Popped Read Online Free Page B

she said, nodding to the guy behind her. “And the stud
muffin you’re glued to is Goran. They’re from Croatia.”
    “Where?”
    “Goran!
Croatia!” she said, shouting to be heard above the music.
    I barely
remember the cab journey back to their flat. I was sitting on
Goran’s lap, letting him kiss me and hold me, and Parker and the
other guy — Niko — were
busy on the seat next to us.
    I didn’t know
Manchester, but I could tell that we’d driven into a bad part of
town. The cab dropped us off outside a four story, old fashioned,
tenement style building, and we had to step around black rubbish
bags to reach the door. I hoped there weren’t any dead bodies in
those bags, but it was too late to back out now — not that I really wanted to. Goran had his arm around
my waist and he almost carried me up the steps and through the
door.
    The lights
were on a timer, so we all had to rush up the stairs, hitting the
light switches as we went and hurrying to the next floor before
darkness descended. It reminded me of when I was a fresh faced
student in London back in 2001, and I laughed out loud. Parker
laughed with me, without knowing why, but the boys seemed
oblivious, talking to each other in Croatian or Russian or Dutch or
something. I was fueled by alcohol and desire, and my glasses were
still in my bag, so the whole thing seemed like a dream sequence
from an Indie movie.
    Their flat was
on the fourth floor, and it was as small and dingy as I’d expected.
The door opened directly onto a small, cramped living room, with a
tattered sofa and a single armchair facing an old fashioned, big
box television. There was a kitchen tucked into a corner and two
doors on the right, one of which opened onto a tiny bedroom. Parker
had already claimed the sofa, sprawling out seductively with her
legs open and her dress riding high enough to see her black
panties. She smiled at Niko and held out a hand to him.
    “Welcome
aboard, Croatia,” she said, and winked at me. “I’ll leave the
bedroom to you pair of love birds.”
    I didn’t need
to be told twice. Goran wasn’t much of a talker, for which I was
thankful, so I walked ahead of him into the bedroom and crawled
onto the bed.
    “Close the
door,” I said.
    “You want
drink?” he said, in carefully enunciated English.
    “No, I want
you.” I knelt so that we were eye level and pulled my top off. I
was wearing tight blue jeans and a natural, slouchy kind of sweater
with a scoop neckline. Another fashionable purchase from my
shopping trip earlier in the week — not my
usual style at all, but all my usual style had ever gotten me was
Phillip and parties at his mother’s. I wasn’t wearing anything
under the sweater, and my tiny boobs stood straight, their dark
brown nipples pointing at Goran expectantly.
    He muttered
something in Croatian — barely
audible — but if his expression was anything
to go by, entirely complimentary. He was a talker after all, just
not in English. Was he calling me beautiful, or damning his luck
for picking the flat chested waif? Maybe he was calling me a cheap
old whore or an English heifer. Who knew? I chose to assume he
found me the most desirable woman he’d met in years.
    My jeans came
next. After lowering them past my hips, I lay down and let Goran
pull them free of my legs. Then I turned over onto my side, showing
him the cute white panties I’d bought last weekend at the Ann
Summers shop. They only covered half my bum, and had a frilly
little bow at the back. What man would not want to pull on that bow
and expose my pale white cheeks? The bulge in his pants grew as he
stared down at me.
    “Now you,” I
said, and watched as he undressed for me. He sported a short,
almost military haircut, his face was clean shaven, and he had a
six pack that could only come from time spent in a gym. The light
dusting of blond hair across his chest completed the
picture — he was perfect. And that was before
he dropped his pants. I’d never seen a