Ever After (Dirtshine Book 3)

by Roxie Noir

  I pull the cork free with a pop, grab a tumbler from the cupboard. I haven’t got wine glasses, so this will have to do.

  “It wasn’t so good of a job,” I say as the wine glugs into the glasses. “Shit hours, lots of drunks. Nothing to do half the time but watch football on the telly.”

  I carry the two glasses back to the table, only a bit unsteady on my feet. I’m drunk to enough to say plenty I shouldn’t, certainly drunker than I should be, but not quite so drunk I’m tripping over my own feet.

  “And you minded watching all that football?”

  I set the glasses down, and Frankie eyes hers. It’s got rather more than a regulation-sized serving of wine, two at least, but she doesn’t say anything.

  “I’ll tell you another secret about me,” I say.

  She leans forward, her face on one hand, the other on the glass full of wine.

  No ring.

  “I don’t like football.”

  “No,” she whispers, mock-scandalized.

  “I know,” I say, lowering my voice. “It did get me roughed up more than once as a lad, but watching a load of men chase a ball around a field has just never interested me.”

  “You’ll have your British passport revoked.”

  “Only if you tell.”

  Frankie takes a long drink of her wine, the corners of her eyes crinkling over her glass. I follow suit, the silence stretching out for just a bit too long. When she’s finished it’s half-gone.

  Suddenly, I know she won’t be driving herself anywhere tonight.

  “What are you gonna do now?” she asks.

  “Right now, I’m going to drink until this second bottle is gone, and you’re more than welcome to help,” I say. “And after that, I’ll find another job. There’s pubs everywhere. I might see if I can’t find a few drumming gigs, I used to be all right at that. And you?”

  “Back to New York,” she says, shrugging. “I was thinking about it on the way over here, and I realized nothing’s actually going to change that much. I mean, wedding deposits and whatever, but we didn’t live together. We don’t even have a goldfish. I didn’t want to do any of that before we were actually married and now I guess I know why.”

  She takes another long drink, her glass now almost empty, a flush rising into her cheeks. I stand, grab the bottle from the counter.

  “Because he was a right fucking prick who considered you more decoration than partner? Because by all accounts the Little Lord could only pretend to be charming for so long at once, and by living together you might have discovered his true nature too early to be married?”

  “I know, I know, I’m an idiot,” she says, her eyes flashing. “Who the hell dates someone like that for so long without realizing besides some kind of moron?”

  “Someone with the abominable habit of wanting to believe the best about people,” I say.

  Frankie just snorts, draining her glass. I pull the cork out, pour her more, this bottle closing in on empty as well.

  “I don’t want to talk about Alistair,” she says softly.

  Truth is, I could listen to her badmouth him all night and it wouldn’t get old.

  “I don’t mind,” I say.

  She sighs, looks up at me. Her eyes are a little glassy, and it’s clear she’s been crying, but she’s not right now.

  “Alistair’s an asshole,” she says softly, leaning forward. “Let’s forget him. He’s not worth it.”

  I lean forward as well, closer to Frankie, every freckle abstract art. She takes another long drink of wine, her pale skin beneath the freckles flushing light pink.

  “What do we talk about, then? Shall we discuss the weather?”

  That gets a half-smile out of her.

  “The weather’s shitty, Liam. It’s December in northern England.”

  “That was over fast,” I say. “What else?”

  “Anything but him,” she says. “Tell me about the band you used to be in. Tell me about growing up on the moor, tell me about the sheep outside.”

  She takes another drink and sets her tumbler on the table, her motion a little sloppy, as she looks up at me through her eyelashes.

  Frankie’s a bit of a mess right now, smudges of black around her eyes, hair wild, lips stained with wine, but fuck it. I’m a mess right now and I’m a mess most of the time, and none of it makes me want her any less.

  “I know what I ought to tell you,” I say.

  You saved my life one night and what I remember most is how pretty you were.

  I’ve wanked to the thought of you removing your jacket at least two dozen times.

  You’re the first thing in years that’s woken me up like this and if I weren’t drunk I’d be crumbling apart that you’re leaving.

  She raises her eyebrows, eyes huge, lips slightly parted, and my breath catches.

  “What is it?” she asks.

  I don’t answer.

  I stand, both hands on the table, Frankie’s hazel eyes following my face. Wanting. Begging.

  So I lean over the table and finally kiss her.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Frankie

  I don’t think he’s really going to do it until he suddenly does. Even as he’s towering over me, green eyes smoldering, my chin tilting upward as I practically beg him to do it, I don’t think he will. Deep down I think it’s another tease, another glimpse of what I could have.

  Until his mouth lands on mine, warm and firm and slightly wine-flavored. Until suddenly I’m leaning forward into him pressing our lips together harder. Until his hand tangles in my hair and the softest growl escapes him, his lips parting against mine.

  I stand. My whole body’s suddenly hot, a combination of wine and Liam, and I grab the back of his neck and lean in, on tiptoes, every cell in my body straining to get closer, to quench the heat that’s flooded my nerves, the reasons not to do this finally gone.

  He pulls back a fraction of an inch, and I catch his bottom lip in my teeth, unwilling to let him go. Liam’s breath catches in his throat. His hand tightens in my hair and I let his lip go, stubble scraping against my face, his mouth fast and hard and needy and exactly everything I’d hoped for.

  Somehow, I’ve got one knee on the table, then the other. Then my face mashes against Liam’s for a second and I’m on all fours, on his kitchen table, crawling across it toward him. My hand hits his nearly-empty glass and knocks it over, purple liquid splashing away from us.

  “Sorry,” I gasp, pulling away for a second.

  “It’s shit wine,” he murmurs, his mouth still against mine as he grabs onto my belt loop and tugs. My knees slide forward and suddenly I’m kneeling on his table, looking down at him, belly against his chest as I steady myself on his shoulders.

  Liam’s fucking solid, like a brick wall, even though I’m swaying with the wine in my system and the unexpectedness of kneeling on a kitchen table. He’s got my hips in his strong hands, no danger of me falling over, and I run my thumb along a cord in his neck, trying to think whether I should say something or not.

  “Stop bloody staring at my pretty face and fucking kiss me again,” he says.

  “You’re not as charming as you think you are,” I murmur, tilting.

  “And if I don’t think I’m charming?”

  I don’t have an answer, so he pulls my head down to his, our lips together again, his other hand sliding up my spine as I lean bodily into him, both arms around his neck. If he weren’t here I’d topple right off this table, but it’s not about to happen.

  I part my lips, tilt my head the other way. His stubble scrapes against my face and sends a shiver over my skin. Liam’s rough and unkempt, an uncharming jerk who doesn’t bother hiding who he is or what he wants.

  He’s exactly what I need right now.

  He has one hand on my ribcage, squeezing me tight. I’m nearly breathless, but then he slides his thumb up, over my nipple, and even through my shirt and bra the sensation sizzles along my nerves and I gasp, both nipples puckering instan
tly.

  Liam just growls softly and bites my lower lip, his teeth sharp and insistent, and he does it again though this time he circles my hardened nub, my hips against his chest, desperate heat flowing through my body in a river.

  It’s been a while. I don’t know how long; maybe a month since the last time Alistair fumbled at me in the dark but I can’t even remember the last time it was like this, all pure animal impulse and nerves. No thought, just want and the sheer knowledge of the things Liam could do to me.

  The things I want Liam to do to me.

  Then his arms are around me, our mouths apart as he lifts me off the table.

  “Oh!” I yelp, but I’m already back down, knees wide, his face hovering above mine now.

  “Best if you don’t fall drunkenly off the table,” he says, his big rough hands on my legs, sliding up my jeans, knee to hip.

  “I’m not drunk,” I murmur, sliding one hand down his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath his shirt.

  Liam just grins in a way that makes my toes tingle.

  “No, just about to go over like a tulip in a windstorm,” he says.

  His hands are around my thighs, squeezing, his thumbs at the inside seams, so I run my hand down his stomach and grab him by the waistband of his jeans.

  “You’re drunk,” I say, looking up at him.

  “Just about,” he says, pulling me to the very edge of the table. Now we’re touching, his rock-hard cock against the gusset of my jeans, my bones all turned to lava. “Drunk enough at least to tell you that I’ve gotten off thinking of precisely this at least a dozen times. Drunk enough to tell you that the moment you walked into the pub I started coming up with a thousand ways to make you come, since it was bloody fucking obvious no one else was.”

  “A thousand is a hell of a lot,” I say.

  He kisses me again on the mouth, slides his lips along my jaw. Takes my hair in his fist and tugs my head backward, lips on my throat, below my ear.

  “I’m a musician, Frankie. We’re creative.”

  I squeeze his hips between my knees. I can’t help myself, and he rewards me by grabbing my ass and crushing me against him, the friction of his cock against my clit even though my jeans enough to make me gasp.

  “This isn’t going to be the first way, is it?” he teases, lips still on my neck.

  I don’t answer, because it definitely seems possible right now.

  “You can’t be wound that tight,” he murmurs. “Even if no one was fucking you as properly as I’m about to, you seem the kind of girl to take care of business yourself.”

  I push my hand under his shirt, fingers tangling in the soft treasure trail beneath his belly button. I’m throbbing, pulsating, dripping wet and needy like I’ve never been before in my life.

  “Tell me what you think about,” he orders.

  Liam slides one hand under my shirt, the friction of his cock against me making my eyes slide closed with anticipation.

  “Was it this? When you closed your eyes in that fancy fucking house, did you think about sitting on a shoddy table with your legs wrapped around me?”

  Fuck yes, I did.

  “Or did you think about my face between your legs while you’re on your back, screaming?”

  That too.

  “Or, Frankie,” he goes on, shoving one hand under my bra and pinching my nipple between two fingers, “Did you think about how I’m going to make you come at least twice before I finally fuck you? The first time to watch you, the second time to taste you, and then the third time to finally feel you.”

  I’m lost for words. This is miles outside my wheelhouse. If my wheelhouse is here, Liam telling me the things he’s about to do to me is somewhere in the Pacific Ocean, unimaginably far.

  “Say it,” he growls.

  “I thought about this,” I murmur.

  “That’s all?”

  The wine swirls, makes me braver.

  “I thought about doing this in the pub after closing,” I whisper, the words tumbling out of me. Liam pushes his other hand under my bra, pinches both nipples, rolls them. I bite back a moan but my back arches, the breath torn from my lungs.

  “And?” he growls, pinching harder. It almost hurts, but not quite, and instead it’s purely fucking delicious.

  “And I thought about what I’d do if I could,” I go on, helpless. “I thought about pushing you down in a booth and getting on my knees, I thought about climbing onto you and riding you.”

  I’m blushing hard, even though I feel like a nun compared to what Liam just said to me, and he grabs my wrist, flattens my hand against his cock through his jeans.

  It’s big, easily the biggest cock I’ve ever encountered.

  Porn star big. Is that really gonna fit? big.

  “Thought so,” he says. “Caught you staring more than once. Isn’t it lovely to finally get your hands on it?”

  He doesn’t wait for me to answer, just tugs at my jeans until the button pops, then shoves his hand inside, forcing the zipper down, his fingers cupping me through my panties. My toes curl in my shoes, my hand clawing against his stomach, and he groans into my neck.

  I push my hand against his hard length, cup my fingers around it through his jeans and squeeze, rubbing until Liam’s breath catches in his throat. Now I’m aching with need, with want, with pent-up desire. I’ve fantasized about this moment for weeks now, but somehow the reality is even better than I was hoping.

  He tugs at my panties, pushing his fingers underneath, grabbing me with his other hand and sliding me an inch over the edge of the table until I have to lean back on one hand, the other still on the massive erection in his jeans.

  “Get your shirt off,” he orders, and I don’t argue, just obey, tearing it off over my head and then unclasping my bra and tossing it aside just for good measure.

  At the same instant Liam’s slick fingers find my clit and he sucks one nipple into his mouth. I grunt, an unsexy sound if there ever was one, but he doesn’t seem to mind. His fingers circle my clit and it sets off an earthquake within me, making me pant for breath.

  He was right. I’m wound fucking tight, because even my trusty vibrator and guiltily imagining Liam naked don’t hold a candle to this. His fingers circle again, faster, flick over my sensitive nub and make my entire body jolt with electricity, so he does it again.

  There’s no subtlety, no teasing, no bringing me to the brink and pulling me back. He bites my nipple, rubs me harder, faster, every nerve in me building toward an explosion. Liam’s a freight train, barreling onward, and he’s not fucking coy about it.

  He pushes again, sliding my clit between two fingers. I gasp and my arm buckles beneath me, landing me on one elbow as stars of pleasure explode in front of my eyes. The alcohol dulls the pain but not the pleasure, not the feeling of Liam on my body, pushing me toward the brink.

  “You’re even easier than I thought you’d be,” he murmurs, taking his lips from my nipple. It stiffens even harder, the air suddenly cool.

  “Shut up,” I whisper.

  Liam just rubs me harder, faster, his face inches from mine as he leans over, watching, his green eyes practically glowing with an intensity I can’t fathom.

  “I think not,” he murmurs, a wicked smile on his face. “I think you quite like it when I tell you that watching you tremble in the moment before you come might turn me on more than anything ever has before, and I’ve fucked supermodels.”

  I close my eyes, bite my lip, whimper. He’s right that I’m about to come, right that I like it when he talks dirty to me with his rough, growly accent, right that getting me here was no challenge at all.

  I come like the dawn breaking, slowly at first, the rosy fingers striking through me and suddenly, all at once, my body is glowing and light, my breath coming in quick, moaning gasps. I’m shaking, my whole body flushed and hot, everything fuzzy and bright.

  Liam doesn’t stop. He turns my head toward him and kisses me as I collapse onto the table, the scarred wood cool beneath my
back, his fingers still stroking me even though my body jolts with every touch. I moan, my tongue in his mouth, feeling warm and helpless and wonderful, like I might just sink backward into a state of total bliss.

  “Told you you were easy,” he growls, laughing, the tip of his nose touching mine. I suck in a deep breath and try to be annoyed, but I can’t muster it.

  “You can’t just call girls easy,” I murmur.

  “It’s not a bad thing that you come at the drop of a hat,” he goes on. “I find it quite spectacular, really.”

  Only now, I think. Only because I wanted you to the point of desperation.

  I grab the back of his shirt with both hands and pull it off, and he tosses it away into a corner of the kitchen. As he does, I watch the stretch and pull of his muscles helplessly, moving and bunching beneath the tattoos and a few scars that spread from his arms and onto his chest. I reach out toward him, still on my back on the table, and trail my fingers down the center of his chest, between his abs, to the slight furry line that reaches below his belt.

  “You curious?” he teases. “You got to cop a feel already and now you want more? It’ll have to fucking wait.”

  He grabs my pants at the hips, tugs. I dig my heels into the table’s edge and lift my hips up so he can pull my jeans down to my ankles, where they’re stuck at my shoes.

  I just start laughing.

  “Oh, fucking hell,” he mutters, grabbing one shoe and pulling until it comes off, then doing the same to the other as I giggle on the table, because I’m buck-ass naked and there’s nothing else I can do.

  “Don’t know what you’re laughing about,” he says, tossing one of my legs over his shoulder and grinning.

  “You could make me moan instead,” I offer, though I blush the moment it’s out of my mouth.

  “I could do,” he says, his eyes dropping to the spot between my legs.

  Normally I’d be uncomfortable like this, too self-aware, but Liam’s made himself perfectly clear in his intentions, and the hunger in his eyes as he slides his thumb from my clit downward, between my lips, makes the need inside me come roaring back even stronger than before.