She turned her head and opened her beautiful eyes, a small tear twinkling in the corner of her eye even as she smiled at me. I reached out and gently collected that small tear on my fingertip, and she kissed my fingertip in response.
“Don’t cry, Georgy-Girl!” I teased her, and she rolled over to face me and stroke my arm.
“Not crying, Will, just happy, that’s all!” she whispered, blowing me a kiss. Even in my state of almost total exhausted collapse I had to reach out and slip my hand down her arm, around her smooth hip and down her perfect flank to cup her delectable buttock, giving the firm flesh a loving squeeze and jiggle.
She slid closer to me so I could hold her properly, and our lips found each other quite naturally, and we kissed, gently, lovingly, not to arouse or inflame, but just so we could remake our connection after that awesome mutual climax.
We hugged each other in silence, content to just hold, and feel, and gently kiss; if we had stayed there in that perfect afterglow for the rest of the day it would have been fine by me. I really didn’t want to move, to break this connection, this perfect moment we were sharing, to do or be anything but entirely hers, and she would be entirely mine because I selfishly didn’t want to let go of any part of her for any reason.
Reality, however, has a way of ending perfect moments, and right then was no exception.
“Will, come on, let’s go, upsy-daisy!” she murmured, slapping me lightly on my behind. “Aunt Kay’s making breakfast and we need a shower, come on soldier, out of your pit!”
I really didn’t want to leave my nice warm bed and my nice soft Georgy, but she was right, time for a shower. As she bounced off the bed she giggled.
“Oh ewww, how much of that stuff did you put in me? Gross, Will, looks like you’ll just HAVE to marry me now, Mr. Wilmot, doing things like this to me, how can I ever show my face in church ever again? You men, you’re all the same, I don’t know!”
At that point she shrieked because I’d dragged her back to the bed so I could kiss and tickle her.
“Stoppit, stoppit, no Will, don’t, stoppit, stoppit!” she giggled as I hit all her ticklish spots, keeping going until she promised to behave. As she was lying on my bed looking up at me and looking particularly appealing I stopped, but she had to kiss me as a forfeit, which she did.
“See, that wasn’t so bad, was it Miss Lassiter? Now, if you’ll agree to marry me, I might let you go…”
Georgy looked adorably thoughtful for a moment, her face screwed up in bogus contemplation before unleashing that sun-bright smile of her.
“Oh, okay, if you insist, but only if I’m not busy, mind you; I may need to wash my hair or do my nails that day, after all, Mr. Wilmot, I cannot stress how important personal grooming is… no, Will, no, don’t you dare, I mean it stoppit Will, stoppit, no, no, no stoppit, I hate you, okay, okay, you win, yes, yes I’ll marry you, there, happy?”
I have such persuasive ways, sometimes, and Georgy has such a delightful laugh…
*****
We shared the shower because it saved time, and just because, period. Watching a naked and wet Georgy squirming around under the showerhead as I soaped her down seriously made me want to forget breakfast and just go for round two, but Aunt Kay had gone to so much trouble, so I reluctantly stripped the soap from my body, grabbed a couple of free squeezes of naked wet girl, and stepped out of the shower.
Of course, watching her marvellous body shiver and shimmy as she dried off didn’t help either, but self-restraint won out, and we shrugged on some sweats and deck shoes and headed down to breakfast.
Aunt Kay didn’t say a word about the earlier ‘naked in bed with Georgy’ thing, she didn’t have to, the amount of blushing going on at the table was enough, but we got through the meal without any major mishaps, clearing the way for a couple of things I wanted to discuss with my family, namely a way to get some working capital until the courts had finished their trawl though our various trusts and inheritances.
While I had slept, the part of me deep down inside that did the real thinking had come up with a possible solution to one of our problems: my major house restoration project, and maybe making a profit out of it.
As the house stood, it was unsellable; no developers would be interested in half-derelict listed properties; the cost to them for a quick fix to try and meet the Listing requirements and then hope to resell at a meaningful profit was just too high: no-one would be prepared to risk that much on a maybe.
But a fully renovated, Grade Two listed property was a different story altogether, especially with the nouveau riche day-trading millionaires and tech entrepreneurs who were desperate to live in grand, historic, properties that fit their aspirations to be seen as the new aristocracy. A fully modernised, listed country dwelling could be exactly what they were looking for, it would fit their image of themselves, and we just happened to have one waiting to be cleaned-up, tricked-out, and paraded for the right bank account to come along and snap it up.
I ran the idea past Georgy and she saw right away what I meant; the house had cost me all my savings plus a hefty advance against the family trust fund from mother to get the initial tear-down and renovation started, but, given the size and potential of the building, the reality was the house was still only bought for a song. Now we had ready cash on hand to pay for the renovation and bring the house up to sellable condition in double quick time.
Georgy immediately got that one had to speculate in order to accumulate, and we had the perfect asset just sitting and waiting to be prepped and sold for as much as we could get for it. Time to start plotting.
Getting the whole plan up and running was laughably simple; we already had the house, there was no mortgage-lender hovering around waiting for their money, and my biggest asset was Georgy, who turned out to have a natural flair for project management that was almost eerie to watch. She could match and juggle figures and timescales in her head that I couldn’t follow on a spreadsheet, and she was the one who made deals with suppliers and building tradesmen, kept an eye on the costs, and estimated supplies and finishes down to the last detail.
Best of all, she was the one who kept me believing we were doing the right thing, and kept me going when I flagged and started to doubt my sanity over getting this whole thing started in the first place.
The fact she also looked fucking sexy in painter’s bib overalls helped in no small way to keep me battened down and eager for the work-day.
*****
It wasn’t all work and no play, though; Georgy is a sexy, vibrant girl, with a wonderful sense of humour I found it easy to provoke, and our evenings together were warm and enjoyable, no angst from the day, just a warm feeling of a job well done, with the one we loved most doing it with us. I’d always loved Georgy, and I’d finally come to the realisation I was in love with her, but the more time I spent with her the more I realised I was falling even deeper in love with her. It wasn’t just sex, either; it was more than that, it was a connection that strengthened and deepened every day, the certainty in my heart that she was what my world was made for.
Georgy seemed to feel the way I did, too; I’d be working away at the chop-saw, cutting timber battens, and I’d glance up to see her looking at me, that sunny smile of hers lighting up the room, and I’d smile back because she’d just made my day. Or I’d be poring over a drawing, marking out changes, and she’d walk past and bump me with her hip, grin, and take the pencil, make a correction, and kiss me on the cheek and go on about her business.
We never argued, it felt wrong, unsettling to even think about disputing even the most trivial things with her, as it had all our life, now that I thought about it: rack my brains though I did, I couldn’t recall any except the most trivial of disagreements with her, ever, we just connected so deeply that everything we did or thought resonated with the other and felt like the right thing for us.
It was a strange, but deeply satisfying way to be; it was our way.
Aunt Kay never once made any comment about our newly-realised relationship; she could see we were happy, that all was well in our world, so she’d be happy for us, that enigmatic smile of hers telling us all we needed to know about how she felt.
Even Georgy sitting curled up on my lap nibbling my neck with her hand inside my shirt massaging my lats after a long day with the flooring contractor mixing and levelling screed drew no comment from her, she knew we weren’t disrespecting her; Georgy was just helping me relax and work the stiffness out of overstretched muscles.
Weekends, though, were family time. When Saturday rolled around we downed tools and had some family fun, whether a trip to the cinema and dinner, or an evening in the pub, or a night at the Comedy Club in town, anything Georgy or Aunt Kay wanted to do. Even though we were caught up in this project to try and level our finances a little, we still needed to make time to remember we were first and foremost a family and needed to do family things every so often.
When we arrived back home Aunt Kay would kiss us both goodnight, and I could take Georgy off to our room to explore her state of undress under her frock, and she almost always surprised me with something new to raise my internal temperature!
One Saturday night had been a perfect example, one I wouldn’t forget for a long time.
We’d taken Aunt Kay to a new Indian restaurant in town, and then out for a few drinks at a wine bar we knew. After a couple of glasses of wine she said she was tired, but that we should go dancing, we needed the break, so we put her in a cab, and headed out to a new club to try out the dance floor. The club was great fun, a good mix of contemporary and classic pop and dance music, with a dimly-lit, smoochy and low-key kind of background vibe going for it; it definitely wasn’t a frantic, up to the minute, “let’s rave” kind of dance-club, it seemed slightly more sedate than that.