by Emma Chase
Ellie taps his shoulder.
“Logan, Tommy’s here.”
“He’s leaving.”
“We’re being rude,” she whispers like I can’t hear.
“He doesn’t care,” Lo insists.
They make it up the steps to the porch.
“We should at least invite him in for tea.”
“He doesn’t want fuckin’ tea, Elle.”
“Well, now that you mention it,” I say cheerfully, “a spot of tea would really . . .”
Logan turns back over his shoulder, glaring hard enough to punch me in the face with the force of his eyes alone.
I laugh—and stop fucking with him.
“On second thought, I’m going to swing by Katy’s for a pint—the rest of the lads are probably already there.”
A group of us meets up at Katy’s weekly to let loose and get stupid. Before Finn came along, Ellie and Logan were included in that group, but these days they prefer to hibernate in the comfort of their own home.
“You two kids have fun.”
Just before they disappear into the house, Ellie waves over Logan’s shoulder. “’Bye, Tommy.”
I wave back. “’Bye, Ellie.”
And the door slams shut behind them.
* * *
Katy’s Pub is a rough-and-tumble gem of a place, situated smack dab in the middle of a bad part of town. It’s not dangerous exactly—at least not for me—but they get a special discount on the wooden tables and chairs from the local supplier to replace the ones that tend to get smashed when a brawl springs up.
Tonight, the place is packed and I’m greeted like a returning hero when I walk through the door. Most of the boys and Bea are already in the back at a table full of half-empty beer mugs. A few hours later, when those mugs have been drained and refilled a few times over, the good time—and the stupidity—are full steam ahead.
Harry is messing around with the karaoke machine, Walter is arm wrestling with some tatted-up bloke a few tables over, and behind me Gordon’s rapidly getting indecent with some girl up against the wall. I lean back in my chair, twirling the toothpick in my mouth—watching Gus and Owen alternate standing in front of the dartboard, flinging darts at each other’s heads. They’re not wagering money—it’s just about balls, bravery and bragging rights.
In my opinion, mixing men, alcohol and pointy objects is asking for trouble. And like the Bible says—ask and you shall receive.
“All right, let’s piss off with the darts, that’s schoolyard stuff,” I tell them, setting my chair down on all four legs. “Time to separate the men from the boys.”
Then I slip an eight-inch, double-blade knife from my ankle-strap and lay it on the table.
Gus nods, and Owen grins. “Wicked.”
Across the table, Bea swallows a mouthful of beer.
“This isn’t going to end well.”
“It’s important to be responsible,” I explain. “Start with your hand on the board first—then work your way up to your heads.”
As the boys move to set up, I give Bea a wink. “Don’t worry—they keep a first aid kit up behind the bar for just such occasions.”
“Why do you I have the feeling you know that from personal experience?” she asks.
Before I can answer, a path clears in the crowd from our table to the door.
And the toothpick falls out of my mouth.
Because Abby Haddock just walked into Katy’s Pub.
And she looks fucking fantastic.
Her flaming hair has a tousled, bed-mussed wave to it, a dark green dress with a teasing slit at the cleavage hugs her in all the right places and a camel wool coat, open in front, is draped across her shoulders. On her feet—stilettos—high-heeled and shiny, accentuating the sculpted shape of her endless legs.
She’s all polished perfection and sexy class—good enough to eat from top to bottom and back again. And of all the things I’ve fantasized doing to her, eating her is at the very top of the list.
Abby’s head swivels—searching—until her eyes land on me as I approach. And I don’t think she even realizes how she’s looking at me—avidly, openly needy—soaking me in like a randy little sponge. Her gaze grazes my arms, pausing at the center of my chest beneath my cream, cable-knit sweater, then coasting downward, lingering at my waist before settling in for an unmistakably long stare in the direction of my cock.
I like her looking at me. I’ve missed it these past weeks.
Standing before her, I lift one brow. “Fancy meeting you here.”
“Hello, Mr. Sullivan.” She smiles. “It’s good to see you again. You look . . . well.”
My voice comes out rough and raspy.
“You look beautiful.”
For a moment, we stand there, and it’s like one of those fanciful moments in a movie or a book when the rest of the world fades away into the meaningless background—and it’s just the two of us, drinking each other in.
Until Henrietta appears at our elbows—a pint of cold beer already in her hand—looking between us, grinning wolfishly.
“Me and Kevin will be in the back, Abby, if you need us.” She pats Abby’s arm. “Though I’m sure Tommy’s capable of giving you everything you need.”
I glance at the two of them as they walk away. Henrietta fits in more with the general atmosphere, wearing a short denim skirt and low-cut white top with her blond hair teased high. While the bloke—Kevin—looks like he just walked out of a Nirvana music video in a sloppy flannel and jeans.
“Can I take your coat?” I ask Abby, because I’m a gentleman—and because I want to see more of her.
She hands it over to me, exposing the ivory skin of her arms that would look so bloody good around my shoulders, my waist, clasped tight and frantic across my back.
“You want a drink?”
She seems like she could use one. She’s fidgety—flustered. It’s very cute.
“A gin and Dubonnet with lemon, please,” she tells Hubert the bartender.
And he looks at me like she’s spoken alien and he wants me to translate.
“Give her a gin and soda.”
The moment Hubert sets the glass on the bar, Abby swipes it up—and downs it fast—exhaling a long breath afterwards.
“Another, please.”
I watch as Hubert sets a second glass in front of her and she drinks half of it in one gulp, squeezing her eyes and clearing her throat after she swallows.
“Is everything all right?” I ask. “I mean, are you in some sort of trouble?”
“No trouble.” She shakes her head. “Henrietta finally convinced me to come out with her for a drink after our shift.”
“And you ended up at this place?”
“Yes.” She nods vigorously.
Too vigorously to be telling the truth.
“Well—no—that’s not precisely accurate. I was hoping I’d see you here. There’s a . . . matter I’d like to discuss.”
Before I can unpack that, Harry taps the microphone on the karaoke stage, sending a screech of feedback straight into the eardrums of every patron in the place.
“This one is for my mates at S&S Securities,” he announces, like the pop star he imagines himself to be.
The song begins—a soft string of acoustic guitar notes. Harry’s wavy dark hair sways in time, and then he sings the opening lines of “I Want It That Way” by the Backstreet Boys.
I sigh—embarrassed for him—and a little for myself.
“He’s not really with us,” I tell Abby.
From the corner of the bar Henrietta lets out an ear-splitting scream and rushes the stage like . . . well . . . like a girl at a Backstreet Boys concert.
“Same,” Abby says.
And we’re both laughing.
I dip my head closer to hers. “Now about this ‘matter’?”
She looks up into my eyes. “Yes. It’s been brought to my attention—”
A drunken lout bumps into Abby from behind, sending her crashing into
me. I shove him back and wrap my arm around her, eyeing the door. Because between the music and the crowd I can barely hear her voice. And I’m keen on her voice—as well as hearing clearly what’s brought her here looking for me.
With my hand on her lower back, I guide her to the door and out into the brisk night air. I lay her coat over her shoulders and move us a few steps down from the door—to a quieter, shadowed space on the pavement. Then I lean back against the outer brick wall of the bar.
Abby stands in front of me, chin raised, her delicate hands clenched at her sides.
“Were you serious?” she asks.
“I’m rarely serious, love—you’ll have to be more specific.”
She swallows, the hollow of her throat rippling.
“About wanting me. About it being simple. About us . . .”
“Fucking?”
Yes, I’m purposely being crass. Playing with her. Toying with her.
Goading her.
Because I enjoy it. I enjoy the tiny gasp that escapes from her lips. I enjoy the stain of color that flushes on her smooth cheek. And more than anything—I enjoy the flash of fire that sparks in those big, brilliant eyes.
“Yes. About us fucking.”
And, Christ, I enjoy that too—hearing the crude word in Abby’s elegant, refined tone. It makes me feel like I’m marking her, dirtying her up. It makes me want to show her just how fun filthy can be.
“As serious as a hard-on,” I answer her.
“That’s not an expression.”
“It is to me. I take my hard-ons very seriously.” I cross my arms and watch her for a moment—reading her. “Why are you asking?”
She looks away down the street. “It’s been brought to my attention that I’m a bit high-strung.”
“High-strung?”
“Stuffy,” she confirms.
“Yeah, that’s true—but I’m still not getting what that has to do with us fucking?”
“I’m in need of relaxation,” she explains. “Stress relief on a regular basis.”
Suddenly it all becomes clear. What she’s asking. Offering. And every drop of blood in my body heads south—tightening my trousers in anticipation.
“And you’re thinking I could be your personal stress reliever?”
She gives a little shrug.
“You did say you were interested. And I admit, there’s an attraction between us. You’re the best-looking man I’ve ever seen . . .”
My ego is a lot like my cock—large and fully capable. But if it ever needed a boost, that compliment from this particular woman would certainly do the job.
“. . . and our kiss, in your hospital room, it was—”
“Hot,” I finish for her.
Abby’s voice goes low and husky.
“Yes, it was hot.”
Because she’s remembering that kiss the same way I am—the addictive feel of it, the sensuous taste. But then she remembers herself. She steps back and shakes her head, like she’s trying to clear the lusty sheen that’s fallen over us both.
“But, there would be rules to our arrangement. Parameters.”
And she’s back to prim and proper and dignified. Like she’s flipped a switch. But it’s still sexy as fuck.
“What sort of parameters?”
“Well, as you know, I have a very demanding schedule. We would have to coordinate our time together in advance. I have the most flexibility on Tuesdays and Saturdays—I could pencil you in if those days work for you.”
I laugh out loud.
Because my sex drive is more the free-range, voracious type. It’s not the kind you pencil in. Although this flexibility she speaks of is intriguing . . . I’d like to hear more about that.
“Also, I have no time for emotional entanglements. It will have to be purely physical. When it’s run its course, for either of us, we tell each other. Simply, honestly—no dramatics, no regrets.”
Now I think she’s messing with me.
I actually glance around to see if one of the boys is hiding behind a bush or something. If they put her up to this to prank me. Because talk about too good to be true.
It’s like all the falling stars and fairy godmothers got together to grant one perfect, massive wish—and this is it. It’s like a fucking miracle.
Without thinking, I reach into my pocket for my smokes. But before I can even tap one out of the pack, Abby holds up a scolding finger.
“And no smoking—that’s one of the parameters too. For as long as our arrangement is in effect, you have to promise me you won’t smoke. Whether you’re with me or not.”
“Why does it matter if I’m not with you?”
“Because it’s bad for you.” Her brow furrows sweetly, “It’s harmful and I don’t like the thought of you being harmed.”
I tilt my head back, thinking on it.
“So it’s an ultimatum. You’re saying I can put my lips on this”—I wiggle the pack of cigarettes—“or I can put them all over that.” I gesture up and down her beautiful body.
“I suppose that is what I’m saying,” Abby agrees.
I click my tongue.
“No contest.”
I crush the pack into a ball in my hand—and toss it, in a perfect arch, into the trash bin on the corner.
Abby smiles then, laughing a bit.
“So, you agree?”
It’s the look on her face that gets me—that tightens my chest and hits me in the gut—and tells me she could become so much more addictive than any tobacco.
Her expression is hopeful. Open with uninhibited yearning.
Stress relief or not—Abby wants this. She wants me to say yes. This talented, smart, stunning woman wants me, period.
“Give me your fuckin’ cash!”
That snarl comes from a wild-eyed, tweaky bastard—who’s now standing about two feet away on my left. Holding a jagged-edged buck knife in Abby’s direction.
I’m typically better about being aware of my surroundings, but Abby—and our topic of conversation—was an epic distraction.
“This isn’t a good time, mate,” I tell him lightly. “We’re in the middle of something here.”
He waggles the knife around. “I said your cash—and make it fast or I’ll cut you!”
Now I’m annoyed. And the terror on Abby’s pretty face makes me think dark, merciless, creative thoughts.
But it’s better if I resolve this quickly. Cleanly.
So, I take my wallet out and hand the twat a twenty.
“This is all you’re getting. Walk away. And stop looking at her like that or I’ll remove your eyeballs from your fucking skull.”
He leers at Abby harder, baring rotten teeth.
“Maybe I’ll do something more than look. You talk a big game, mate—but I’m the one holding the knife.”
Three moves.
That’s all it takes for the knife that was in his hand to be gripped in mine. I could’ve done it in two, but I slapped him for good measure. I press the blade under his chin, against his throat, hard enough for him to feel the sting.
“You were saying?” I ask him softly.
While it would be poetic justice to slice and dice the arsehole with his own knife, Abby’s beside me and that isn’t a memory of me I want her to have.
Plus, blood is a real bitch to wash out, and this is one of my favorite sweaters.
But, he can’t go without retribution. Life doesn’t work that way.
I don’t work that way.
“My girl here, she’s quick as a whip—brilliant actually. Do you want me to demonstrate?”
He’s not so snarly now.
“No.”
“Too fucking bad.”
Still holding the knife, I brace one hand against his shoulder joint in front and grip his bicep with the other. Then I push and pull up and back at the same time. And pop goes the weasel.
He screams, but I hold him still.
“What’s the diagnosis, sweetheart?” I ask Abby without taking my eye
s off him.
“You . . . you just dislocated his shoulder,” she replies quietly.
“Right-o.” I smile, taunting the aspiring assailant. “Should we go again, for old time’s sake?”
“No,” he whimpers, “wait!”
Too late.
Another howl, and his other shoulder bites the dust. And he stands there, groaning, both useless arms dangling at his sides.
“Well, my job here is done.” I give him a small shove in the right direction. “The hospital’s that way. Make better choices.”
After I’m sure he’s gone, I toss the knife in the bin and wipe my hands off on the front of my trousers.
Then I chance a look at Abby.
And she’s not fearful anymore. Or disgusted, as some might be.
She’s turned on. Staring at me with a mixture of shocked awe and spiked desire.
Her green eyes are dark and round and her nipples are two hard, beckoning points beneath her dress and her soft pink lips are parted and panting in a way that goes straight to my dick.
Fucking Christ, I want her. And she’s right here, for me, for the taking.
“So . . . your place or mine?”
CHAPTER NINE
Tommy
THE WALK TO MY APARTMENT isn’t far, but it seems to take forever—the way the best Christmases always seemed to take too long to arrive when you’re a child.
And also because of Abby’s shoes.
They’re a work of hard-on art, but they aren’t made for high-speed walking—or walking at all. The urge to manhandle her, to just toss her over my shoulder and carry her like a caveman, is strong. Pure, primal adrenaline is pounding in my veins. Having the gorgeous girl you’ve been lusting after for ages tell you she wants you to put your cock inside her will do that to a man.
But I tamp it down and settle for holding Abby’s hand instead.
I unlock the door to my flat and lead her in, tossing my keys on the table near the door. I don’t turn on the lights—the silver sheen of moonlight coming through the windows gives just enough illumination to see and sets the mood I’m looking for—shadowed and secluded and shrouded enough to let loose.
Abby slips out of her coat and I hang it on the hook while she moves to the center of the room. “I like what you’ve done with the place.”
