Ever After (Dirtshine Book 3)

by Roxie Noir

  He bites the inside of one thigh, his lips moving downward, and my eyes close again. He pushes a finger inside me, then another, both finding that magical bundle of nerves and stroking it, making my hips buck, my back arch.

  Then his mouth is on me, hot and wet and insistent, lapping at me as the hot need pulses, expanding, his fingers moving in time with his tongue. I’m still easy, maybe even easier, because it’s seconds before I’m gasping and moaning, both hands over my hand, grabbing onto the edge of the table because I have to hang onto something.

  There’s a part of me that doesn’t quite believe that this is happening, that in a day I went from Alistair’s stuffy manor and being the future Lady Winstead to getting tongue-fucked on a kitchen table in a two-room cottage, but it’s fucking incredible and right now, I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

  This time I come fast and hard, toes curling, back arching, and I can hear the noises I make echoing from the walls, but I can’t tell that it’s me making them. All I can tell is that I feel like I’m being dipped in lava after trekking through the arctic, and that I might never stop coming.

  Gradually, his tongue slows. I jolt when he pulls his fingers out of me, my juices smearing over my thigh as he runs his hands back down my legs, and I can feel his eyes on me, burning with intensity, even if I can’t quite look yet.

  “That’s two,” he says, his face against my hip. “How many did I say?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Liam

  I said three, and I’m well aware of that, but if I happen to go over that number I won’t get too upset. I wasn’t expecting Frankie to come this fast or this hard. I knew it would be fucking satisfying to finally see her the way I’ve fantasized about her so often, but I didn’t think I’d like it quite so much.

  I didn’t think I’d be counting down the time until I can make her do it again in seconds rather than minutes. I just didn’t think.

  She’s still flat on her back, on my kitchen table, her arms over her head as she pants for breath, the shallow swell of her breasts rising and falling. From this angle every curve she has — her hips, the slight mound of her belly, her stiff, perky pink nipples — is magnified, soft and luscious, laid out like a feast fit for a king.

  “I thought drummers could at least count to four,” she says, her voice still a little hazy, like she’s still piecing herself back together. “That’s the joke, right?”

  “If you’re going to make jokes at my expense I ought to forget how to count all together,” I say, slowly planting a kiss on her stomach, next to her belly button, and it makes her gasp lightly. I move to the valley between her breasts, the hollow of her throat, my hard cock pressing against her naked wetness as I lean over the table.

  Her hips move against me as I do, her warmth making me twitch even through the layer of denim. Finally, I kiss her on the mouth, our bodies pressed together skin-to-skin, and she’s soft and yielding, lazily meeting my tongue with hers, my hands exploring every inch of her body.

  After a moment, she pushes against me and I pull back as she sits up. Her hair’s wild, her face flushed, her eyes sparking as she puts her hands on my sides again.

  “It’s a bit lower, love,” I tease, though my voice comes out rough, aching need taking over.

  Frankie bites her lip, looks up at me, hazel eyes all wicked pretend innocence.

  “Lower here?” she asks, her hands moving downward by millimeters.

  I grab her hands and move them right to my hard, thick shaft, one above the other.

  “Grab my cock like you want to and don’t play fucking coy,” I say, my hands back on her body. She tilts her face back up toward mine and I kiss her again as she yanks my trousers until the button comes undone, and then she’s pulling my fly open, my cock springing out as she kisses me furiously, stroking me through my boxers.

  I groan into her mouth and push forward, sliding through her hands until the tip of my cock lands against the inside of her thigh, the fabric-covered tip already damp. Frankie doesn’t miss a beat, shoves my trousers and boxers down, grabs my cock again skin-to-skin this time, her other hand clawing at my back as she strokes me, root to tip, hooking her legs around me.

  It’s almost too much. I can still taste her in my mouth, still smell her arousal so potently I’m dizzy. She strokes me again, hard, nudging the tip of my cock against her still-slick clit and as she does she makes a tiny noise into my mouth.

  I shudder. I’m nearly fucking blinded by need, by want, by desire as strong as any drug. It’s through sheer fucking force that I don’t push her back onto the table, sink myself into her willing wetness and feel her body against mine, skin-to-skin.

  I know better is why. I may be drunk as hell, and I didn’t always know better, but for Frankie I do.

  So I pull back, take a deep breath, put my hand on her face, my thumb stroking her cheekbone. Frankie looks at me wide-eyed, like she thinks I’m about to tell her something terrible.

  “Stay right here and don’t fucking move,” I murmur, and then I step away before I lose my nerve. I shed my shoes and trousers as I cross the kitchen, fish around desperately in my bedside drawer for the box of condoms I put there when I first came to Shelton.

  I find it, unopened, already walking back to Frankie as I tear into the cardboard, grab one foil packet, drop the box on the floor.

  She’s moved. She’s standing, leaning against the table, legs crossed at the ankle, as demure as can be for the situation and I walk up to her, condom in hand and intentions perfectly clear, grab the table on either side of her, press my cock against her belly and kiss her hard.

  “I thought I said don’t move,” I say. “You can’t follow one simple direction?”

  She just laughs.

  “You going to kick me out?” she teases.

  “No, but now I’ll have to bend you over this table and fuck you,” I say, my cock throbbing against her. “And I’m afraid I’ll have to do it hard and slow until you’ve come at least once more.”

  Frankie digs her nails into my spine, pulling me against her.

  “What was going to happen if I didn’t move?”

  “Same thing,” I admit, and before she can answer I step back and spin her around. She yelps and then she’s facing the table, palms spread, back arched, and she looks over her shoulder at me with a glance that nearly makes me come just then.

  Not yet. Not fucking yet, you lout.

  I’ve got the condom on in record time and then I’m behind her. Frankie’s on her toes, nearly a foot shorter than me, my cock between her legs as I drag the tip over her clit. I relish her shiver as I slide the tip between her lips, listen to her quick, soft gasp. I’d give fucking anything to have nothing separating us, to feel her juices as they cover my cock, every delicious millimeter of her channel, but this will also do nicely.

  She sucks in a breath as I enter her, a noise escaping her throat as I sink further, a tiny soft moan as I bury my face in her wild hair. I can’t help but hilt myself on the first stroke, leaning her further over the table, helplessly pushing as deep and hard as I possibly can.

  Frankie clenches around me, head thrown back, so I grab her breasts and pinch her nipples as we start properly fucking. We go slow at first, every ounce of my self-control going toward not simply coming with every stroke. It’s been a long fucking time since I’ve done this.

  I speed up, going faster. Frankie gasps and then falters, my cock slipping out of her, nudging against her back.

  “I think I’m too short for this,” she gasps. “Here, try—”

  I reach behind myself, grab a chair, sit down and pull Frankie along with me.

  “This?” I ask.

  She slides onto my cock again, sinking all the way down with no hesitation, her tightness fading my vision at the edges.

  “Mmmhm,” she murmurs, shifting her hips on top of me, gripping and clenching at my cock as she puts her elbows on the edge of the table and starts moving.

  I grab her hips, fuckin
g mesmerized, my fingers digging into her flesh so hard I’m afraid I might leave bruises. Frankie fucks me slowly, and it’s all I can do to watch my cock disappear again and again, listen to the way she moans with every stroke.

  But I need more. I’m fucking unraveling, losing my mind over this, and I pull her down so hard she grunts and looks back at me, eyes glazed over with pleasure.

  “If you’re going to fuck me do it faster,” I growl.

  “Even if I like it this way?” she whispers, teasing.

  I wrap an arm around her waist, pull her backward until she’s against my chest and I’m holding her tight and I can move her as I please.

  “I’ve got a feeling you’re going to like this way too,” I say, fucking her faster, harder. She arches her back and pushes back against me, every inch of her body demanding more. “Am I right?”

  “Fuck yes,” she whispers.

  I bite the soft skin of her neck and she moans, pussy fluttering around me. I can feel everything, the sweat sliding down her freckled back, the way she practically vibrates when I hit that spot inside her, the way her breathing is ragged and uneven. This is even better than I’d ever dared imagine, so good I feel like I’m losing the edges of my body off into space.

  Suddenly she gasps. She trembles, an earthquake building in her body, and then she explodes, clenching around me, her fingernails digging into my arm, her head thrown back on my shoulder, as her whole body jolts and writhes and moves in a perfect, needy rhythm.

  It lasts five seconds, six seconds and then I can’t stop myself and come hard, pulling Frankie down onto my cock, blindly needing to be inside her, feel her around me as the world crashes around me.

  I feel like I’m underwater, tossed by waves, and when I finally come up Frankie’s twisting around on my lap, her hand on my face, her lips seeking mine. I kiss her, and it’s a strange, awkward angle, but I’m so hungry for her mouth it doesn’t matter.

  “I already want to do that again,” I murmur, even as my cock twitches inside her, slowly going soft.

  She pauses, then smiles, laughing.

  “Once wasn’t enough?”

  “I know the best way to find out,” I say. “It’ll be an experiment. Very scientific. We’ll just have to fuck several times, and only then will we know when we ought to have stopped.”

  “And if the answer was ‘after the first one’?” she teases.

  “Then at least we’ll know.”

  We kiss again, the Frankie sighs, leaning her head backward against my shoulder as I run my hands down her body, plant a quick kiss on her shoulder.

  “I’m standing up,” she announces, then pushes herself off me, nearly falling over but catching herself on the table. I stand as well, lean over her, grab her ass and kiss the top of her head.

  “Be right back,” I say, and go to get rid of the condom.

  When I get back from the WC, she’s already got her knickers back on and she’s turning her jeans right-side-out after I left them in a ball in the corner of the kitchen. I pause in the doorway, still stark fucking naked, and she looks over.

  “The fuck are you doing?” I ask.

  “Putting pants on?”

  “Yes, but what for?”

  She shakes out the cuff, finally righting them, and holds them in front of her.

  “Stay the night,” I say, my heart suddenly beating faster, because I hadn’t quite figured out what to do when this part came up. To be quite honest, I hadn’t thought much beyond my orgasm, so I’m flying by the seat of my trousers now.

  Or the seat of my non-trousers.

  She swallows, looks out the window at the blackness beyond. There’s not a city light for some miles.

  “I kinda stole a car,” she says, and looks over at me guiltily. “And I really did just mean to come here and say goodbye, not...”

  “Liar,” I say, leaning against the doorframe. “You got my address, I’m betting you could have called. But you came here instead, and you got exactly what you wanted, and now the price is that you’ve got the stay the night instead of doing whatever your harebrained plan was going to be. Not to mention you’re far too drunk to be driving.”

  Frankie leans back against the kitchen table, jeans still in front of her, and laughs.

  “You don’t know that,” she protests.

  “The fuck I don’t,” I say, crossing my arms. “What was the plan, exactly? Sleep in your stolen car outside the train station?”

  She frowns, nose wrinkling, looks at the ceiling.

  “There wasn’t one,” I say, grinning slowly. “You only got as far as go visit Liam and see if you can’t get into his trousers.”

  “I just told, you, that wasn’t—”

  “Do go on, I’m quite convinced.”

  “—Why I came by, I — oh, shut up,” she says, but she’s smiling.

  “Stay here, you’ll plan better in the morning. I won’t even make you get dressed.”

  “Such a gentleman,” she says drily, but she grabs the rest of her clothes from the floor and walks past me. I grab her ass again as she walks through the doorway.

  “Oh my God,” she teases, and I just watch her as she tosses her clothes onto a chair and heads into the bathroom.

  I’m still drunk but there’s a pleasant buzzing sensation around my head, landing somewhere in my chest, and it’s warm and it’s bleeding fuzzy and I quite like it.

  I know she’s leaving the country soon. I know she’s also quite drunk and she’s been single for a few hours at best, and I know that I’m one hell of a step down from her previous fiancé in any and all practical terms.

  But it’s not as if thinking through the consequences has ever been my strong suit. So I hit the lights in the cottage and get into bed, and when Frankie comes in a few minutes later, tentatively sitting on the edge of my mattress like she’s a guest, I grab her and drag her into my messy pile of pillows and blankets.

  I’ve got every intention of fucking her again tonight, maybe some romantic shit like missionary so I can watch her face, but instead I find myself drifting off with her in my arms, tattoos against freckles.

  “If you get arrested for harboring a fugitive I’m sorry,” she says, her voice soft and sultry with sleep.

  “You’re a fugitive now?”

  “The car.”

  “Tosser won’t even know it’s missing until tomorrow,” I say, her head tucked under my chin.

  “Hope not,” she murmurs.

  Gradually, her breathing slows, evens out. She relaxes in my arms and I stay half-awake, one step above the deep pool of sleep so I can be here a little longer, savor this moment that I know won’t last.

  And then in the morning, I can convince her to stay another day.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Frankie

  Oh, Jesus.

  I open my eyes and the dim light from the window knifes into my brain, sticks there somewhere behind my retinas like a shard of glass. I close them again, heave an arm over my face, but that feels bad too, makes a dull pounding in my temples roar up.

  I forgot how bad red wine hangovers were. Hangovers are never pleasant, but red wine in particular always seems to kick me in the teeth as it’s leaving. My mouth is dry and tastes like butt, my whole body feels like a shriveled husk of skin.

  I sit up, slowly, and my stomach rolls from side to side.

  “Where’re you going?” Liam murmurs from behind me, and I turn my head and look at him.

  He’s on his stomach, face turned toward me, blankets pooled around his waist. Even though it feels like someone’s mining my brain with a pickaxe right now, I let my eyes linger.

  Those sharp green eyes, the muscles, the tattoos. They’re mostly well-done and vivid, though there are a few that look older, faded. Possibly they look unprofessional, but I’ve never even been in a tattoo shop, so it’s not like I’m an expert.

  “You’re not leaving,” he mumbles, his voice slightly muffled by the pillow. “I’ve got loads more filthy things I�
��d like to do to you.”

  My head pounds. My stomach turns uncertainly, my mouth feels like it’s stuffed with cotton, and I still blush.

  I still get turned on when he says that, even though he does look a little rough and I’m sure I look like something that’s been scraped off a shoe.

  “I’m coming back,” I say before I stand, and walk stark naked to the bathroom.

  The only heater in the place seems to be in the bedroom, so the place is freezing. I pee quickly, resting my elbows on my knees and my forehead in my hands as I try to piece together the fragments of the next few days.

  I get up, maybe Liam’s got coffee, I say goodbye and drive to the train station in Brougham.

  Or I get back in Liam’s bed. Maybe get a few more hours’ worth of sleep, maybe try one of those filthy things he promised.

  I flush, stand, look at myself in the mirror. I really do look like shit, eyes swollen, bloodshot and puffy, hair looking like something you’d pull out of a drain. I splash my face off, drink from the faucet, and it helps but only the tiniest bit.

  I left Alistair, I think, looking at my naked right hand.

  God, I’m going to have to deal with that. I have to get to the train, find a flight, get home. Cancel all of our wedding shit, tell all my friends that we broke up, tell my parents...

  Pain thuds through my head again, so I stop thinking. I head back into the freezing hallway, into Liam’s bedroom. His eyes flicker open when I enter, and he smiles when I get back into bed.

  “Thought you’d be back,” he murmurs, only half-awake.

  “I’m too hungover to leave,” I mutter, drifting back to sleep.

  I wake up again in a few hours, face buried in a pillow. Liam’s gone, the space next to me in the bed cool and empty, and I fuzzily wonder where he went.

  I fuzzily wonder if I’m supposed to be going somewhere, and then the list comes crashing into my brain: leave, train, plane, home, deal with shit.