by Roxie Noir
I roll over and toss the pillow over my face, willing the thunder to stop, trying to fall back asleep.
A few minutes later, I hear footsteps. The bedroom door creaks open, and I move the pillow, hoping that I look least twenty percent okay.
“You look like shite, so I brought you my mum’s hangover cure,” he says.
I glare at him, pillow covering one boob, trying to think of something to say to that and failing. It’s not like he looks much better, also bedraggled and a little worse for the wear, but he’s totally naked, standing there like he hasn’t got a care in the world, casually holding two steaming mugs of something.
With a massive erection, his cock pointing directly at me. I let my eyes linger on it for a moment too long, and he grins.
“It’s just morning wood,” he says, walking over, holding out a mug. I drag myself to sitting, cross-legged, and take it. “Got absolutely nothing to do with you being naked and in my bed.”
The moment I inhale the steam, my eyes water.
“This is just whiskey,” I say.
“And hot water and honey,” he says.
I look into the mug. I know if I start drinking again right now, that’s another couple of hours before I can get on with my plan, drive to Brougham, catch the train, get home, all that.
Liam gets into the bed, and I scoot over, giving him room. He takes a long pull from his mug, and I watch his throat move, along with the muscles of his thick drummer’s arms as he lifts the mug.
Not to mention the circus tent that suddenly appeared under the blanket he’s pulled over himself. Even though I’ve got a headache I’m wet just looking at it and thinking about last night, about him bending me over the table, pulling me down on top of him and how good it felt to finally admit what I wanted—
“It’s quite rude to stare,” he says, his voice echoing from the inside of his mug. “My eyes are up here, you know.”
I blush, look at his face. He’s smirking, his eyes crinkling, enjoying this.
Fuck it. Fuck getting in the car, fuck going home.
I take a long drink of Liam’s concoction. My stomach rebels for a split second and then quiets, so I take another drink. After a moment, my headache starts to fade, and everything else gets a little fuzzier too.
“Is it working yet?” he asks, setting his own empty mug on the ancient, scarred table next to that side of the bed.
I nod.
“This is your mom’s recipe?”
Does my mom have a hangover recipe that’s mostly whiskey?
“This is only her recipe for company,” Liam says, watching me drink more. “Her usual recipe was just ‘another bottle of gin.’”
I tilt my head back, lean against the pillows stacked behind me.
“Shit,” I say. “Sorry.”
“It’s not so bad,” he says, leaning back as well. “I always know what to get her for Mother’s Day, don’t I?”
I drain the mug, feet pulled under me now, leaning sideways against the pillows stacked next to the wall. Liam takes my mug, sets it on the side table, and while he’s turned I check him out again as the tendrils of whiskey unfurl into my brain.
What was it he said before, about filthy things?
“You sure have got a problem looking me in the face,” he says, leaning back, arms behind his head.
“You’re the one parading around naked,” I say, even though the blanket is only up to my waist.
“I’m hardly parading, am I?” he says. “I’m just sitting here, minding my own business.”
I dart my eyes to his cock again, the pole sticking straight up, blanket tented around it.
“If you’re really so interested I could let you have a peek,” he says.
“You do know I’ve already seen it,” I point out. “I saw it a couple of minutes ago when you walked in here.”
“And you wouldn’t quit staring then, either.”
Everything’s warm and lovely, like the world’s covered in velvet. I lean against the pillows, shifting my body, noticing when Liam’s eyes flick downward. I shift again, my heart beating a little faster.
“You’re the one who walked in without a stitch of clothing on, waving that thing around like you were conducting an orchestra,” I counter.
“I do have excellent rhythm, as you well know.”
He grins at me. My whole body is heating up, and it’s not just the hangover cure, it’s this. It’s the way he’s self-assured and cocky — so cocky — but he’s completely right about everything.
“I’d hope so, if you’re a drummer.”
He laughs, reaches out, puts his hand on my jaw, slides it into my hair.
“I’m not a drummer anymore,” he says. “And if we’re done discussing whether you’re looking at my cock or not I’d quite like to get on with things.”
I lean in and then his mouth is on mine, again, and he tastes slightly of whiskey and honey. I’m tipsy, hungover, out of my element, fragile like a sheet of tissue paper but God, I need this right now.
I open my mouth under his, meet his tongue with mine. His hand tightens in my hair, pressing our faces together and his other hand is on my hip, pulling me in, teeth on my lip as I slide, fall backward and he’s on top of me in a tangle of limbs, blankets, pillows.
We’re both breathing hard, my hands scrabbling at him as he grabs one knee, pushes my legs open. I wrap them around him, find his mouth again with mine.
Maybe it’s that I’ve already started drinking, maybe it’s the strange elation of breaking off an engagement, or maybe it’s just the high that comes with doing something I’d never let myself dream about before, but there’s something about Liam that feels right, like a key fitting into a lock.
His mouth leaves mine just as his thick length rubs along me, the tip finding my clit and skipping it over, sending a jolt through my body that makes me tighten my legs around him, grabbing his hair in my hand.
Liam growls into my ear, rocks his body against mine as I run my hands over his shoulders and down his back. He grabs my hips and grinds into me, making me gasp, back arching as his mouth devours mine, pulls back.
He holds himself up on one elbow, reaches into the bedside table, fumbles inside for a moment before coming out with a foil packet and ripping into it with his teeth.
I grab it from him, beyond impatient, reach down and unroll it onto his cock as he bites my neck hard, sucking. He hilts himself in one stroke and I cry out, legs tightening around his hips.
“Found the spot again,” he whispers into my ear.
I just nod, eyes closed and mouth open, panting. It shouldn’t feel this good, nothing should feel this good, and definitely not half-drunk half-hungover sex with someone I barely even know.
But God, it does, somehow it does, and Liam grabs my hip with one hand, wrapping my legs even tighter as he thrusts again, changing the angle a bit and this time when he pushes himself all the way in I shout.
It’s fast and hard, unstoppable. Like we’re trying to devour each other whole, desperate and needy, our bodies together a display of pure, raw want.
I come first, as fast and hard as I’ve ever come, my hand holding Liam’s head to mine, foreheads touching. I clamp my legs around him like I can lock him inside, my whole body jolting like I’m riding over cobblestone as I’m left gasping for air, sweating and limp.
Liam comes seconds later, fingers digging into my hip so hard I’m sure it’ll bruise, shouting something into the mattress next to my shoulder as I gasp for air, sparks still showering over me as we both go limp.
His back’s covered in sweat. I probably am too but I couldn’t care less right now, spent and senseless in his bed.
“That ought to be every wake-up call,” he finally says, still lying on top of me. With his free hand he pushes some hair off my face, and I laugh.
“Between this and the breakfast cocktail my morning’s off to a good start,” I say.
Chapter Twenty
Liam
There�
�s a space heater in the corner of the kitchen, and I turn it on. Nothing. I kick it and it buzzes to life slowly, a wicked orange glow emanating out. It’s quite against the terms of my lease, but only having one shit heater in the bedroom ought to be against the terms of life.
Not that this is the worst place I’ve ever lived. By my standards it’s quite lovely, actually, given that I’ve never discovered wildlife living in the unused oven nor opened a hall closet to find someone passed out. There’s also a certain lack of bodily fluids I’ve found pleasant.
I pad across the kitchen to the counter where the whiskey’s still open, put down the glasses I’ve got in my hand, pour more whiskey into both. I’ve got on trousers but no shirt, the cold still biting at me through the first drink, and I take a quick nip from the bottle before I put it back on the counter.
It goes down so easy that I take another, warmth spreading through my chest. I’ve not had a morning drink in absolute ages. It’s one of those ugly things likely to make people label you a problem drinker, but how bad can it be if I’ve not done it in a year?
Besides, I’ve got reasons. She’s not here forever. She’ll likely not be here even tonight, as she’s got a life to go back to while I stay in this freezing cold rainy hole, trying to piece something new together.
I take another swallow.
“Are you making more?” Frankie asks behind me. “Jesus, it’s freezing.”
I glance over my shoulder. She’s got on the black t-shirt I was wearing yesterday and on her it comes down to her upper thigh, so I can’t tell if she’s wearing knickers or not.
Hope not. Give me another fifteen minutes and I’ll be ready again.
“Course I’m making more,” I say. “That’s what I do, isn’t it? I make you the drinks, you drink the drinks.”
She leans against the counter, blinking slowly, frowning. Even though she’s obviously hungover and a bit worse for the wear, eyes tired and bloodshot, hair a crazed halo around her head, she’s still so fucking beautiful it hurts.
Beautiful and gone soon, either back to America or — the worst thought, the one I can’t help but let slip through the dark cracks of my mind — back to him, this nothing more than some kind of pre-wedding cold feet.
“It’s nine-thirty in the morning,” she says.
“And we’ve already drunk and fucked,” I say, pouring whiskey into two glasses. “Look at it from the right angle and we’ve gotten a smashing head start on the day.”
Her eyes roam over the glass, then over me. I pretend that all my attention is focused on squeezing the last of my honey into the whiskey, that I can’t practically feel the heat her gaze trails behind it as she looks me over.
“If you’ve got something to say, you can just say it,” I tell her, tossing the empty honey bear into the rubbish bin across the room. “For example, something about drinking in the morning. Something maybe with liberal use of the word shouldn’t.”
“You are such a prick,” she murmurs, but she’s smiling.
“As you know.”
“Fine. I should go put on clothes and sober up and leave so I can go home and figure out what the hell I’m going to be now, which means I shouldn’t have that drink and I shouldn’t let you talk me into anything else, either.”
Yeah, I’ve won.
“You seem to be telling me all this rather than actually doing it,” I point out.
“You’re a very bad influence,” she says, reaching for the half-finished drink.
“I’m exactly the influence you need,” I say. “That’ll need watering down, I think.”
Just as I say that, Frankie takes a sip, then coughs.
“Told you.”
She shakes her head, then downs half of it in a few swallows, eyes watering. I match her, downing all of mine, my kitchen going properly wobbly and fuzzy, that thin sheet of alcohol between me and the ugly world.
“Fuck it,” Frankie says. “Let’s get drunk and make French toast.”
There’s eggshells in the sink, spilt milk on the counter, sugar on the floor. We’ve had to open a window after the first attempt started smoking because Frankie, after another drink, turned the stovetop on high and didn’t realize it.
Meanwhile, I scoured my stores. Found a bottle of Chardonnay shoved into the back of a cabinet, possibly from the previous tenants. There’s still whiskey left, still brandy, some rum.
But more important, there’s Frankie sitting on my lap, still wearing my shirt with no knickers on, eating half-burnt, half-raw French toast.
“C’mon,” she says, giggling, kicking her feet.
“The answer’s still bloody no,” I say, dodging the fork with my head.
“Why?”
“Because it’s fucking weird and I’m a grown man fully capable of feeding myself,” I say, grabbing her hand with mine.
Frankie pretends to pout, but bursts into giggles again instead.
“You’re no fun.”
I grab her bare ass with one hand, then smack it.
“Hey!”
“I’m plenty of fun.”
She eats the bite of French toast on the fork herself, leaning on the table with one elbow. While she’s chewing I grab the fork, eat some myself.
“You can feed me French toast if you want,” she says. “See, I’m cool with it.”
I take another bite, consider her carefully.
“Have you got a fetish?”
“For what?”
“For feeding people French toast.”
Frankie just laughs.
“Sure,” she says. “I did all this, came to England, laid the groundwork, just so I could get drunk before ten in the morning and feed you French toast.”
“I had a suspicion.”
“And now you won’t even let me do it.”
I reach behind her, grab my drink.
“I’m just playing hard-to-get,” I tell her. “I’ve known about the fetish this whole time, and my mother always said something about milking the cow for free and not allowing that, so that’s what I’m doing at the moment.”
She’s laughing again, chewing the last of the French toast. We went through half a loaf, burned a good bit of it, and when it turned out I didn’t have pancake syrup in the house we decided to just use white sugar.
It’s not very good French toast, but I’d eat cardboard if Frankie were sitting on my lap like this, and when she turns her head toward the table to grab her drink I nuzzle my face into her neck. She yelps, my stubble scraping her.
“I’ve got an idea for something you can feed me,” I say, sliding my hand up her bare back, the other already between her legs.
She swallows, puts the glass down as I kiss her neck, suck the delicate skin there a little harder than I should.
“That’s a terrible way of putting it,” she says, her words already a half-moan.
I laugh, kiss the spot under her ear.
“What if I offer to eat you out on my kitchen table again? Is that a better way of putting it?”
Frankie just sighs, her body practically turning to putty under my lips.
Chapter Twenty-One
Frankie
We wind up in his bed again and doze off to sleep, me face down on the mattress, Liam half on top of me. He’s a good blanket, and I’m mostly warm and mostly cozy and definitely drunk as fuck.
The bottle of whiskey’s on the nightstand — he’s only got one, the other side of the bed shoved up against the wall — and I think about reaching for it when I wake up, head sloshy and furry-feeling.
“If I don’t watch out you’re likely to break my dick,” Liam mumbles into the back of my neck, slowly coming awake as well. I have no idea how long we dozed for, but it’s still light out and the whiskey bottle’s nearly empty.
God, that’s a lot of whiskey, I think. I didn’t think two people could drink that much.
It’s only been today, right? I didn’t get here yesterday, fall asleep, and get confused, right?
“I’ve bee
n very nice to your dick,” I tell Liam.
“An overuse injury of some sort, then,” he says, still not moving. “Could just fall off. Who knows.”
“You’re awful at talking dirty,” I tease, finally propping myself up on one elbow, everything tilting dangerously.
He rolls off, sits up, reaches over me for the bottle, takes a swig, hands it to me.
“You’re not enticed by the idea of causing me a massive dick sprain?” he says, cocking an eyebrow.
“I don’t think you can sprain it,” I point out, also sitting up and taking a swig.
By this point in the bottle the whiskey tastes like nothing, even though all I’ve had today is that, some pretty bad French toast, and a cheese sandwich that I didn’t bother cooking.
“You can sprain anything.”
I pass off the bottle, flop backward.
“Not dicks,” I say, nestling my feet against him as he reaches over, puts the bottle on the nightstand.
We both just sit there for a moment. I feel a little like the bed is rocking back and forth, tilting, whirling, and it’s not unpleasant.
I never did this with Alistair. I’d never have just lain in his bed, naked after sex, talking about dick sprains. He wasn’t Puritan or anything, but it wasn’t this. I never felt like I could be like this with him, naked for hours, and feel normal.
I never wanted him again ten seconds after we finished. I thought this would be like scratching an itch, but Liam’s like a mosquito bite or poison ivy or something: the itch keeps coming back, keeps itching, and I just keep scratching it harder.
At this rate I’ll wind up scratching ’til it bleeds, I think, Liam’s hand running down my naked calf, his eyes at half-mast, watching me lazily.
Like that time I had poison ivy so bad at summer camp that I wound up with an infection after I...
...Seriously, that’s what you’re thinking about?
I yawn, stretch, turn onto my side, tell myself to stop thinking about summer camp.
“You really did leave him, right?” Liam suddenly says.
He’s leaned back against a ramshackle pile of pillows all the pillowcases mismatching. None of the sheets on this bed match, and the blanket is a faded plaid, ugly as hell but warm.
