CHAPTER FOUR
He carries me into the bedroom, throws me down onto the bed. My heart is racing, and I taste salt and metal at the back of my throat. I used to feel that way when I was little and I woke up in the middle of the night. I’d look into the dark, gaping mouth of my closet, just waiting for a sound, or a small movement. A monster hiding inside. Or worse, a man come to abduct me and take me away. Later, that feeling was mixed with fantasy, mixed up with the Harlequin novels I’d read. The sinful priest. The pirate with an appetite for virgins.
It’s been a long time since I had that feeling. Fear, mixed with deep, forbidden excitement. When I look up at Liam, I feel that now. He could do anything. Tie me to his bed. Keep me here forever. The heat between my legs only intensifies, magnified by fear. His strength. The things he’s not telling me—the tattoos, scars. His family.
He sits down next to me on the bed, and I prop myself up on my elbows, body vulnerable. Exposed. I’m suddenly very aware that I’m not wearing a bra and that I have on a thong. I think of the comfortable things I usually wear—briefs, sports bras. Nice long shirts and jeans made soft by washing and drying many, many times. These clothes—this whole mask—it makes me awkward, my body out of place. There’s something terrifying about it. Something thrilling.
Liam is silent as he takes off his shirt. There are other tattoos, faded ones, interlaced with old scars. But otherwise, his body is a fierce work of art. His abs are chiseled, leading down to the deep V of his pelvis. The sensual, long lines of his forearms and biceps hypnotize. And I’m sure he’s set it all up that way, made it so that he’s irresistible to any stupid woman who walks into his bar.
And you, Skye, are one of those stupid women. It’s a Saturday night, and I’m usually curled up with a book. Pride and Prejudice. Jane Eyre. Or one of the soft, well-loved Harlequins my mom left for me when she died. The pages are worn, like petals. Those romances feel safe.
They’re not hot, or strong. Not simmering and physical, like this man. The sex isn’t even mentioned. And if I had to guess, the real Mr. Darcy didn’t look anything like this man.
He slips off his jeans again, and I can see the faint bulge of his cock. A shock goes through me. Does he plan to use that on me tonight? My breath hitches in my throat.
“Take a picture,” he says, smiling. “It’ll last longer.”
“I wasn’t—”
“You were. I don’t blame you. It’s a pretty fucking impressive instrument. But it’s not happening now. You’ll have to wait.”
I chew the inside of my cheek. I want to wait forever. And I want it now.
“Then why am I here?”
“Because I say you should be. If you’re in this deal with me—I’m calling the shots.”
I sit up straight. “I didn’t agree to that.” I think of all the time I spent trying to stand up for myself in college, in my own family. And here I am, letting a stranger tell me what to do. For the sake of losing my virginity. It doesn’t make a bit of fucking sense. But when I look at him, I feel something deep and animal, drawing me to him. Making me want to give in. Stay at least one night. See what he does.
“I didn’t say you couldn’t go.” He stands at the edge of the bed. My eyes are drawn to his muscled legs and the curve of his ass. “You can. But you won’t find someone else who will make you feel as good as I can.”
That gets me. For all of my hesitation, for the freak-out I had earlier, I can’t help but imagine what it would feel like to have him between my legs. His fingers, his lips, the length of his cock.
“And tonight?”
“You ever sleep next to this boyfriend of yours?”
“Ex-boyfriend. One time.”
Liam nods and looks at me like he’s calculating something. “Whatever he was.” He pauses and sits on the edge of the bed, his hand going to my leg, pushing its way up to my thigh. “You’re going to stay here tonight. You’re going to sleep next to me, naked. And if you decide to keep coming back for more, you’ll do a favor for me in the morning.”
“What kind of favor?” Liam’s hand roams higher, his fingertips playing with the waistband of my thong. My aching sex throbs in response. It almost doesn’t matter what he says—I know I’m staying.
“Lights on or off?”
I stare at him in disbelief. Did I really agree to stay here tonight? I don’t know how we came to this. “Off,” I say. “I guess. I don’t know.” Part of me wants to see him, to memorize the hard, straight lines of his body. To remember it all.
But he flicks off the light, and we both become shadows, the moon and streetlamp the only source of light to illuminate us.
Things happen fast after that.
Liam slides in bed beside me. His cold hands find my body in the dark and make me jump.
“We’ll take things slow. We have plenty of time. He takes my face and turns it toward him, letting his tongue explore my mouth, lips covering mine. My body sings with desire. I turn to him, let myself go.
This isn’t me, but it also is. It’s the self that I left hiding in those romance novels, the invisible part of me that I let fade when I was with Charlie.
Strong, deft fingers pull at my shirt, ripping it and flinging it away from my body. Liam groans and presses into me, the bulge of his cock against my thigh. He cups my breasts, bringing his mouth to one, and then the other. His tongue glances against my nipples, sending white hot need straight to my center.
“You ever have a man’s mouth on you before?” he asks as he pulls away. I shake my head, and his fingers pull away my skirt and panties.
I can’t help it.
I think of him filling me, coming inside of me. What would that even feel like? Is it like I imagined a long time ago?
His strong fingers move down the length of my body. I’m naked now, and he wears only his boxer briefs, a thin layer of fabric separating us. Even though I’ve seen it—the length, the girth. It makes it that much more real, that much more present in my mind. Like I can fill in the blanks and for a moment, feel his cock entering me, hips grinding against my skin, fast and then slow.
“I’m going to touch you. Which is what I’ve been wanting to do all night.” He stops for a second, his hand resting against my breast. “Actually, I was going to fuck you first and then make sure you come. I don’t like to leave my guests dissatisfied. But this—we’ll take it step by step.” His hand travels down the length of my body, over the curve of my belly, stopping just above my thighs. “Is that what you want?” His voice is husky and low.
“Yes,” I say. I arch my back. My spine is tingling, my nipples stiff as bullets.
His fingers slide lower, finding my sex, exploring it, barely grazing my clit. Each time he touches it, I shiver.
“Good,” he mutters. “So good. So wet.”
A finger slips inside of me, and I gasp. “Oh my God,” I whisper. My brain starts to go blank, the room collapsing in on itself as I close my eyes and give myself over to the sensation.
“It’s so tight. When I fuck you, I’m going to love how you feel.” A second finger slips inside. Gently, methodically, Liam presses the base of his palm against my clit, moving his fingers inside of me, sending shockwaves through me, each stronger than the next. Each building to an inevitability that I’d only ever reached by myself.
I arch my back, moan, voice loud and animal. Sounds I don’t recognize coming from my throat as he brings me closer and closer to the edge.
“Come for me,” he whispers, his fingers rocking inside of me.
He says it as the tongues of flame rise through my thighs, through my sex, setting fire to my core. I groan, sigh. Come against his fingers. Come for him.
I slump against his body after that, sleep heavy behind my eyelids.
“You get a free pass this time.” He holds me to him when he says it, arm wrapped around my shoulders possessively. I wonder if this is what it feels like. The thing I didn’t have with Charlie. “Next time,” Liam says, “I’m going to make you beg.”
I close my eyes like that—naked, nestled in the crook of his tattooed arm.
I don’t let myself wonder if he’s held anyone that way in recent years. If he ever has.
I sleep, and my dreams are filled with the scent of him, his presence.
When I wake in the morning, my entire body aches, like I’ve been running a marathon. I look blearily over at the other side of the king size bed—a bed made for seducing girls like me—but there’s no one there. For a brief moment, I wonder if he’s gone.
Isn’t that what guys like this one do? They cut and run?
No.
They send the girl home. Don’t they? That’s how they do things.
But he told me to stay.
I lift the covers up. I’m naked underneath. At home, I sleep in pajamas. Pink cotton pajamas that my aunt gave me for Christmas. I keep a glass of water on the bedside table. Chapstick. My laptop. Evidence of a life lived alone, proof that I take few risks. I keep myself close to my own heart.
Why, then, am I here? Why am I still here?
There are muffled clanks in the kitchen, followed by a cheerful sound I haven’t woken up to in a long time. Fifteen years, maybe. Whistling, and then humming, followed by the sizzle of butter in a pan, the splat of batter, and the popping of bacon. The scent of it fills the apartment.
I stand, still wobbly on my legs from last night, and I pull on the dark gray t-shirt Liam was wearing the night before. My shirt sits on the floor, ripped. And my thong—well that isn’t anywhere I can find it.
A welling pit of anxiety takes me over. I’m going to have to talk to him. I gulp and walk to the door, trying to smooth my hair down with one hand. When I peek around the corner, he looks up from the frying pan in his kitchen and gives me a lopsided grin.
“Sleep okay?” he asks.
“I did.”
“I thought you might. After the work out I gave you.”
“Somebody thinks a lot of himself.”
He looks me up and down and chuckles. “I do. I’ve been told as much. And you, you’re not wearing panties. Ready for more? I’m going to get you some breakfast first. And then you’re getting dressed. I have a dress you can wear. No panties. But a dress. Should fit you.”
He flips the pancakes and dips his finger into the leftover batter. When he licks it off of his thumb, I feel it. That thing. Of wanting, waiting, anticipation for the next thing. Even though that there shouldn’t be a next thing with a guy like this. Not a single next thing at all. The next thing I should be seeing is an Uber driver and the inside of my apartment in Brooklyn.
“You have a dress? Is there something I need to know? Or is it just because you’re a—”
“Manwhore?” He laughs. “Yeah. Some girl left it here a year ago. Made off with my favorite hoodie. I kept it.”
“Okay. That’s a little—gross.”
“I washed it. She was wearing panties at the time. And it came off before any of the magic happened.”
“I wouldn’t call it magic.”
Liam rolls his eyes. “You would. And it is. And you haven’t gotten to the main event yet.”
I swallow hard, wishing I could somehow hide the red rising in my cheeks. “Who—who, um, says I’m staying for the main event?”
I think of my apartment. The chapstick on the table. The calm predictability of it all. If I hadn’t talked it up with Rhiannon, if I hadn’t gotten my courage going with wine and whatever hard alcohol she gave me at the bar, and if Liam hadn’t looked the way he did, I wouldn’t be here.
“You are.” Liam shrugs. “I know women well enough that I can tell.”
“Oh you do?” I cross my arms.
Liam piles all the pancake and bacon on to two paper plates. “I’d love to have this conversation with you, but I have breakfast. The dress is in the closet, at the back. Put it on. Sit down. Eat. I have that favor to ask.”
I open my mouth to speak, to tell him that he can’t go around giving me orders. But he points me back into the bedroom. “Dress,” he says. “Get dressed.” There’s an authoritative edge to his voice that stirs something inside of me, and I find myself following his orders, doing what he asked me to, almost mechanically.
The dress is a soft gray knit with a scoop neck and a skirt that hits just above my knees. It’s maybe half a size too big, but it doesn’t look bad. I wonder about the girl who wore it—if she was like me. Out of place in that bar, out of place in this apartment. Looking for something different. Running home in the early morning wearing a hoodie and an old pair of Liam’s gym shorts, hair mussed, body sore.
When I walk out, Liam’s little round kitchen table is set with paper plates and plastic utensils. There’s maple syrup and a carton of Tropicana orange juice. There are paper towels at each place—and there are four place settings.
Blood rushes in my ears. “Liam,” I start, heart racing. “Why are there four place settings?”
Before he has time to answer, I hear the thunderous sound of at least two people making their way up the stairs to his apartment. I hear talking and chatter below, an older voice with a thick Irish accent. I close my eyes and groan as Liam brings the pancakes and bacon to the table. He steps back to the kitchen and starts making scrambled eggs, like nothing unusual is happening.
He even has the nerve to look at me and grin. Like a kid on the playground who’s gotten the better of me. “That’s the favor he says. Sorry I didn’t have time to explain it.”
Time. He had plenty of time. We just spent that time in bed.
There’s a knock at the door, and I hear a man’s voice just outside. “Let us in, you prick. We’re supposed to make it to church, you godless—”
“Stop talking like that. It’s Sunday.” I can hear the woman’s voice as plain as day. The thought comes to me that it must be Liam’s mother. But that isn’t right.
I have the sudden sensation that I want to melt right into the floor, become one with the splintered hardwood floors in Liam’s ramshackle apartment.
But Liam puts on a smile. The same smile he gave me last night, his hands on my body. His fingers inside of me.
He walks past the steaming breakfast food to the door and opens it. A woman with fading red hair and a cane walks in, followed by a man who resembles Liam—but looks like less of an asshole. Less like someone who’d do this to me.
The guy looks at me in shock and then catches his brother’s eye. “You gonna introduce us he says?”
“Skye, this is my brother Finn, and my Ma.” Liam’s mother looks over at me, apparently surprised too.
“You haven’t introduced us to a girl since—” She pauses at that and looks to her son. The one who lures innocent girls up to his apartment and makes them unwilling participants in whatever game he happens to be playing.
“Since Tabitha,” Finn says.
Who the fuck is Tabitha?
“Ma, Finn,” Liam says, apparently unfazed. “This is my Skye. She’s my girlfriend.”
Knees weak, legs wobbling, I grab onto the door frame of the bedroom.
I’m wearing some other girl’s dress.
I’m in a criminal’s apartment.
And I’m in some kind of role that this man wants me to play. The man who says he’ll cure me of my virginity, and have me begging for more.
What the fuck do I say?
“She’s shy,” Liam adds. “Introverted. Balances me out.”
Finn groans. Liam smiles even broader. The room fills with deafening silence and the aroma of bacon and pancakes.
“Nice to meet you,” I finally say.
I sit down to eat breakfast. Because I’m hungry. Because I’m tired and spent. And because, compared to all of this, the chapstick and water bottle on my bedside table seem far less compelling.
And hell, I might even write a story about all of this someday.
That’s what I tell myself anyway.
The first in a long line of excuses, and the one that changes the course of my life. Forever.