Angelina has been soaking in the tub for a few minutes, but the water doesn't soothe her—not the way it should. She thinks about earlier-about what she saw. Really, she has no right to be jealous. She and George aren't together. They're just fuck buddies, if that. They've only had sex twice and kissed a handful of times. They aren't committed to each other and he can kiss whoever he wants.
But thing is: she is jealous. She is so jealous that she had to turn herself around and march straight back to her flat to keep herself from knocking that girl's teeth out. She is pretty sure that she might have slapped George, too. She also knows that he saw her. He was surprised to her, but he saw her nonetheless. And he didn't come after her.
Closing her eyes, she decides to relax and put the thought of George and that girl out of her mind. She doesn't need to stress over it. It isn't her business anyway. George is a grown man and he can do what he wants to do.
Angelina is drawn out of her peacefulness when the curtains on her bathtub are yanked open. Her eyes fly open, but it doesn't matter because the next thing she knows, she's being kissed and is kissing back. She would know those lips anywhere.
Her pruned fingers find the buttons of his shirt and begin to yank them open. George is already climbing into the tub, not bothering with his clothes, which makes her want to laugh, but his lips are still moving over hers. Finally, she throws his soaking wet shirt on the floor and is able to feel her skin against his. The feeling makes her moan.
George's lips travel down her neck, sucking and biting gently as his hands kneed her breasts. Meanwhile, her hands disappear inside his trousers and pants to find his member. He hisses through his teeth as she begins to stroke him.
Angelina has always enjoyed the affect she had on him. The slightest touch of her hand to the that one spot and he is trembling in her arms, just like he is right now. It amazed her at first, but now it just makes her smug. He's the one who is supposed to make her knees weak, not the other way around.
"Enough of that," he mutters gruffly, as he yanks her hand out of his pants. Now, she does laugh.
Soon, his pants have landed on the floor with a wet plop. He's letting his hand trail over her clit, but the water has washed any trace of her natural lubricant. Cursing, she pushes him away.
"Hang on a second," she tells him as she turns to shuffle through her drawer. George doesn't mind though. He kisses her back while his hands run over her breasts again. Finally, she locates the bottle of lubricant she's looking for. She always has a few on hand, just in case. Good thing, too. Gently she sinks back into the water with the bottle, only to have George snatch it from her.
"Hey!" she protests.
"Mine now," he mutters, with a smirk. He squirts a generous amount on his hand before finding her center. Her hands find his shoulders so she can steady herself, even though she's lying down. Just as quick as his hands are on her, they're gone and Angelina wants to whine in annoyance. Then he is inside her, filling her world all over again.
"Remember that other girl?" she asks playfully in his ear.
He lets out a small laugh. "Last thing on my mind, actually."
"Good," she replies as she roles her hips into his.
Being with George is wonderful, just like the first time. She isn't sure how they started exactly; she only knew that they had started this and she would never be more happy than when she was with him—than when he filled her completely. It isn't that he was the first—he was far from it—it is that he knows her so well—even on that first night, he didn't have to be told what she liked, he already knew. Just like she knows what he likes.
Her hands find his lower back and pull him closer, always closer. He mutters her name into her hair, as he pushes into her, pressing hard against her cervix. That almost makes her cry out, but she refrains. Worse things have happened during sex. When his thumb finds her clit, she moans and bucks against him, which makes him smirk.
"Prat," she mutters in his ear.
"Not something a man wants to hear during sex, Ange," he quips.
She leans forward and whispers in his ear, "Fuck me."
A groan escapes his lips and that's all it takes to get him to actually fuck her. She has never been a slow kind of person and she likes her sex rough, not gentle. Well, most of the time. His body is curling into hers and she lets her fingers tangle in his hair, tugging a little too hard, but George doesn't seem to mind.
Then she's reaching her high. It's like falling off of a cliff. Once it ends, there is no going back and she would never want to. Every time is special and unique and this time is, too. When she falls, a moan escapes her lips and she wraps one of her legs around his waist to push him deeper, but she's too exhausted to try. He follows soon after.
"Fuck, you're good," he mutters after he catches his breathe.
"Not what a woman wants to hear, George," she tells him as she pushes him off of her. She's aware that they have probably flooded the bathroom floor, but she can't bring herself to care. Lazily, George wraps an arm around her. She allows it and they lay there for a while, not saying anything, but both of them at peace.