me a little of Selena Gomez. Long, dark, wavy hair. She’s tiny, but compared to me, a lot of women are. At a distance, I’d say she’s five-three, max. For a short chick, she has surprisingly longish legs that would fit nicely around my waist. I have a mental flash of her pressed against a wall with me up against her, my cock buried deep inside her, those legs of hers tightly hugging my hips.
My dick twitches. I bat the image aside. Every woman on this island is either married or has a boyfriend, and attached women are not my thing. Neither are drunk ones.
Taking a sip of my cold beer, I watch her navigate her way toward the bar, where I’m perched on a stool. It’s cute, seeing her try to walk in a straight line. She’s already stumbled twice—over thin air.
Reaching the bar a few feet away from me, she leans her stomach against it, and I get a side shot of her chest. She has decent-sized tits.
“Bartender.” She slaps her hand down on the bar top. “Drink me.” She’s English.
There are quite a few Brits on the island. As an American, I’m a rarity here. The flight here from the States is an absolute fucker, so it’s not the first vacation destination on our list, which is exactly why I chose to come here.
And if I didn’t already know that the little Brit over there was drunk, I’d know from that little word fuckup and the slight slur to her voice.
I share an amused look with the bartender, who is already making a drink at my end of the bar for the couple seated outside.
Yes, I’ve been that bored. Even though this was the perfect place to come for some privacy and quiet time, I didn’t take into account the lack of shit to actually do here.
Well, I say I’m bored. But I’m not now that the gorgeous little drunk Brit showed up.
“Pretty sure he’s supposed to serve you, not drink you.” I put my bottle to my lips and tip it back.
The bluest eyes I have ever seen look my way.
I feel this strange tightening sensation in my chest. Weird.
She turns her upper body toward me, places her elbow on the bar, and goes to rest her chin on it but misses. I hide a laugh behind my bottle.
“I meant,” she enunciates the word, “drink me, as in give me a drink. You know, like beer me.”
“Maybe next time, go with beer me. It would’ve sounded way better.”
“But I don’t want beer. That’s why I said drink me. Duh.”
She rolls her eyes, and I can’t stop the laughter that time.
“You’re American.”
I lower my bottle to the bar. “And you’re English.”
“Yep. That’s me. English and all alone. Like that chick who sings that song in that film. You know who I mean?” She snaps her fingers at me.
“I literally have no fucking clue what you’re talking about.”
“You do! It’s … crap. What’s her name? That film from years ago …” She keeps on snapping her fingers at me. “She had shit luck with men … like me … Bridget Jones!”
“Never heard of her.”
“Ugh. You men have no clue.” She gives me a disapproving look. “In the film, she’s drunk and home alone, and she sings ‘All By Myself.’ Which is like me. Except I’m not at home. But I’m drunk and alone. Also, she ends up with that hot guy at the end, and that’s definitely not me. No hot guy waiting for me.”
Okay, so there’s no guy, and she is here alone. Which is a bonus for me. She’s fucking gorgeous, and I would definitely like to get to know her better. Okay, I want to fuck her. When she’s sober, of course.
I decide to ask her. Not to fuck. Not just yet anyway. But for confirmation that there is actually no guy. “So, you’re here alone then?”
“Yep. Alone, alone, alone,” she sings.
The bartender finishes up making the drinks for the couple and puts them on a tray and down at the other end of the bar for the waitstaff to take it over to them.
He comes over to my new drunk friend. “Sorry about your wait. What can I get you to drink?”
“Do you make cocktails?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Ohh, goodie.” She claps her hands together. “I’ll have a Long Island iced tea. That has a lot of alcohol in it, right?”
“Sure does. Gin, vodka, tequila, rum, and triple sec.”