by Lexi Whitlow
“Two vodka tonics. Heavy on the vodka,” Rhiannon says.
The man shrugs and pulls down two glasses. His movements are languid, like he’s comfortable in his own skin. I might be imagining it, but he looks our way again while he’s pouring the drinks. And not at Rhiannon. At me, again. I try to take my eyes off him, but I can’t. It’s probably the alcohol. And all the talk about this guy and his cock.
Oh my god. I wonder what it looks like. What it feels like. Shit.
Rhiannon leans down toward me and whispers in a voice that the three people closest to us can probably hear it. “Skye. You have to hook up with him. He was looking at you. He looks like he could throw you over his shoulder like a caveman. God, he’s even better in person. And get you out of your slump.”
“No. No—definitely not. He’s not the type of guy who looks at me.” When I look up, the man is looking at me. Smiling, one corner of his lip turned up. That smile reaches his eyes and stays there, sparkling. He gives me a quick wink and finishes making the drinks.
Rhiannon shrugs. “Hurry up! My friend here wants her vodka tonic, and she wants your number. Or at least your name! It’s Ian or something, isn’t it?”
The guy shakes his head and laughs.
At that, I nearly melt into the floor. But the guy—he walks over.
He places the drink in front of me. I expect his eyes to cut over to Rhiannon, but they don’t. He stays focused on me, instead. I take the drink and take a long swig. The buzz is hitting me hard now, but my mouth is dry, the words suddenly vanished. I look over for help, but Rhiannon is already talking to some other guy. “I, um, thank you for the drink.”
The guy smiles again. “Liam,” he says. “Not Ian.”
“Nice to meet you, Not Ian.” I try to sound cool, but inside, my core is on fire with a feeling I don’t quite recognize.
“I usually go by Liam,” he responds, smiling brighter. Full of teeth. “I thought that’s what you wanted. My name. Or is there something else you’re interested in?”
I take another long sip, and the alcohol pulses through my veins, warming me. Making me bolder. Which is something I’m definitely not—bold.
“Liam. That’s good. I collect names, actually. That’s a good one.” The veins in my temples pulse, and a lump forms in my throat. That was an idiotic thing to say, and it makes me sound like a serial killer collecting trophies. I clear my throat. “I mean, for my job. It’s my job to write interesting things down. For my boss.” I lift the drink in his direction in a fake toast.
“Yeah? What do you do? Write phonebooks or something?” His accent is pure New York. “No. Let me guess, you’re a librarian. Something about you looks like… a sexy little librarian.”
I swallow hard. Sexy. Shit. I gather myself together.
“Books, yeah. But not phone books. And I’m not the one writing them. My boss does. I go out and do research. Help her get proofs together.” Anxiety surges in my body, and I try to tamp it down with more vodka.
He shrugs, like he has this effect on women all the time. “Yeah? What does she write?” He studies me for a second, taking another sip of his beer. “Let me guess. Historical fiction? Fantasy? Some of that young adult stuff? The next Harry Potter? Or some Hunger Games shit? I liked that one.”
“First of all—no. She writes romance.” I try to keep my face calm when I say this because it’s ever so slightly embarrassing. “And second of all, I can’t see you kicking back with a young adult novel.”
“There are lots of things you might not know about me, librarian. I’m totally hashtag team Gale. Peeta’s a pussy.”
“He is not! He’s sweet!” I find myself laughing in spite of myself. “And you just said hashtag out loud.”
“The more important topic here,” he says, laughing. “Is whether those romances you write are clean. Or are they—” He leans in closer to me. “Dirty?”
I’m glad the alcohol is kicking in because I would not be able to handle this otherwise. “My boss writes them. I don’t yet. I haven’t given anything but short stories a try.”
“Clean?” he asks again. “Or dirty? I mean, if you were going to write one, would it have fucking? That’s all I’m asking. A romance novel is nothing without fucking.”
I make a slight strangled sound in my throat. “I guess I’d write something on the dirtier side.” A hint of warmth begins between my legs. This guy is good. Charming. He’s even got me talking.
“What’s your name, anyway? I want to know it so—well, I got plans for your name.”
“I’m not sure I like the sound of that,” I say. “But it’s Skye. Skye Williams. And what are these plans you have?”
He leans forward slightly, but he still talks loud enough that anyone in the bar could hear him, if they were listening. “I want to know what to call you when I get you on your knees in front of me later tonight.”
I freeze. Shit, shit, shit. Oh my God. This is a thing that could happen.
“I think Rhiannon might want to go home…” My voice trails off. “I—I might need to go home.”
No, you’re not going home. You might actually have a chance with this guy. If you stop saying stupid shit.
“Your friend?” He gestures to Rhiannon, who’s dancing now. “She’s having a good time all by herself. No reason you shouldn’t have a good time too.”
“I came here to do, um, research. Not really to go home with anyone.”
Shit. No. He’s going to ask—
“One—you don’t need to go anywhere else to go home with me. And two—what’s the research on? I’m very curious.” He lifts an eyebrow.
“The, um. This part of town. And the bar. The people here.” I smack my lips together. Another nervous tick. “Yep. This part of town, and the people who—well, own it.”
Men like you. You, in particular. Apparently.
“The Irish families,” he says. “That’s us. That’s me, I mean. The Doughertys. They own this area, and the more violent ones are still trying to stir up trouble every once in a while. I’m not in the life anymore because of certain responsibilities—” He stops for a second. “Because I don’t need to get back in trouble. I’m co-owner of this bar, and I’ll leave the other shit to my family. Back to the issue at hand. You going upstairs with me. My shift is about to end.”
Several girls look over our way, and I’m pretty sure they’re glaring daggers at me. Liam is talking loud now, and he’s leaning over the bar, his broad chest poised over his elbows. I can see the tattoo. It’s an elaborate Celtic cross. I don’t ask, but I’m betting it’s part of the whole family thing. From the scars on his arms, and the one fading on his jaw, I can guess Liam wasn’t always just the co-owner of a bar.
He’s not your type. Not at all.
It occurs to me in that moment that maybe no one is, or was, my type. And maybe this guy standing right in front of me, the one very obviously flirting with me, he could be the type for one night, anyway. Then it wouldn’t matter that I’m saying stupid, meaningless bullshit.
“I’m not very experienced,” I blurt out. “I don’t do stuff like this. Rhiannon got me out to try something new, I guess. And I mean, I really don’t want to waste your time. I had a bad relationship, and that’s it. That’s the beginning and end of my experience.” I look down.
His eyebrow raises. “Oh really? I like the sound of that. Because I have plenty of experience. And I could be an inspiration for your research.” He leans over and touches my hand, sending a shock to my core. “I can be very inspiring.”
Rhiannon catches this bit of our conversation, and she looks over, giving me a big, exaggerated thumbs-up.
“I’m sure you can… but I’m not exactly your type. I don’t think.” I chew on my lip.
Liam looks at me. Holds my gaze. Waits for me to continue. His eyes move down to my breasts, unabashed.
What do I want? Do I want a one-night stand? A few sentences, a hot evening, no goodbyes? Or do I want him to leave me alone?
“Wait.” He smiles, and then he laughs again, rich, and dark. It stirs up something inside of me, like I want to leap across the bar and run my fingers through his hair. Examine his tattoo in detail. See if I could rip his shirt in half with my bare hands. Charlie didn’t give me that feeling. Not ever. Which could explain a lot.
“I don’t usually talk to guys like you,” I blurt out. My heart starts beating fast. I remember the last time I was with Charlie. It was dark and horrible and awkward. I’d wanted to so badly—and he hadn’t wanted any part of me. And with Liam, with someone I don’t even know, it would be seventy times worse. “Not ever, really. I’m stumbling over my words here. I should go. This—” I gesture between the two of us. “Isn’t going to go well.” Because you’re scorching hot and totally fine. And I have no business talking to you. The thought hangs there in the air.
“Who says? And I don’t know if I should take offense to the whole ‘guys like me’ thing, but I won’t. Like I said, there’s plenty to me you don’t know. Maybe you’d like to. Who knows?”
His smile. Infectious. Addicting. I need to see it again.
“I mean, like. Bad boys. Guys like you. With a past. And—” I look around. “At least six other girls staring at you.”
He laughs aloud. “So, you’ve heard about me?”
“I can guess. And yes. A little.” Nine inches, ten inches. At least. I finish the drink. Was it three drinks? Four? I’ve said just about every embarrassing thing I know how to say, and this guy is still talking to me. Still flirting with me, for fuck’s sake.
“You can guess, huh? That means you’ve been thinking about what I can do for you.” He leans closer, eyes sparkling. He leans in close and whispers. “I’d like to see you come, Skye Williams. On my fingers. On my tongue. On my cock. Not necessarily in that order. I do take requests.”
I almost faint. “Did you—this is a little fast. Did my friend say something to you?” The alcohol rocks through my body. I’m bold. I feel like I should. Heat is pooling between my legs. I feel my body in a different way than I have before.
“No,” he says. “You looked out of place when you walked into this bar.” Liam looks at his watch. I imagine getting in bed with him, letting it happen, never seeing him again. It’s appealing. The next sip of my drink makes it even more attractive. “And I’m sick of the girls around here.” He puts a finger to my chin, tilts my head up like men do to women in the movies. “Maybe I need a little forgetting, too. An escape. A release. A fix.”
“I don’t do this sort of thing.”
“That’s exactly why you should. Gotta have material to actually write a book, don’t you?” He leans in, kisses me. Powerful and warm. Rhiannon waves at me and gives me a big grin.
I melt. And I follow him upstairs.
Liam
When I take Skye upstairs, that feeling stays with me—the feeling that this is an unusually good decision. Like this is something singular, something good. I’m not exactly planning to share it with her, so I keep it in my mind, hidden. A secret.
We reach the top of the stairs, and I look back at her. She looks like she’s about to bolt. Like a terrified wild animal, caught in a trap. Except I’m the one standing by the door, and she’s behind me, with the freedom to run if she wants to. She looks back down the stairs, like she just might.
“You look skeptical. Trust me—I won’t bite.” I pause. Skye is chewing her lip again, and something about it turns me on. My cock stiffens against the fabric of my jeans. An aching need I’m about to fill. Unless she runs off. And I can’t have that. She’s now a part of my long-term plan—whether she likes it or not. “Unless you want me to.”
“It’s not that I don’t.” She’s still chewing her lip. “Trust you, I mean. It’s that—like I said—I’ve never done this before.”
“No worries.” I take her hand before she can start thinking about it anymore. I’ve had a lot of girls tell me that they never ‘do this kind of thing,’ that they’re ‘not into one-night stands.’ That they’re not ‘experienced.’ They might not be experienced, but I always find a way to bring out the vixen hidden inside. It always turns out that they’re secret freaks. And that’s exactly what I predict is going on here. Beneath that librarian I-don’t-do-this-kind-of-thing exterior is a girl who wants to do this kind of thing. “I’ve done it lots.”
I pull her inside and bring her body to mine. She trembles beneath my hands, which is something I haven’t experienced in a long time. I have to say that I like it, her whole helpless, nerd-girl type of thing. That attitude doesn’t match the body that the good Lord gave her, and it’s fucking hot as hell. I bet she has a closet full of cardigans at home. And white, lacy bras. Little cotton bikini panties with bows on the center. The thought of those little panties makes me grab her ass, slip my hand in her skirt, see if those panties are soaked like I’m guessing they are.
I grab it. And that ass—it feels fucking amazing under my hand.
She yelps in surprise. “Hey, what are you doing back there?”
“Nothing. Just checking for—” I run my thumbs between the waist of her skirt and her hot, smooth skin. There it is. “A thong.” I bring my lips to her neck. Beneath my lips and fingers, her skin turns to gooseflesh. Even in the dim light, I can see that her skin has turned the best shade of pink. I bet it’s spread all the way to her nipples, the tops of her breasts. And holy shit, I bet those are good. I cup one breast tenderly in my hand, other still firmly planted on her ass. Two fucking handfuls of perfection. A breath catches in her throat, and her eyes almost roll back in her head. Like it’s good to be touched. She’s about to find out just how good.
“I didn’t know things would move so fast.” Her voice trails off, and I take the opportunity to kiss her, my tongue finding hers. Skye’s lips melt into mine, and tentatively, she brings her arms around my neck. I like how her body moves, the way her hair smells, the heat and heft of her body. I could imagine waking up to this, or at least indulging again from time to time. “But I guess that’s good,” she mumbles when I pull away. “Get it over with.”
“Get what over with?” An alarm goes up in my head. That’s a weird fucking thing to say.
“But maybe we should go into the bedroom, where there’s less light.” Her voice is distant, her body still shivering like it was when I brought her in here. My cock throbs, straining now, aching for her. God, I bet she’s tight. Hot. Sweet.
I refocus. “Sure,” I say, my voice wary. I’ve dealt with enough drunk people at Dougherty’s. Skye is either at the drunk stage of saying weird shit—or she’s saying some legitimately weird shit. “I’ll take you to the bedroom, but maybe we should sit down first. What do you think?”
She nods, and I pull her over to the sofa. She’s stiffer than she should be. Nervous. But when I sit down next to her, she automatically straddles me, her skirt hiked up, showing off the expanses of her creamy, white thighs. It’s a strange thing for a nervous, uncertain girl to do. Especially one who told me she was inexperienced.
Red flag. Shit.
She’s fine, I reassure myself. Just tipsy. Just out of her element.
I bring my hands beneath her shirt and unclasp her bra, burying my face between her breasts. My mouth travels to one nipple and then the other, pulling them into my mouth through the soft, clingy fabric. She lets out a series of little moans. Her hips start to rock against me, the heat of her sex pressing into my hard cock. Her body is more limber now, warming up. Everything is just fine with this one. A good girl in the bar, a bad girl in my apartment. And a fine, sensible lady to present in front of the judge.
That tightness comes back to my center—it’s the longing to lose myself in someone, to forget my job, my bills, the court
s, all the people and shit swirling around me. And with her, it might be the sweetest release. Innocent, pure. She shimmies out of her shirt and tosses her bra aside, revealing a set of impossibly perfect breasts. Nipples dark pink, and stiff, atop full, round orbs. My fingers find them again, and she moans, this time louder.
“Oh, my God,” she sighs. “This is better than I thought.”
I bring my mouth to one breast, tasting her skin this time. Her fingers come to my hair, and her nails trail over my scalp. My spine tingles. Everything does. I want to bury myself, lose myself inside of her. With my tongue flicking over her nipple, I bring my hands to my jeans, unbuckling myself and then bringing the zipper down to release my cock. I want to be inside of this girl now. I can fuck her first and focus on getting her to come later. But the need is overwhelming. I’m fast, moving her back slightly so that I can stroke myself.
