothes in bullet time the way CSI staff might.
The hallway was the epicentre, the first sign of desperation, her top a crumpled purple rag on the floor, his chequered shirt not far behind.
By the bathroom door, her short black skirt lay discarded, his socks flung the other side of the room.
He already knew the whereabouts of his jeans, but couldn’t account for his underwear.
Her scarlet bra had hit the floor halfway to the bed, meaning she’d approached practically naked from the side of the room he was facing.
Squinting, he could just about make out the size from the worn label.
34E, maybe F.
Certainly not a small girl.
He pictured her standing there, breasts heaving, eyeing his nakedness with a mischievous glint in her eye while her fingers traced down muffiny overhang to the waistband.
The figure-eight of her black panties completed the trail a few feet from the bedside and told him all he needed to know.
He imagined her advancing in her Stay Puft birthday suit.
Perhaps he’d been sitting right in this spot, waiting.
Maybe she pushed him back, clambered onto the bed and sank onto his hard prick, riding him while those floppy tits swung above his face and her cries rang out in sync with him biting her nipples.
Most girls loved a bit of rough in the heat of the moment.
Or had he indulged in the taste of her first? She could have crawled forward on her knees, settled over his face and lowered herself to his waiting mouth and tongue.
Ryan licked his upper lip and inhaled, seeking validation.
None came, though he knew it didn’t necessarily rule anything out.
Again his gaze fell on her underwear, wishing it would trigger a memory.
He stooped for the knickers and sat back upright, running the delicate lace through his fingertips as if reading panty Braille.
No flashes of recognition sprang forth.
He rotated the garment until the stained crotch was upright, a pair of silvery trails alluding to her state of arousal.
He delicately touched one of the glimmering tracks, finding it tacky against the pad of his finger and immediately felt the familiar surge in his veins.
Furtively checking over his shoulder to confirm she was still resting, he returned to the knickers and brought the fabric to his face, inhaling deeply.
The sharp tang of female arousal stung the back of his nasal passage and his cock thickened appreciatively.
He sniffed again, longer, stopping at key spots along the surface.
As he roamed the gusset like a perverted anteater, various strengths of smell invaded his nostrils, from faint traces of urine and sweat, through deliciously pungent pussy juice, to the exotic aroma of her big butt.
It excited him more than he’d care to admit.
Though he adored the filthiness of the taboo act, he’d only indulged with one other chubby girl – Summer was her name – and she’d been only too willing to give it up after he’d eaten her delightfully shaved pussy to a dripping orgasm.
The muffled sounds of her begging for more into the pillow and images of her upturned cheeks rippling as he pounded into her tight, virgin arsehole flashed through his mind.
It had been on someone else’s bed at a house party, which was pretty depraved in itself.
How could he remember that and not what happened last night? Stupid memory.
He returned to the underwear in his hands, hoping that more of the smell of the mystery girl might patch the craters in his brain.
He drank her musky scent and, with heart thumping loud and fast, dared to lick the crotch to release more.
He traced the sticky lines of girl come, sniffing deeply, closing his eyes as the fruit of her folds drifted into his brain, his dick fully hardening.
A hazy image of recollection began to form and he tried to latch onto it.
“Hi,” she croaked behind him.
Ryan jumped, dropped the panties and turned towards her, keeping his erection hidden.
She brought a hand to her face and swept away locks of hair to reveal pale, blue-grey eyes, thin nose and a wide mouth.
Early twenties, tops.
“Morning,” he said cheerily, desperately wracking his brain for her name.
It had an ‘M’ in it, he was sure.
Mary? Amanda? Amber? “How do you feel?” “Sore.
” “Head?” She blushed.
“Yes, head.
” “Can I get you anything?” “A recorded message that says ‘Don’t drink again’ every time I open my purse.
” He concurred, making a face.
“Good night though, yeah?” She faltered a fraction.
“Yes.
Dancing.
Drinking.
Coming back here…” She tailed off.
Ryan studied her features.
“You too, huh?” She lowered her eyes and nodded.
“What the hell were we drinking?” “Brain eraser fluid, it seems.
Sorry, but it even deleted your name.
” “Classy.
Imogen.
” “Of course.
Imogen.
” She tugged the sheets around herself and sat up, grimaced and clutched her head.
The covers fell, her breasts spilling over the top as she scrabbled to retain her dignity, eventually giving up with a shrug.
“Killer hangover.
” “Yeah.
” She sat still for a long moment, eyes crossing and uncrossing as she battled her brain, focusing on what she could see of Ryan’s crotch before looking away.
“So… did we…?” Ryan wondered whether to lie.
Thought better of it.
“I honestly don’t know.
” She laughed.
“A right pair we are! This is like that film The Hangover.
You seen it?” “Yeah.
Except there isn’t a tiger in the bathroom.
I checked.
” “That’s one thing.
” They sat in silence.
Ryan’s phone gave a muted low battery bleep and he fished for it to stick it on charge, but froze, frowning at the display.
Imogen asked him what was up.
“There’s a picture of my dick here.
I don’t do selfies.
At least, not as a rule.
” It was definitely his though, albeit from a strange angle.
He flipped back through the gallery, finding most blurred.
A shot of Imogen curled up on the floor, naked and laughing.
A few photos of her in various states of undress.
A couple of her covered in lather in his shower.
Imogen shuffled over, their thighs touching through the thin sheets as Ryan scrolled back further, revealing a club with flashing lights and exposed brick interior walls.
In unison they said, “Mint.
” Ryan’s spirits lifted, clinging to the hope that his phone might finally become a worthwhile investigative tool instead of simply being shit.
Photos of drinks were next.
Shot glasses in beer; the bar staff; him dancing with some girls that were more his usual scale, Imogen in the background of some of the candids.
The set concluded with Ryan’s mates leering for the camera, middle fingers up with drinks in hand.
Work hard, play hard.
The familiar start to yet another Friday night.
“Not much to go on.
Looks like I was drinking PanzerMeister though.
” “What the hell’s that?” “It’s like a Jägerbomb, but instead of RedBull, the shots are dropped in lager.
Think it’s three parts JägerMeister and one part Schnapps over Becks.
Pretty heavy duty.
Explains a lot.
” He scrolled back and forth, frowning and shaking his head.
“Does your phone give anything away?” “I’d have to find it first.
” “Gimme your number.
” She furrowed her brow and reeled it off after a little trial and error.
From the hallway, they heard a muffled rendition of Daft Punk’s Get Lucky.
Ryan rose to fetch it and brought her clutch bag back, amused at her hurriedly looking away from ogling his flared organ.
Settling next to her warmth, they scrolled backwards through the gallery revealing a similar story from her perspective.
She had evidently photographed Ryan as he performed a drunken striptease.
There were some selfies of her wearing just a bra and panties in his bathroom, more photos of Mint Warehouse, her girlfriends drinking, having fun.
She was sipping some orange cocktail in most of them.
“Aha,” she pinched the screen to zoom in.
“Tequila sunrise.
Sends me crazy loopy, and accounts for the memory loss.
It just-” she lapsed into thought, finishing with, “-fucks me up.
” Imogen dropped her phone back in the bag.
“Can I use the loo?” She scrambled from under the covers without waiting for an answer, bounding a little unsteadily to her feet and using the wall for support.
He watched her jiggling as she made her way across the room.
Though she was undeniably a few pounds overweight, there was some sort of carefree confidence in the way she carried her well-rounded body, from subtle midriff bulge out to her glorious peach, that made Ryan suddenly want to race after her, grab fistfuls of rump, peel her globes apart and go to town on her dark star.
He’d seen some arses in his time, but he was confident that Imogen’s was now one he’d recall when alone with nothing but his thoughts for company.
Maybe he’d been too picky all these years.
At the doorway, she cast a look over her shoulder then disappeared.
Ryan grabbed his cock and pumped it a few times, feeling the blood surge in.
Had he fucked her? And if so, where? Here on the bed? Over by the desk? Against the wall? On the floor? In the shower? Had he pushed her young frame onto all fours and split her delightful rear as she screamed for it? Annoyingly, nothing concrete from the night before popped into his brain, just fractured flashes too fast for him to decipher.
The sound of her tinkling against the porcelain filtered into the room and he swept back the sheets.
Ran his hands over where she’d been lying, then bent to smell the area.
No evidence of sex, just traces of her floral perfume.
As he smoothed the sheets back, Imogen gave a little squeal from the bathroom.
“Oh God my hair.
” She reappeared in the doorway.
“You didn’t tell me Meryl Streep had lent me hers.
” Sitting propped up on the bed, Ryan’s eyes were drawn to the centre of her body where an untamed nest of light-brown hair sprouted, disappearing into the deep vee between her legs.
It still fascinated him that very few blondes had the same colour hair there.
“Yeah, I can see the resemblance.
” She tutted and shook her head.
“One track mind,” but Ryan noticed her once again glance down at his cock.
“Says you.
I can cover up if you’re vegetarian.
” Imogen laughed.
“Omnivore all the way.
” “An om-nom-nom-nivore, I’ll bet.
” She flashed him a mischievous grin before disappearing into the bathroom.
Ryan imagined her kneeling, looking up at him with those big blue eyes bulging, lips split around his fat tool, slurping his meat as he grabbed her head and made her take more.
He jacked his shaft at the imagery.
Started working out how to manipulate her to make that happen, but his hangover got in the way.
Figured he’d have to wing it.
Her voice again echoed from the bathroom.
“Oh.
My.
God.
I’m so sorry.
” “What?” She came back to the door, hanging onto the frame for support.
“I think I was sick and mopped it up with your towel.
” “Ahh, the orange.
” “Yes, the orange.
Want me to wash it?” Ryan dismissed her with a wave.
“I’ll sort it later.
Or burn it.
” “You don’t mind?” “I always let strange girls yack on my towels.
Adds to the allure.
” “Don’t! You sure about this?” He nodded as she turned and he watched her tattoo wiggle away from him once more.
“Nice ink, by the way,” he called after her.
“What’s the story with that?” “My middle name.
” “You middle name’s ‘flower’? Bit unusual.
” Her laugh echoed off the bathroom tiles.
“Rose.
” “Is that so you can remember your name when you drink too much?” “Something like that.
” “And how’s that working out for you?” “Not so good.
Maybe I need to go full Memento.
” Imogen Rose returned and slithered under the covers, pulling them up to her chin.
“Hey, Becky might remember something.
” “Becky?” “My bestie.
She never drinks as hard as me.
” “So call Becky the bestie.
The suspense is killing.
” Imogen grabbed her phone, scrolled, tapped and put it to her ear.
The mechanical purr of the ringing tone spilled into the room, shortly followed by the cheery voice of Becky, tinny yet clearly audible in the comparative silence of the room.
“Hey Immy, where the fuck are you, biatch?” Ryan rolled his eyes and mouthed, “Immy?” Imogen shoved him.
“Hey Becks.
Lost you last night.
I know we were at Mint early on.
Having memory trouble after that.
” “We hooked up with the IT crowd who plied us with drinks.
A lot of drinks.
I think Fran copped off with one of them, but she wouldn’t spill.
And one of the guys was totally into Zara, but she wasn’t interested and he was too pissed to notice.
Pretty funny actually.
” “Brown hair, brown eyes, about six-one and a big-” she fleetingly dropped her eyes to his crotch again, “-ego?” “Yeah, that’s him.
Started after Saffie when Zara escaped.
He’s a player.
” Imogen giggled at Ryan’s mock hurt face.
“Uh Becks, he’s here.
” “No fucking way.
” “Way.
” “At your place?” “His.
” “Jee-zus girl.
You don’t half pick ’em.
Was he any good?” “Careful.
Don’t want his head to swell any more.
” “Oh, he’s… there.
” Ryan called out, “Hi Becky.
” Imogen held the phone out between them, its speaker vibrating, “Ummm, hi.
Hope you’re gonna take good care of her.
” “So do I.
” Imogen shoved him again.
“Becks?” “Yeah.
” “Can you fill in any more blanks?” “Nothing I’ve not already told you.
I’ll ask around and text what I find.
” “Thanks.
” “We still on for retail therapy later?” “Defo.
” “OK.
See you there.
Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.
” “I always do everything you wouldn’t do.
Square.
” “Slut.
” Imogen gave a throaty laugh, hair playing over her shoulders.
“See ya.
” She cut the connection and dropped the phone.
“So, Mr.
Player.
You sharking after my mates?” “I plead amnesia.
” “Convenient.
Guess I’m the consolation prize after all the little fish got away.
” Was that a dig at her size? “It’s not like that.
” “How do you know?” “Becky has me wrong,” he lied.
“Becky’s rarely wrong.
If she says you’re a player, you’re a player.
” “Anything I can do to clear my name? Prove I’m a… whatever the hell the opposite of a player is.
” She eyed him.
Face, chest, biceps, face, in that order.
“Make me breakfast in bed and we’ll see.
” “Cereal? Toast? Eggs?” “How about eggs on toast.
Scrambled.
” “Coffee?” “Abso-fucking-lutely.
” “Milk and sugar?” “Yes, and two.
” “Done.
” Ryan slid off the bed and padded across the room with a slightly accentuated swagger, knowing without looking that she’d be watching his arse leave.
He hadn’t realised he was ravenous until he set about breakfast, whisking a double batch of eggs and milk, salt, pepper and a dash of Cayenne for a little kick.
While the eggs were firming in the pan he stuck the toast on and filled the cafetière.
The strong aroma wafted past his nostrils and he salivated.
In his world there were two things he never bought: part-worn tyres and cheap coffee.
As he was waiting for the coffee to develop, he poked his head into the bedroom and asked if she wanted some fruit.
“I’ve got bananas, pears, apples and Peruvian nipple fruit.
” “Peruvian whatnow?” “No idea, just made it up in your honour.
” “A pear’s fine, thanks.
” The toast popped up and he buttered it thickly.
She looked like that kind of girl.
Plunging the coffee made him think of Imogen’s butt again and the array of nasty things he’d love to do to it.
Or perhaps had already done to it.
Come on memory.
He shook his head and carried the tray in, waiting for her to prop a pillow behind herself and shuffle into a sitting posture.
Her tits swung invitingly and it wasn’t until she cleared her throat that he realised he was staring.
Imogen seemed amused.
“You like puppies?” “As much as you like mixed grill.
” He passed the tray over and went back to fetch his, climbing into bed beside her.
Imogen complimented him on the repast and Ryan used the mealtime to learn more about his bedmate.
Her love of dance music.
Her job as a fashion writer.
Her cat, Blinky, so-called because it out-stared her at the rescue centre.
Her desert island list that, bizarrely, included a solar-powered bagel maker.
And her best sex to date.
She spoke candidly about her experiences, which Ryan knew was a good sign, yet at other times gave guarded answers.
She was a bit of an enigma, which drew him in.
By the end of the meal he had her pretty well profiled.
Maybe 70%.
Not confident enough that he’d jeopardise the hard work by doing anything rash just yet.
Nice and slow.
Loosen her up.
Music.
Yes, music.
Leaning across to the bedside table, he Bluetoothed his phone to the amp, selected an album and adjusted the volume as Lashed Euphoria drummed from the speakers across the room.
She nodded her head to the beat and handed him her tray, plucking the pear from it, biting down.
It dribbled onto her breasts and she slurped at the bitten part of the fruit, giggling.
“Ooopsh.
” “This is where I make a jape about a juicy pear, right?” Imogen rolled her eyes, scooped up her boob and lapped the juice from it.
Ryan raised an eyebrow, mesmerised by the dark, crinkled cap and firm, pink teat nestled among the expanse of brilliant white.
“You’re just showing off because men can’t reach theirs.
” “You ever tried?” “No.
” “Try.
” “No.
” “Spoilsport.
” She jiggled her breasts and made a show of running her tongue over a nipple, coating it with saliva.
“Soldier boy approves, I see.
” He looked down at his dick, standing semi-proud.
“I’d defy any man not to be turned on.
” “In stark contrast to last night,” she added, taking another bite and freezing.
Their eyes met.
“Jutht a minute.
” She finished her mouthful before continuing.
“I remember now.
Hah, yeah.
I was standing over there squeezing these and you couldn’t get it up.
” “Bullshit.
” “No, I swear.
You were too pissed up.
Said something about if I was so desperate for wood I should… wait, hand me your phone.
” Imogen scrolled through the gallery again with a clean knuckle and started laughing.
“What?” She giggled.
“See this one.
What does that look like?” “It’s blurred.
” “Yeah, but look closer.
” Ryan studied the screen.
As he did so, Imogen twisted the display slightly off-axis.
His eyes widened.
“You never… is that…?” they both looked over at the upturned chair and burst out laughing.
“The chair leg got more action than I did?” She scrolled to the shot of her writhing on the floor.
“Not for long.
This one’s less than a minute later.
They studied the pictures in order, turning the device to see if the orientation gave any clues, fighting its attempts at automatically spinning the display to keep the image the right way up.
“See this,” she stabbed the top-left corner of the photo of Ryan’s member.
“Isn’t that the plant?” Ryan looked closer.
“Could be.
” “Right, if it is then I couldn’t have been in front of you because the leaves are upside-down.
Assuming I knew which way up to hold the camera.
” “So you’d have to be…” Ryan slid from the bed and moved his phone to mimic where the shot must have been taken.
He scratched his head.
“Which means…” he snapped his fingers.
“Wait, yes.
You were rolling around on the floor so I handed you my phone and gave you a piggy back to the bed.
” “A-ha.
Check us out.
Right pair of detectives.
” Ryan sat back on the bed and swiped his phone.
“So what do you think of this one, Scully?” She took the device and twisted it left, then right.
“I dunno, Mulder.
Could be alien.
” He liked her.
She was bubbly in more ways than one.
Perhaps that was the spark that made him take her home.
Or maybe, as she’d suggested, all the smaller fish had swum away and she was the beached remains.
They shortly gave up the phone forensics and Ryan made some more coffee.
Imogen wrapped her short fingers around the mug and inhaled the steam, nodding gently to the beat.
“So, can we conclude that nothing happened last night?” Ryan exhaled in defeat.
“Seems like the booze increased the urge and decreased the performance.
” She nodded and sipped.
“Damn good coffee.
Did I mention that?” Online Now! Lush Cams SlimPleasure “You did.
But thanks.
” They sat in silence on the bed, almost touching, finishing the drinks and letting the music drive away more brain cobwebs.
She sighed and handed him the empty cup.
“Well I feel vaguely human again, thanks.
Roadworks in my head still, but I’m going to have to make a move.
Shopping with Becks and all that.
” Ryan hid his disappointment.
Toyed with the idea of just outright asking for sex in a jokey fashion or making a quip about ‘shopping over bonking’ to see where it led.
While she wasn’t shy and would probably go for it, she was still exhibiting a few confusing signals that Ryan couldn’t quite reconcile.
He wondered if maybe the hangover was clouding his abilities, so played safe.
“Need a hand with your clothes?” “Think I’ve got it, thanks.
” He lifted the sheets and she slid from between them, meandering first to the bathroom to wash and attempt to fix her hair, then around the room collecting her belongings.
He watched her dress, item by item.
Stained knickers.
Push-up bra.
Short skirt.
Scoopneck top.
Wedge heels.
Quite a package.
He scooted from bed and offered his fleece jacket, holding it out.
If the encounter was a washout and she was leaving, he at least needed an excuse for her to come back.
When she slid her arms in, he tenderly brushed the skin of her neck and swept her hair out over the collar, smoothing it down and stepping back to admire her.
“There are worse outfits to perform the walk of shame in.
” She giggled.
“Not much shame in this case.
” Ryan sighed, standing there awkwardly, suddenly aware of his nakedness in comparison.
“Nobody else has to know.
” “Worried about your reputation, player?” He stuck his tongue out at her and she ran her hand through her hair.
It got caught in a knot and she shrugged.
“Guess this is goodbye.
” He nodded again.
Leant to kiss her and their lips touched briefly before she spun and he found himself mesmerised at her arse wiggling away from him.
She called back, “Thanks for breakfast.
I’ll see if Becks will reconsider her judgement.
You’re the nicest guy I never fucked.
” She reached for th