Tasting Fear

by Shannon McKenna

  Eoin straightened his thin shoulders. “I’d be glad to work,” he said with dignity. “I start rehearsing Sunday. I can work until then.”

  “Go get some rest,” Liam said. “You look like hammered shit.”

  Eoin hesitated. “So. Ah. Liam. Is, ah, something happening? With you and Mrs. D’Onofrio’s daughter, I mean?”

  Liam shot him a look that made Eoin spin on his heels and bolt.

  Inviting her to the seisiun had been his first mistake. Taking her home was the second, though he’d paid for that by getting pounded by masked assholes. But the crowning stupidity had been fucking her. Now he knew what it felt like. And he could think of nothing else.

  He was begging for the trouble he’d spent the first eleven years of his life watching. Bitterness that ate away love until it was gone. Was he programmed to repeat this bullshit? Was he fucking doomed?

  Memories rolled into his mind, sickening and vivid. The vacation to Niagara Falls his mother had planned, a last-ditch effort to unite them as a family. The bags were packed, train tickets in his mother’s clutch purse. She’d been waiting, dressed in her eggshell blue pantsuit. But when his father walked in the door, Liam took one look and knew that it wasn’t going to happen. Dad had done it again. You could count on him to let you down the way you could count on the sun to rise.

  “It’s about time you got here,” his mother said, reaching for her coat. “We’ll have to hurry to catch the train.”

  “Something’s come up, Fiona,” his father said flatly.

  His mother laid her coat down, her face carefully expressionless. “What do you mean, something’s come up?”

  “There’s a problem with a shipment, and I have to go look into it.”

  “Why can’t you send Martin, or Brady?”

  “You want something done right, you got to do it yourself.”

  “That doesn’t apply to your family, however,” she said frigidly.

  His father’s mouth became a hard line. “I make sacrifices to keep you in style, Fiona, and all I ever get from you is whining and nagging.”

  “Did I ever ask you to make these sacrifices? No, Frank. All I want is to see you more than once a month.” His mother’s voice shook. “All I’m asking is that you keep your word and go with us to Niagara.”

  His father’s fists clenched. “God, Fiona, why can’t I make you understand? It’s my responsibility—”

  “Go, then. Just go. Your bag is right by the door.” She walked stiffly out of the room. Her back was very straight, but her face was crumpled.

  His father looked at Liam, immobile on the couch. “Sorry, son. When you’ve got a family of your own to support, you’ll understand.”

  “Go to hell,” Liam said.

  Frank Knightly’s face darkened. “Don’t speak to me that way. I’m your father. Show me some respect.”

  “You’re not my father anymore,” Liam said in a cold, very clear voice. “You’re a terrible father. You’re fired.”

  His father stared at him, grabbed the suitcase, and walked out. That was the last Liam had seen of him. Twenty-six years. A lifetime.

  Liam shook himself back to the present, and savagely attacked the kindling pile again. Fuck this. Fuck it all. No way. Not him.

  He looked around some time later at the sound of a car. Nancy’s Volkswagen Jetta came buzzing down the driveway. He clutched the ax handle as she got out of the car. Wishing he’d bathed.

  She was elegant in faded low-slung jeans that clung enticingly to her hips and a charcoal high-necked ribbed sweater that showed off a discreet strip of flat belly. Her hair was wound into a loose braid, backlit by the sun like a halo of fire. She looked gorgeous. And nervous.

  “Hello.” She gave him a tentative smile.

  Liam crossed his arms over his chest. Her smile faltered.

  She opened the back door of her car and pulled out a cat carrier. A plaintive meow issued from the white plastic box. Her cat? He peered into her car windows. The backseat was piled high with stuff.

  Suitcases. Computer equipment. What the fuck? Was she actually planning to…Oh, sweet Jesus. She was. His heart started to gallop.

  “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

  She’d known this was going to be hard. Nancy stuck out her chin. “I was under the impression that you’d invited me.”

  “Yes, and you blew me off.”

  His icy tone chilled her. “I did some thinking this morning,” she said. “I realized when I got to the studio that I’d made a mistake.”

  “What changed your mind? Another ambush?”

  Nancy threw up her hands. “For God’s sake, I’m sorry! I made a mistake! Can’t a person be allowed to make a mistake sometimes?”

  He shrugged. “People make them whether they’re allowed to or not.”

  “Cut out the snide remarks, Liam. I’m trying to be serious.”

  He was grimly silent. “Yeah. That’s what I’m afraid of, Nancy,” he said finally. “I think that for us, getting serious would be a bad idea.”

  Nancy fought for control of her face. Be a big girl. Be a sport. God knew, she had the practice. She knew the next part of the script by heart. Okay, forget it, then. Forget I ever said anything. Have a nice life.

  The words wouldn’t come out. She was going to get a freaking backbone, and try a little bit harder, damn it. She cleared her throat.

  “So, Liam. Are you done punishing me yet? Because this part is really boring and irritating, and I’d like to move on to the good stuff.”

  The darkness in his eyes changed, like clouds shifting in a turbulent sky. “I’m not punishing you,” he said. “Just being clear.” He waited a moment, trying hard not to say it, but in the end, he couldn’t help himself. “And what exactly do you mean by the good stuff?”

  She looked over his big, gorgeous body, the opened shirt sweat stained, showing his ripped, cut pecs. “If you have to ask…”

  Liam started to speak, bit back the words, and closed his eyes. “I’m not a person who takes this kind of thing lightly.”

  “I know,” she whispered. “I’m not, either.”

  Liam’s hands clenched. “We’re going to hit a wall, you know.”

  She ached to touch his face. “You’re so sure?”

  “I feel strongly for you,” he said. “But I see that wall in the distance, just waiting for us.”

  Nancy swiped tears from her face with the back of her hands. “Maybe you’re right,” she said. “But you know what? I don’t care.”

  A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “No?”

  “No. Let’s just go for it. Full speed. We’ll hit that wall together.”

  “If this is because of those guys who attacked you—”

  “I’m glad you mentioned that,” she broke in. “This was a point that I wanted to make. I appreciate your offer to protect me, but that has nothing to do with the fact that I think you’re really special, and I want to spend some time with you.” There it was, bald as an egg.

  She waited for the verdict.

  And waited, and waited. It was agonizing, to go this far out on the limb, and just stay there, fighting for balance. One last, desperate sally before retreating in despair. She sucked in a deep breath.

  “And there is, ah, one more little thing,” she said.

  He looked like he was bracing himself. “Yes?”

  She cleared her throat again. “I’d, ah, like to give you a blow job.”

  His face went blank. Probably wondering if he’d heard correctly.

  “I hope you’re not too shocked,” she added. “But the last two days have sort of burned away all my maidenly shyness. I can’t promise any world-class fellatio technique, but I still think that performing oral sex upon you right now would be the absolute highlight of my day.”

  Liam blinked, coughed. “Ah…” He turned, and swung his ax in a big arc. It landed in the block with a sharp thunk that made her jump. He grabbed her cat carrier and headed toward the house.
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br />   “Follow me,” he said.

  Chapter

  8

  Nancy trailed after Liam, up the steps of the wide wraparound porch. She was so dizzy with the success of her last-ditch ploy, she barely even registered the details of his home. Just an impression of airy rooms, big windows, sparse and graceful furnishings. He knelt down and flipped the lever that opened Moxie’s carrier. The cat stalked out, sniffed his hand, and padded away to investigate, tail high.

  Nancy wanted to break the tension, but the purposeful way that Liam strode through the dining room with his back to her discouraged speech. She scurried after his long strides. He’d started up the stairs without turning to see if she was being pulled along in his wake.

  It looked like she would be making good on her rash offer. Her toes were curled with lust at the thought, but she hadn’t pictured going down on him when the weather conditions were this, well…stormy.

  He stopped outside a door. “I’m sweaty. I need to take a shower.”

  “No,” she said. “You don’t.”

  He gave her a doubtful look. She waved him in the door. God forbid she lose her nerve, or lose her moment, or miss her window of opportunity. Besides. He looked great, just like that. Gleaming with sweat, hair damp and spiky. Salty and virile and vigorous.

  He opened the door and beckoned her in.

  The room was stark in its simplicity. An antique brass bed sported a beautiful green Irish Chain quilt. An earth-toned Navaho rug lay on the gleaming wooden floor. Musical instruments from around the world decorated the white walls. There was a straight-backed chair, a narrow, upright antique chest of drawers. A turn-of-the-century steamer trunk. Old-fashioned, sparse, simple and neat.

  Sunshine blazed through the open window, lighting up a bright rectangle on the rug. Liam slowly, deliberately went and stood in the middle of that patch of sunlight. An aggressive, wide-legged stance.

  So, then. No banter, no chitchat, no lead-in. He was still pissed, but he wanted his blow job anyway. Well, fine. That felt weird, but she was getting comfortable with weirdness in these strange days.

  Now all she had to do was act like a femme fatale. It couldn’t be that hard. She’d seen it done in films. But her breath was coming fast, her palms were damp, her knees were jittery. Her thighs kept squeezing around a melting pulse of aching heat at the idea of taking him into her mouth.

  A slow, deliberate striptease would be the thing, but she was dressed wrong. She needed more pieces, more complicated lingerie, snaps and straps and ribbons and laces. As it was, she could only let her purse drop to the floor and peel off her sweater with slow, sexy deliberation. She walked toward him until the patch of sunlight illuminated her body below the neck. The chilly breeze from outside tightened her nipples to puckered little brown nubs.

  She twitched her braid over her shoulder, pulled out the elastic, and unraveled the braid. Her hair stuck to her damp hands and flew up all around her face, electric and wild, floating around her like Medusa’s locks.

  The jeans came next, the appallingly plain white cotton panties, and there she was. Stark naked but for her dangling garnet earrings and Lucia’s sapphire pendant. He stared, eyes burning. Not a word.

  “Do you, ah, want to sit down?” she asked, timidly.

  He shook his head.

  Nancy drew in a deep breath and reached for his belt. It took forever to get the thing undone, but he did not help. His hands were clenched into big fists held rigidly at his sides. The emotion in his face vibrated around him. She felt its pressure against her skin.

  She went on to his jeans, shoved them down with his briefs just far enough to free his cock. It sprang up into her hands, hot and huge and hard, the thick knob at the end dripping with pre-come. So. No lack of enthusiasm on his part. One less thing to worry about.

  She moistened her hands by swirling them around the slick fluid that gleamed on his big cockhead and gripped him, moving up in a long, tight slide. He arched, jerked. His short, shocked groan sounded as if it had been captured in his throat and wrestled into submission.

  She sank down to her knees on the rug without even thinking about it. Partly it was her rubbery legs giving way, partly it was raw hunger to taste him, to make him shudder and gasp.

  His cock bobbed in her face. She was kneeling right in that patch of brilliant morning sunshine, and its brightness blinded her. The sun was hot, but cool air moved from the open window. The combination was a subtle caress, a million little thrills, like fluttering strokes with feathers or silk. She stroked, gripped him. Lashed him with voluptuous strokes of her tongue. His hands slid into her hair, gripping it hard. His body shook, rigid. She was so excited, she felt faint.

  She went at him with everything she had; licking and lapping, stroking and swirling with her hands. Flicking at the sensitive slit at the end of his glans and savoring the slick, salty fluid that dripped from it.

  Then she pulled him into her mouth.

  It took a little while to get comfortable with his size, but she was extremely motivated, her entire body buzzing. Somehow she figured out how to relax, take him deeper. The sensual choreography all came together in her mind, and it was like something she’d always known. Always loved. She sucked him deep, pulling on every outstroke, torturing him with a swirling twist of her tongue.

  His hands tightened their grip in her hair, and he pushed her face away from him. She wiped her mouth, and looked up into the stark, tense mask of his face. “What?” she asked.

  “I need to fuck you,” he said.

  She blinked. More welcome words were never spoken. She felt lit up like a Christmas tree, about to spit sparks, catch fire. She stroked his balls with her fingertips, just to enjoy the abrupt shiver of pleasure that racked his big body. “Do you have a condom?” she asked.

  “Bedside table drawer, by the wall,” he said.

  He made no move to get one, just hoisted her to her feet. And waited. She tried not to stumble. She should be doing a hip-swaying sashay, but it was all she could do to stay on her feet. She started to circle the bed, but stopped short, gazing at that expanse of quilt. A real femme fatale would not waste an obvious chance to strike a hot pose.

  Her stomach quivered, but she clambered up onto the bed on her hands and knees and crawled across. Arching her back. Going for sexy, sinuous. She fumbled in the bedside table drawer for the condoms.

  The effect on him was instantaneous. The bed squeaked and sagged, and there he was, arched over her, his hot body covering her back, his cock swinging and bobbing against her inner thigh. She almost lost her balance. He reached out over her shoulder, snagged the long string of silver foil packets out of the drawer.

  She tried to wiggle, shift, turn herself, but he held her in place while he ripped a packet open and applied the condom. Her breath came fast and nervous through her open mouth. Uh-oh. She’d miscalculated.

  Oh, please. She’d presented her backside to him. The guy could hardly be blamed for taking her up on the invitation. But this sexual position made her feel particularly vulnerable and small. Plus, it hurt. Deep inside. Just another of the long list of things that shut her down.

  No. She was not going to spoil this. Not for him, and not for her. She was not chickening out. She wanted him more than she’d ever wanted anything. And she would…get…through…it.

  She braced herself for it, but there was no painful, invasive shove. Just his enormous warmth poised, motionless over her, warming her, waiting. His hot, soft lips endlessly caressed her nape, her spine. He slid his hands between her legs, circling her clit with clever fingers, with slow, lazy strokes. Petting until she squirmed against his hand, breathless and desperate.

  When he finally nudged inside, she lunged back to take in more. He gripped her hips with a low, admonishing murmur, kissed her shoulder blades, licked her spine. Her inner flesh clenched around his thick shaft. He shoved deeper. She’d never felt so full. Every part of her that he touched responded, glowing. She squeezed harder, squirming, clawing
her way closer…. He shoved as deep as he could go….

  And she disintegrated into countless blissful, shimmering motes of light, with hot, bright jolts of pleasure pulsing through them, on and on.

  His breath panted, hot and rhythmic against her back. He set his teeth against her shoulder, licked her sweat. “Ah, God. That felt so good,” he muttered hoarsely. “Do that again. Please. Do it forever.”

  “Anytime you like,” she told him, with a shaky laugh. “I can’t seem to stop. Not when you touch me. It’s crazy.”

  He made a strangled sound deep in his throat, gripped her hips, and began to move. It took on a wild, frenetic momentum. She clutched the bars of the brass bed to brace herself, her face shoved in the pillow to stifle the cries that jerked out at each slick, driving stroke and swivel of his thick shaft. He felt wonderful, stirring her into a creamy froth. And it didn’t hurt. Her body had resculpted itself to cherish every thick, throbbing inch of him, and melt with delight while doing it.

  She came, again and again, until she was wilted, boneless into the bed, flat on her face, panting. Too spent even to beg for mercy.

  He let go and let his own climax wrench through him.

  They lay together for a few minutes, floating in a timeless dream measured only by a burst of birdsong and the flickering shadows of clouds passing over the sun. He was squishing her, but the pressure felt good. So what if her lungs could only expand to 10 percent of their capacity? Who needed air, after sex like that?

  But after a moment, he stirred and rolled onto his side, still keeping her clamped against him. His penis still inside her.

  Her cell phone rang. His body went tense. Nancy leaned down, fished the cell out of her purse, and checked the display. Peter. Hah. As if. She dropped it back into her purse, letting it ring on unanswered.

  She turned her head, enjoyed his startled expression.

  Liam smiled, a slow, wondering smile. “That must’ve cost you.”

  “I would turn the thing off completely if it weren’t for my sisters,” she said. “I don’t want to be out of touch with them.”