by Lexi Whitlow
He takes his hand away, leaving me panting and exposed. “Come on,” I whimper. The thrumming in my body is maddening, taking me to heights I never experienced with Charlie. I want it again. Already. I didn’t experience much of anything at all with him—just sleepless nights when I’d get off by myself. Each experience unsatisfying.
Here, with Liam, this one moment is better than a thousand nights with Charlie. Liam’s touch trumps all the chaste kisses and promises of a future together.
He pulls me from the counter, wrapping my legs around his waist, carrying me to the back bedroom. “We haven’t seen the master bedroom yet, little miss.” He kisses me on my neck as he carries me. “Don’t worry—we’ll break it in when we do.”
I think of him, his hips thrusting between my legs. His cock, filling me to the hilt. I want it, want him bare, coming inside of me. I’ve never had these thoughts before. The images, fast and intense, frighten me.
“You mean you’ll fuck me, right? Today?”
He doesn’t respond. Instead he carries me into the room and puts me down on my knees. The gray carpet is new and soft. The light filters into the windows, illuminating both of our bodies. If someone came and looked through the blinds, they’d see Liam unbuckling himself, releasing his cock and stroking himself in front of me.
“Pull your skirt up for me, sweetheart. Let me see your pussy.” I turn red, but I do as he says. I always do. It’s become a habit. It’s become my reality.
I kneel before him, totally exposed, skirt lifted around my hips.
“And? What do I do now?” I look up at him. If anyone had asked me a year ago if I imagined myself here, my mouth watering at the sight of this man’s cock. An ex-con, a bad boy. A man with tattoos and reckless mistakes and insane passion in his history.
I would have told them no. I’d be married to Charlie, trying to make a baby. Maybe writing a book. A boring one. One with no experience behind it.
But those are all dreams that didn’t happen—and what’s more, they’re dreams that are far less exciting than my reality now, at this very moment.
“Now? I’ll teach you how to suck my cock.” He strokes himself again, tugging his pants down to the floor and stepping forward. I haven’t seen it in the light of day—it’s huge. I swallow hard, anxiety and excitement swirling together in the pit of my stomach. “It’s a skill every good girl should know. And you’re a good girl, aren’t you? Good for your man?”
I nod. He places his cock against my lips, and I open my mouth, pressing my tongue to his hot skin and wrapping my lips around the head.
“But your man was never good to you, was he?” Liam brings his hand to my head and brushes his fingers through my hair. It sends shivers down my spine, my body lit on fire from the inside. “I will be. I might be cocky. I might hate this fucking neighborhood. I might drive you crazy.” He thrusts forward, making my mouth open wider. I taste him, salty and sharp. A groan escapes from his lips, deep and throaty and rich. “I might be an arrogant asshole.” He shudders. “But I treat my women good. Especially if they’ve got a mouth as pretty as yours.”
I swirl my tongue over his cock, and I close my eyes. This is a visceral, deep pleasure—taking him, letting him thrust into the back of my mouth as he holds my hair, pulling it. I moan against his cock, and he grunts in response. My eyes are watering, tears streaming down my cheeks as he hits the back of my throat. But I find I like this particular brand of discomfort—my nipples stiffen in the chilled air of the room, and my sex aches for him. I feel myself getting even wetter than I was before. My body is hot, ready, anticipating.
I bring my hand to the cleft between my legs, finding my clit. I let my fingers flick over it, heightening my own pleasure as I suck his cock. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, chills running up and down my spine. I start to come, sensation overtaking me, waves of release hitting me so hard I feel like I might temporarily go insane.
“You like that? Sucking my cock? Coming for me while you taste me?”
I can only moan and mumble against his skin, and he groans at the vibrations.
“God, I’m close,” he says, his cock moving faster now. I bring my hand to the base of his cock, stroking it tentatively as he fucks my mouth. “That’s perfect. You’re doing so good. So fucking sweet.”
I taste him then, stronger. Sharp and musky. He moans, fingers tangled in my hair, pulling it hard. The mascara I put on earlier is ruined, running down my cheeks. I don’t care—I have no capacity now for modesty. All I want is for him to come, to fill my mouth, my throat. To give him the pleasure I’ve been dreaming about since I met him. He thrusts hard, once more, and his essence fills my mouth.
“Swallow it,” he groans. “I want to feel you swallow.” I obey, and he groans again, a shiver running through him. “That’s my good girl. You like being a little fuck toy, don’t you?”
A tremor of uncertainty hits me. Do I? Is this what I am? Secretly? Who I am? Did I stay here today instead of bolting because this is exactly what I want?
He pulls away, and I lick my lips, still hungry for his taste. I look up at him, and slowly, I nod.
Liam falls to the floor beside me, pulling me into his arms. His taste is heavy on my lips. And to my surprise, I like it. A sensual secret, a brief sign of what took place in this room with him.
I keep it close, a memory for when we’re done. When our time wears thin. He’s told me it will—he’s not a man who stays.
Liam
Skye’s face is flushed when we leave the apartment.
“So, this is really what you want? You don’t want to look at the other ones?”
I turn to her and take her by the shoulders. “Yeah, really. I like this place.” I smile. “Besides, it’s where you gave your first blow job.” My cock throbs at the thought of it, at the messiness of her hair, her pink cheeks.
She bites her lip hard and shushes me. “Come on, someone might hear you.”
“What? We’re wholesome. A couple moving into an apartment in fucking Queens of all places. We haven’t even fucked. Can’t get more wholesome than that.”
“We should fix that,” she whispers. A shiver runs through my body and reaches the base of my spine. “You have to tell me when.”
I take her in my arms and kiss her, pulling her close. “We should. When the time is right. Besides, I like making you wait. Something sexy about that. Keep the virgin waiting.”
“Look at you with all this romantic stuff,” she says. “Someone might say you like me.” She looks at me, horrified when she says it, like she’s said something wrong. Something tightens deep in my chest, causing me an almost physical pain. “Sorry,” she adds.
“I do like you. We’re friends, aren’t we?” I give her a grin and pull her in close as we walk down to the subway. “More than that. You’re helping me. And I know you were in this for a casual thing, but—”
We stop in front of the stairs that lead down to the trains. “Don’t say anything else,” she says. “Casual is good. Romantic—not so much, right?”
“Yeah,” I sigh. There’s so much more I want to say. I want to put my hands on her body, push her against the wall by the stairs. Tell her I don’t know anyone like her, that she’s different. And different is good. So good.
If she were anyone else, I would have fucked her by now. But she’s not anyone else. I don’t know why I’m hesitating, why I’m standing here, just looking at her. I like the tension. The wanting. The thought that waiting might make her stay longer, might make her more invested.
“Come on, Liam.” Skye grabs me by the hand and pulls me down into the pit of the subway. The ride is a quiet one, with many things left unsaid. But when we arrive back in Hell’s Kitchen, she takes me by the hand and doesn’t let go until we’re in the lawyer’s waiting room.
“This is it,” I whisper. “My lawyer—Mickey Donnelly—he’s meeting with Marta’s lawyer to put custody back on the table. Overnight visits at the very least. I don’t have hard evidenc
e against Marta—” I crack my knuckles, thinking of my little girl’s stories. Her anxiety. The stomach pain she complains each time she comes back from her grandmother’s.
“Rhiannon says you probably have a good case. We’ll see.”
The lawyer’s office always reminds me of the dentist—cold and clean with its anonymous white walls. There are law degrees and shitty paintings and a sad beta fish in a bowl with a plant in it. But nothing makes it personal. Shit, my dentist’s office is way more personal.
This time, being here feels slightly better. This time, Skye is with me, and we have an apartment and a plan. I’m down to the wire with this custody thing, and she came along in the nick of time. I glance at her, sitting in the hard-backed chair next to mine, wondering what she’s thinking. She looks lost in thought, and she pulls out a little notebook to write in. It has roses on the cover, and the edges are worn down.
I have the impulse to take her hand into mine and squeeze it. But I don’t.
Don’t want to confuse things, I think. We’ve already got them confused enough.
I look over at Skye again. She’s jotting things down, then occasionally looking around the lawyer’s waiting room, then writing down a few more words.
She’s got bigger dreams than me and an old apartment in Queens. It’s not close to her work in Soho, and it’s sure as hell not what she would have imagined for herself. At least, I think it’s not. She’ll be moving on when we’re done here.
But I want to pull these moments apart and spread them out, keeping them as long as I can.
“Mr. Dougherty,” the receptionist says, looking over the fish bowl on her desk. “Mr. Jameson will see you now.” She looks at Skye somewhat suspiciously. This isn’t exactly a great area of the city, and they don’t expect people who look like Skye to wander in with a guy like me, who previously had no chance in hell of getting his daughter back. “And this is—”
“My girlfriend,” I answer. Skye blanches, but then she looks over at me and nods. “We’re getting an apartment together for Brie. My little girl.”
We stand together and walk back to the room where I was told—three times—that Marta would retain full custody until I had a more stable living arrangement for Brie. Marta’s fucking family has these lawyer people on her side, and half of the court system too. My lawyer is on the Dougherty side of things, but, until now, it’s all seemed completely insurmountable.
But I look over at Skye, and it doesn’t seem that way anymore.
“Are they going to buy this shit?” Her voice is a low whisper, full of worry.
“They better. It’s my only strategy.”
She sighs heavily, but before she can get a smart-mouthed comment in, we’re in the lawyer’s conference room. There’s Marta and her guy, Lorne Jameson, who looks like a little bulldog. And there’s my lawyer, sitting across from him. I stop cold, because today there’s something different. Brie is here, too.
I knew it before we came today, but seeing her here is a reality I wasn’t quite ready for. Skye takes a deep breath in when she sees my daughter. I look over at her, and she cocks her head to the side, biting her lip.
“Daddy!” My daughter bursts out of her chair before Marta has a chance to catch her arm and hold her back. That’s how it usually is—Marta is always policing Brie’s quick bursts of energy, holding her back. But today, her gnarled old hand isn’t fast enough. Brie rushes into my arms and holds onto my waist. Before anyone can say a word, I’ve lifted her into my arms and twirled her around now. She’s at least fifty pounds and nearly four feet tall, but she feels as light as a feather to me. She always will.
“I missed you, Pumpkin,” I say. I never expect my heart to fill up quite like it does, like there’s no one and nothing else in the room. It surprises me every time. Recently, it’s gotten even worse—not worse, exactly—but more intense. The longing for us to be a family again. I squeeze my girl tight. When I glance at Skye, there are tears in her eyes.
“This is inappropriate. This man is only allowed supervised visitation,” Marta says. Her voice sounds like nails on a chalkboard. Her face, so similar to my ex-wife’s, has been distorted by years of hatefulness and narcissism.
“We’re here to overturn that today,” my lawyer says. “Mr. Dougherty has proven himself to be an upstanding citizen in the years since his release—”
“That’s it exactly,” Marta snarls. “Since his release. Kindly put her down, Liam.”
I don’t. Instead I shift Brie to my hip, and she nestles her head against my shoulder. “Not a chance,” I say. “Let me have five minutes. It’s been over a week since I’ve seen her.”
“Please,” Brie says. “I just want to stay with Daddy.”
“That’s right,” I say. “Just a few minutes.” I kiss Brie on her cheek and take in her little kid smell—kids’ shampoo, a hint of sweat, the faint smell of the outdoors. At least Marta is keeping her bathed, I think.
“At school,” Brie whispers, “there’s a big kid who’s—”
Lorne Jameson cuts us off. “I’m afraid I do think this is inappropriate, just as Mrs. Maguire said.”
Marta looks at me, pleased with herself, a creepy-looking smile taking over her face. “And with your new girlfriend here too—might be confusing to Brie. Or is she even your girlfriend? My guy keeps his eye on you. I hear about you and your women from the bar. If you can rightfully call them women, that is.”
“Marta, please watch your mouth around Brie. If you didn’t want me to see her, why did you bring her here?” I try to keep the anger out of my voice. “And this isn’t just some woman from the bar—”
“Please put the child down,” Jameson says. I don’t know much about this new lawyer of hers, but I can tell that his face looks like it needs to be punched. “Mrs. Maguire was unable to find childcare this afternoon, which is something she wishes to discuss. We feel you should be paying child support—”
“Child support,” I growl, protectively putting my hand behind my daughter’s head, just like I did when she was a baby and couldn’t quite sit up straight yet. “I pay child support every month. I don’t know what Marta’s been telling you, but you can check my bank statements. I’ve saved every penny. And then some.”
“And that’s why you’re living in that horrible place above the bar. It’s no place for overnight stays, let alone joint custody,” Marta says. Her lawyer puts his hand on her shoulder, trying to get her to stop speaking, but she brushes him away. “And you—you wouldn’t even be able to get her to school on time. I know you’ve got money saved somewhere. Tabby told me that a long time ago. You’ve just got it somewhere where you can’t get it to me. Or your precious little girl. How dare you even think she could live with you? When you can’t even pay for her.”
This woman is fucking nuts. I send exactly what Brie needs and more. And I have a sneaking suspicion most of it is put right back into Marta’s own hefty bank account. She plays her poor-me bit up for the judges. But I know she’s paying for a PI and a bunch of other shit to keep Brie away from me.
Skye looks over at me meaningfully and nods. Fucking Queens. Why did she have to be right about that? But I think about her in the apartment, how beautiful she looked when she was exactly where I wanted her. Maybe Queens isn’t that bad.
“I can get her to school on time when I move into a new apartment. It’s more than an apartment—it’s an old townhouse converted into apartments,” I say. Brie buries her face in my neck, her long brown hair cascading over my shoulders. “Two bedrooms. A backyard. Dishwasher, the whole nine yards.” I try to remember if there’s a washer and drier because I know it’s something Marta will find out before the day is over.
“In Hell’s Kitchen. That’s no place for a kid,” Marta huffs. “If my daughter were alive—”
I look to Skye and her eyes go wide. She regains composure before anyone in the room notices. That’s a thing you’d tell your serious girlfriend, isn’t it? That your ex-wife is dead. Shit.
/> “She’s not, Marta. I’m the only living parent she has. She belongs with me.”
The old woman crosses her arms, shutting the rest of the room out. Good. I know where this is going. She’s about to say something she won’t be able to take back. Fucking let her. Marta looks up at me with her vicious cornflower-blue eyes. “You were in prison for six months. You’re broke as shit, and you’re a criminal. Every one of your brothers are criminals.” She’s on a roll now, and her lawyer is trying to stop her.
“Keep going, Marta. Brie certainly needs to hear all of this,” I say. I try to make my voice threatening, but I break out into a grin even as I put my hands over my little girl’s ears. “Brie actually hates when you pull this crap. When you yell. When you gripe. It makes her anxious. Know how I know? She tells me. She cries on the phone with me.”
When you insult her. When you make her feel like garbage. For the first time in months, I feel something new rising within me. With Skye, even standing next to me, not saying anything, I feel braver and more powerful than I have when facing Marta and the courts.
