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“Made good on my third chance today.”

Mina can’t really tell if that’s supposed to be important information because he thinks they’re friends or because he thinks this will change her opinion of him and thus give him a better chance at getting into her pants.

He’s wrong, either way.

“Yeah, still completely comfortable snap judging.”

That oh-so charismatic smile slips right off of his face.

 

 

 

 

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She probably could’ve figured on him making eyes at her from across the cantina for the next few nights. This is the jungle and they’re completely separated from everything but each other, assorted co-workers, and locals who they can’t understand – she really wishes that she’d audited a Spanish class before she got here.

Of course he’s relentless. But relentless from afar so she can’t throw a drink in his face.

He’s kind of cute too, when he thinks puppy-dog eyes are going to sway her. Right strategy, wrong girl; she thinks Lily would go for that, if she wasn’t weighed down by all that baggage that she absolutely refuses to talk about and, well, Mina doesn’t know her well enough to care to push. It’s been weeks here, not months.

Tommy doesn’t seem to want Lily though, just her and half of the foreign girls who land here on any given day.

Doesn’t she feel special.

 

 

 

 

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He doesn’t do anything extravagant to get her to change her mind.

He doesn’t, like, save a baby from certain death with some MacGyver type shit that no one else would even think of pulling off, all the while saving several animals in the process or whatever. He doesn’t actually do anything.

It just occurs to her one night that she’s more bored than she is tired, and evolves from there.

They’re going to be here for a while and she can either just go with it or wait for a year to pass and go with it then. She’s not exactly swimming in options.

“I’m not going to be one of your shower whores,” she says, up front, and as conversation openers go that one is probably a doozy.

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Okay.”

“Follow me.”

 

 

 

 

 

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Once you take romance out of the equation, this looks and feels a hell of a lot less awkward.

The one thing that they didn’t short them on here is bed space. Nice queen beds with sheets possessing a respectable thread count. She’d imagined bunk beds, on the flight over, and it beats the hell out of trying to fuck on a twin, so.

They almost completely miss the bed. She’s pulling her shirt over her head and he’s paying far more attention to this old white scar above her left breast, from when she had the chickenpox at seven – not that she’s about to tell him that – his thumb smoothing over it as he cups her breast through her bra with the hand that isn’t on her hip, doing a poor job of guiding her. They don’t notice the bed until it cuts her off at the back of the knees and then she’s flat on her back, taking him with her.

“Nice,” she says and he just collapses for a moment, something like amused defeat on his face; this is where she starts to wonder how many drinks in he was before she propositioned him. And then he’s back, mouth hot on that spot where her neck meets her shoulder, lips and teeth and tongue, as she fumbles with his pants at the odd angle he’s left them in.

He doesn’t expect her to flip them so that she ends up on top. He doesn’t seem to mind either.

 

 

 

 

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He’s got two fingers slipped underneath her cotton briefs – it’s the jungle and practicality does not always leave room for lacy underthings, thank you very much – when he abruptly stops moving, back on top of her and holding her there.

“Is that the chicken?”

She pauses, leaning to the side just a little to see and – yeah, that’s the chicken. In the doorway. “Its name is Dinner.”

“And yet you never actually cook it.”

“Do you really want to talk about the chicken right now?”

His fingers curl inside of her, a third one sliding in, and she sighs.

 

 

 

 

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She gets why she keeps finding a new girl in the shower with him for every day of the week.

Tommy’s juvenile but he’s a good kisser and, not totally surprisingly, he’s good with his hands too, brinks her to the brink with three fingers inside of her that twist and knuckles that bump against her clit in a way that makes her crazy as he pulls out. Thrusts into her with enough force to jerk her body an inch or two up the bed, sheets bunching underneath her shoulder blades.

She threads her fingers through his short hair, blunt nails against his scalp, the back of his neck, and she probably pulls when she comes with a choked gasp, acutely aware of Lily’s presence just one room away, but that doesn’t stop the stuttering of his hips.

A muffled groan against the column of her throat accompanies his own release, and he presses a soft kiss to her jaw before he disentangles himself from her. It’s somehow too intimate of a moment for the setup that she has in her head, a hook up fueled by boredom and close proximity. Maybe that’s the draw, one of the tricks that he uses on his shower girls. Make them feel valued, make this feel a little less like a quick and dirty tryst.

Maybe the trick is a habit now.

Maybe it’s not.

She writes it off.

She writes him off, because people have come to disappoint her far more often than they don’t, and, whether or not it means anything at all, she isn’t going to find out.

 

 

 

 

 

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