George Russell 8x Race Winner Apologist

It had been five days at the cottage and things were going quite well. The weather had been generous with a few sunny, crisp autumn days between the usual grey and dreary rain showers, giving them some time to write out in the garden or under the vibrant orange trees that dotted the property. Otherwise, they spent their time indoors, tucked up by the warmth of the stone fireplace with a notebook in hand or finding home at the desk in the bay window, taking breaks for tea or to brainstorm ideas. It was perfect. 

George had brought along his typewriter and the steady clack of the keys filled the quiet bedroom, yellow and orange and red hues staining the afternoon sunlight as it streaked through the window and kissing his fingers as they typed away. Rosaline was draped out on her stomach on the neatly made bed, notebook open in front of her, pen in hand, and a stack of novels with colour-coded tabs stacked on the quilt with her. Her hand was working a mile a minute, creativity pouring out of her and onto her page, bringing a whole new world to life. From beside him at the desk by the window, George’s phone was playing quiet jazz music from the top of his own stack of books, setting the scene for a perfect afternoon. 

“Oh my gosh,” Rosaline mumbled with a smile as she finished the sentence she was writing before sitting back on her knees and glancing over towards George, “Love?”

He didn’t answer right away, fingers still click-clacking on the keys of his typewriter, finishing his thought, before he paused and glanced back at her, “Yes, darling?”

“I’m obsessed with what I just wrote. Can I read it to you?” she grinned, picking up her notebook from the bed so gently as if it were a newborn baby, gazing down at her handwritten words on the pages.

“Of course,” George was already standing up from the desk and joining her on the bed and she made room for him. 

They had learned on their first day at the cottage that the bed was ridiculously creaky; it was as if the frame was from two centuries ago and hadn’t been oiled since. It was quite ridiculous, frankly; they could barely take a deep breath and it would squeak beneath them. So, when George joined her on the bed, they were met with the obnoxious creaks and groans from the rickety bedframe that they had grown all too used to. Neither even flinched though—having grown all too used to the sound over the prior few days—and they settled together against the pillows and headboard with Rosaline’s notebook. 

George tucked his arm around her shoulders like it was second nature and she leaned into his embrace. It was familiar to find themselves in such a position and, even though they had agreed to focus entirely on their writing during this trip, they still appreciated a good cuddle. So Rosaline read her few pages to him, finding a few things to adjust as she spoke her words aloud and she marked them up in the margins as she went. 

Although he could have, George didn’t utter any suggestions or corrections, knowing that if she wanted it, she would ask. Instead, he let himself simply listen, how her voice had a lit of excitement over sharing her newest work-in-progress, watching how she marked up her own work as she read him each paragraph. He couldn’t help but drop an affectionate kiss to her shoulder.

She turned to meet his gaze, “What do you think?”

“Incredible, as always,” George hummed, his voice serene with the backing of the soft jazz music still playing from his phone across the room. 

“Yeah? You’d tell me otherwise, right?”

“You know I would,” he chuckled. 

Yes, Rosaline knew that well. She knew he took his profession as literature professor very seriously. It was the thing that made her fall for him in the first place those few short years ago, back when she was a student in his lecture. How much had changed since then. 

For a moment, they just stared at each other, cuddled up on the bed in the quaint countryside cottage, eye to eye. It was almost instinctual how their lips were drawn together, meeting in a soft, simple kiss. And then another. And then one more. 

And then George was lifting his free hand to caress the side of her face and lock her lips with his in a proper searing kiss. Rosaline withered, notebook falling to the side, forgotten. 

Neither of them were thinking about their one rule for this trip at that moment; as if their lack of physical intimacy over the prior few days had simmered under the surface until they were about to burst from being deprived for so long. Honestly, Rosaline wasn’t sure how she had gone almost twenty-three years without sex to begin with. Now that she had a taste, she was absolutely insatiable. And who was George to deny her?

Well, he was a rule follower at heart because, soon enough, he tried. He pulled away from her lips with a sated smile and a soft, “We need to stop this before it leads to something more.”

“Who cares?” Rosaline groaned, sitting up and pulling her blouse over her head, “We’ve gone five days already. Isn’t that enough? Haven’t you tortured me enough?”

“Tortured you?” George echoed with a chuckle, speaking to her despite the fact his eyes were focused on her chest and how the fabric of her bra hugged the swell of her breasts, “A tad dramatic, don’t you think?”

“Hardly. And I know you want to break your own stupid rule too.”

“What makes you say that?” he challenged.

She leaned in closer, biting back her proud smirk before whispering, “Because I heard you having a wank in the shower two days ago.”

His eyes snapped to hears in a split-second, wide as saucers, barely able to get out a nervous laugh before she was leaning in to kiss his neck. He had no defence, because she was telling the truth. 

So, she reached forward to start to unbutton his slacks without another word. 

George huffed and shifted on the creaky bed, letting her tug his trousers down without argument, simply muttering a light, “Christ, darling, you somehow always find a way to lure me into breaking rules, don’t you?”

They were both undressed in what felt like seconds, bare skin exposed to the bright afternoon sun that shone in through the open curtains. Nothing was as nice of a blessing as the spacious acreage on which the cottage was built; allowing them to share their moment in the warm sun without worry of neighbours getting a peek. No one needed to bear witness to the way she situated herself between his legs and went down on him as he slouched back against the pillows and metal headboard. 

The sounds of her mouth on him were lewd, slurping back drooling spit and precum from her lips as she pushed herself deeper. It was hard to believe she was as inexperienced as one could be only three years earlier, now able to take him in his entirely in her mouth until her throat would constrict around his cock, not an ounce of hesitation left in her mind. In some way—with George being the only man she had ever been with—he had helped to teach her how to pleasure him and him alone. She knew nothing else. 

But it was her honour, honestly. As she laid there on her stomach with his cock in her mouth and her feet kicked up sweetly and crossed at the ankles, staring up at him with fluttering lashes and the sweetest rouge across her cheeks. George reached down and stroked his thumb across the apple of her cheek, watching how she hollowed her mouth around him for that perfect amount of suction that had his head falling back against the wall. 

It was almost serene with the jazz playing across the quaint bedroom, their bodies bathed in the sunlight as she gagged herself on his cock in deep downwards strokes of her mouth and tongue. All George could do was hold her hair and try to breathe. 

As much as she might have wanted to stay between his legs like that all afternoon, she was burning for his touch herself and that unmissable throbbing ache was pulsing through her just enough to lure her away from his lap. Instead, she leaned over him to kiss him again, lips smacking wetly between caresses of tongues, his hands roaming up her body so sweetly before he carefully slipped off her glasses. She leaned in to kiss his neck as he folded the arms and reached over to set them safely on the bedside table. 

Then, wordlessly, he was shifting them around to get her on her hands and knees. The bed frame creaked and groaned under them as they moved positions, honestly sounding like it was going to break apart beneath them at any moment. Even still, they were not deterred. They had gone so long without each other (or, so it felt) that nothing was going to stop them from having each other. 

Of course, having anticipated going the entire week without sex, neither of them had brought any condoms. That seemed to be the last thing on either of their minds as George sank into her in one slow but sure push. They shared withering groans as if they had reached an oasis after days in the desert, Rosaline’s voice catching as she gasped out a tight, “Fuck—”

“Oh my God…” George groaned, kneading the flesh of her hips in both hands as he ground into her as deep as he could go, as if wanting to feel every inch of his body so snug and warm around him.

Rosaline arched her back for him a little more, silently encouraging him on, and he ground into her again with a tight moan from low in his chest. Her hands fisted the sheets beneath her straight arms, eyelids fluttering, whimpering out a pleasured, “Oh, fuck, that hurts a little.”

“Yeah?” George gave her hips a tender squeeze as he started to pull back just a bit only to sink into her again, slowly, tauntingly. 

“Uh huh…” she withered. 

He stroked a hand over her hair and brushed it over one of her shoulders, “You alright?”

“Yeah…don’t stop,” Rosaline all but purred, “It feels so good…”

She would never tire of the glorious stretch that pushed across her hips when he was inside her, the tender way he gave her the utmost attention and care with every thrust, how even in their most rough or passionate moments, she still felt nothing but his wholehearted love behind every action. This moment was no different; finally joined together once more after a week of nothing more than simply emotional and creative connection, satisfying the physical hunger that simmered in both of them.

George let the moment linger, keeping his thrusts slow and curling and deep into her gorgeous body, the bed groaning dully beneath them. Their breaths fell into sync all too easily as if they were wholeheartedly connected by something deeper than themselves, moving as one, sharing soft moans and sighs. 

Rosaline’s eyes rolled shut with a pretty whine of overwhelming pleasure, “Ohh, I love you.”

George’s response was immediate, low and warm and handsome, “I love you too, my perfect girl.”

It was as if her declaration of love spurred him on because then he was starting to fuck her a little faster, a little harder, and the creaking of the bed grew louder, overpowering the gentle jazz music still playing from across the room. They barely heard it now, too caught up in each other and their lust as the sound of slick skin colliding raised the thrill of it all. They were perfectly alone in a perfect little cottage on a perfectly sunny autumn day. There was surely nothing better. 

Rosaline slumped herself down onto her forearms, arching her back nice and deep for him, helping to get him into all the right angles that made her fucking salivate. She moaned into the pillows, head hung and hair messy, eyes shut almost peacefully even as her body jolted with every firm thrust from the man behind her. He wasn’t overly gentle with it either—even though his hands caressed her hips and ass tenderly—shoving into her in quick, harsh strokes that had the rickety bedframe thudding against the wall in a dizzying rhythm. The sounds of his heavy breaths were erotic in their own right and she felt entirely surrounded by him…by the proof of their love, their connection, their lust. 

She shrieked into the pillow over the creaking of the bed and the way it slammed against the wall in time with his steady pace, knuckles going white with how strongly she gripped the linens through her whimpered chants of, “Yes, yes, yes—”

Their pleasured haze was interrupted by one of the picture frames falling to the bedroom floor with a smash, dislodged from its nail by the bed thudding up against the wall. 

“Oh, fuck—” Rosaline gasped in surprise. 

George’s motions paused for just a second right along with her, the both of them staring down at the shattered frame beside the bed, but then, just as quickly, he was back at it. He just kept thrusting into her in that firm, consistent pace, hands tightening on her hips as he drove into her harder until the second picture frame fell, smashing onto the floor with the first. 

She squealed at his rising intensity, his rising speed, letting herself take whatever he was going to give her. Thirty-seven-years-old and the man was fucking her like he still had the stamina of a twenty-something.

“That’s it,” George panted as if he were spurred on by the realization that their passion was destructive, addicted to the creak of the bedframe and how the headboard thudded against the wall. A few more seconds and the ruckus had Rosaline’s water glass on the bedside table tipping over before rolling onto the floor with another unmissable smash of glass, quickly followed by the top-heavy lamp, rattling off the table top and shattering on the hardwood. It was almost like he was doing it on purpose.

“Jesus,” Rosaline giggled breathily, laced in so pretty with a moan. 

George laughed along with her as he stopped and pulled out, taking just a second to glance down to the shards of glass and ceramic that were shimmering across the hardwood floor in the afternoon sunlight. Then he was manhandling her onto her back instead in their fits of giggles, the bed creaking and groaning at their shifting weight, and he shoved her books and notebook to the floor in the process to give them space to move as they wanted. 

He barely got situated between her legs and she was reaching down to help guide him with a needy, “Put it in, put it in.”

In only a heartbeat, he was sinking entirely inside her again with mirrored sighs, their eyes locking as they settled into their new position. Then, soon, he was fucking her again, driving into her roughly, spurred on by his own aching desires and the unintentional thrilling destruction that their lust had caused. One of his hands found home around her throat, thumb and fingers pressing just under her jaw right where she liked it, squeezing just enough to have her mouth falling open in a pleasured gasp as she stared up at him, while his other hand gripped the metal headboard for support.

Rosaline’s hands splayed across his muscular back, staring up at his face as he made passionate love to her into the quilt and her nails pressed blush-red indentations into his skin as if yearning to pull him impossibly closer. Nothing mattered but him and the pleasure only he could bring to her in that moment, her sights narrowed down like tunnel vision to the handsome angles of his face and soft waves of his hair. 

She groaned through the rhythmic creaking of the bed, staring up at him, “Fuck, you look so good.”

George’s serious expression of concentration melted at the edges and he all but purred, “Yeah? And you look ravishing, my beautiful girl.”

His grip tightened just a little more around her throat, enough to hold her head down on the pillow even as she arched it back with a lingering moan, hands pulling down his back. The bedroom was an orchestra of dizzying sounds and all she wanted was more. She wanted it loud. Their relationship had started in secrecy but certainly did not stay that way for long. Besides, their isolation in the countryside cottage made it all the more alluring to be as loud as she pleased. 

So Rosaline moaned and gasped and cried out, anything that felt all too natural given the circumstances, letting herself give everything up to him as she clung onto him desperately. It felt as though every nerve-ending in her body was tingling with desire, feeling that pressure building deep within her that was just slightly too far out of reach. He knew what she needed. 

“Are you going to come on my cock?” George spoke to her in that lovely, persuasive and poetic voice of his as he stroked along her pulse point with the pad of his thumb, “Rub your clit and make yourself come all over me.”

She moved as if she were on autopilot, dropping a hand down her body and between her spread legs to rub her fingers over her messy clit, slipping over it all too easily. The pleasured sob that fell from her lips was music and was harmonized by the steady creaking of the bed beneath them as they worked in tandem to chase their orgasms together. 

The moment her cunt started to clench up around him, George was praising her loudly over the noise of the bedroom, “Oh, good girl! That’s it!” 

When her orgasm broke through her, the words tumbled through her clenched teeth without thought, “Oh, fuck, I love you!”

“I love you,” George echoed easily between panted breaths, his voice growing strained as she clenched around him and pulled him closer to his own completion, “I love you so much.”

After only a few more thrusts he was pulling out of her and taking his hand to himself for the final few pumps before he was spilling over her stomach with a handsome groan. She panted, chest heaving, watching as thick creamy spurts dribbled out of his swollen cock and streaked across her abdomen and leaked into her navel. 

He leaned down to press his lips to hers in a lingering, breathless kiss before pulling away to shift off her and drape himself out on the bed beside her, the bedframe creaking ungracefully under his every slight movement.

“That was insane,” Rosaline chuckled breathily.

“Christ,” George leaned over the side of the bed to look at the mess of broken glass that was scattered across the floor before he was reaching for the tissue box on the bedside table, “I’m going to have to pay for damages, aren’t I?”

Rosaline chuckled as she pulled a few tissues from the box he offered her so she could wipe herself clean, “Undoutably.”

George smiled, sated and content, and pressed a kiss to her temple and then another to her cheek before asking, “How do you feel?”

She hummed, “Tired.”

“Good.”

Rosaline shifted to toss out the soiled tissues in the waste bin beside the bed and when she laid back down again, she glanced at him with a playful smile, “We couldn’t even last a week. What does that say about us?”

With a tender touch, George caressed her cheek fondly as he stared into her eyes, “That we’re madly in love, darling.”

His romantic dramatics had her giggling and pressing her lips to his for a few more sweet kisses before she was kindly requesting her glasses that he had put aside on the nightstand for safekeeping. Except, when he rolled over to grab them, they were nowhere to be seen. He propped himself up on his elbow and looked to the floor, finding her frames amongst the broken lamp and puddle from her smashed water glass. One of the arms was snapped off. 

“Bollocks,” George grumbled as he reached down to pick them up from the bed of shattered glass. 

When he turned back to her with her broken frames in hand, she gasped and snatched them from him with a scolding, “George!”

But he was already starting to cautiously get off the bed, “It’s okay! I brought my mini tool kit; they’ll be fixed in a jiffy!”

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