I still didn’t believe I had.
I couldn’t believe he’s fucking with my twenty-four-year-old mind as easily as he stole my seventeen-year-old heart.
And that, in essence, was everything this trip was. A mindfuck. I didn’t believe he wanted to get to know me at all. Hello, this was the twenty-first century—you use coffee for that shit. Not a six-week worldwide trip. No, the second the shock faded from his eyes, an age-old hunger took over.
All George Stone wanted was what’s inside my very pretty pink lace thong.
Well, mostly inside.
He was playing the game well. He could get it any time he wanted. It was what he was paying for, essentially. Hell, the guy could tell me to get on my knees and wrap my lips around his cock and I’d be completely powerless to deny him it.<