Chapter 9

Liam

4:36 AM THURSDAY

Becky tastes like Mezcal—top shelf tequila for my top shelf woman. I distinctly remember telling her that the drinks at my bloody bar were on my bloody tab—but it gives me just as much pleasure to know that she put it on my idiot step-brother’s black card instead.

Dan the Man. Becky Brooks is wasted on that bastard, and it gives me even more pleasure knowing that she’s mine now.

I’m no white knight. I prefer Armani to shining armor. But I recognize a damsel in distress when I see one, and Becky Brooks—beneath my imbecile of a step-brother’s thumb—was as distressed as they come.

Lucky me, then. I can feel her plump, drunken lips moving desperately against mine as the curves of her gorgeous body writhe beneath me. She’s clad in the most gloriously trashy wedding dress we could find. The rhinestone word embedded in the tiara of her bridal veil sparkles in the moonlight: SLUT.

It’s then that it hits me—I’m going to be making love to this slutty, tequila-slinging wildfire of a woman every day for the rest of my life.

Multiple times, in fact, if she’ll have me.

I never used to think of myself as the marrying type—especially not if the bride in question was the kind of woman who would agree to wed my idiot step-brother first. But as I pull away and look down at her—fuck me. Every Def Leppard song I’ve ever heard suddenly makes sense all at once.

Her mouth, smeared with lipstick and my pre-cum.

Her eyes, smudged with mascara from the way gagging on my cock makes her eyes water.

Her red hair, splayed out beneath her on the yellow deck chair like a fucking tequila sunrise.

My Becky. My love.

A hot fucking mess—emphasis on the mess.

And the hot.

And the fucking, for that matter.

Her lips part, and I’m so bloody certain she’s about to bring it up. The fucking. She’s fucking insatiable about it, the fucking.

I’ve fucked that tight, wet cunt of hers so many times tonight, my balls are starting to ache—and still, she’s as cock-hungry as they come. If she were any other woman, even my considerable manhood would be begging for a rest by now.

But she’s not any other woman. When she parts those gorgeous, messy lips of hers, my cock is stiff as a guard at Buckingham Palace, and I’m prepared to show my slutty little American exactly how we Brits salute.

Please, Liam. Like, totally fuck my wet Yankee pussy. As she parts her lips, I can almost hear her begging for it in that saucy little Valley girl voice of hers already.

But instead, she buries her face in my chest and whatever she’s begging for comes out as a drunken mumble.

“Speak up, love,” I rasp, grinding the hard thickness of my cock against her wet little slit. “Tell Daddy what you want.”

“Skinny dipping,” Becky purrs in a mischievous little voice.

…not what I was expecting, to tell you the truth. What I was expecting was something more along the lines of, Gosh, Liam, spank my ass and call me Queen Lizzie.

“Love,” I level with her. “I’m not sure—”

“Skinny dipping!” Becky yells in my ear, and her sexy little belligerent drunken arse shoves me off of her in an instant.

I’m left picking myself up off the tiled veranda and chasing after her while she struggles to work her wedding dress up over her head.

I catch her with the skirt up, holding her from behind, mere inches away from the water. With one hand, I capture one of her slender wrists. With the other, I stroke her long, slender throat.

“Darling,” I purr into her ear. “I hate to break it to you, but I believe there’s a shark in the pool.”

“That’s stupid,” Becky says authoritatively.

Generally, I would tend to agree.

But while Becky continues to lift her skirt, flashing her sweet little cunt at the entirety of Las Vegas’ skyline, I can’t help but notice the dorsal fin currently making laps around the suite’s saltwater swimming pool. It makes me wonder what that other bird—Sammi—might have had in that ice box she’s been wheeling around all night.

“Skinny dipping,” Becky insists, struggling against me.

Now, I know my woman. I know that she’s headstrong and stubborn. I know that when she sets her mind to something, there’s very little in this world that can prevent her from accomplishing it.

My fingers dart between her legs, pushing between her pussy lips and pinching her wet, swollen clit.

“I don’t think you heard me, love.” I squeeze her throat and nibble at her ear while I roll her clit between the pads of my finger and my thumb.

Becky whimpers. Sweetest sound in the goddamn bloody world.

“Now,” I growl. “You’ll keep that skirt pulled up nice and high for me, won’t you?”

She nods, but it’s her hips that really say yes. Just as quickly as she decided she was ready to dive naked into shark-infested waters, she’s given up the idea for grinding her greedy little clit against my hand.

I know my woman, and I know there’s nothing like an orgasm to take her mind off of whatever silly, self-destructive idea she’s gotten into her head.

You see, this is the difference between Dan and me. My step-brother sought to control this woman. To shame her for what she is, deny her her pleasures, and repeatedly tell her no under the guise of keeping her safe from herself.

Dan wanted to shape her into a well-behaved little housewife. To her credit, Becky tried her best. I’ll give her that.

But Becky isn’t well-behaved, and she’s far from a housewife. I think that much is obvious, judging by the way she’s about to cream right here on my hand while she flashes her cunt at the entirety of the City of Sin.

In her fucking wedding dress, no less.

The wind picks up as Becky whimpers for me. She moans beautifully—especially when she’s a little tipsy like this. Normally, I wouldn’t be fingering a woman who’s tossed a few drinks back—bad idea. Dubious consent has never been my cup of tea. But considering the prior events of tonight…

She wants me. I can tell from every moan, every tremor of her body, as I hold her against me. The way she tilts her head back, raises her face to the moonlight, and closes her eyes in ecstasy.

And then, of course, there’s the way that she’s gasping for me.

“More,” she coos. “P-please. More.”

I give it to her. She might not realize it yet. She might not even remember who I am in the morning, with the way Sammi and Percy and the other one tipped all that tequila down her throat.

But she’ll feel it. When she wakes up in the morning, once she works herself past the banging headache and the nausea of her hangover, I’ll make damn sure she feels it.

And when she feels it, she’ll know.

Liam Black made her orgasm more times in one fucking night than Dan the Man made her orgasm in a year.

When she come, she thrashes, her lips curled in the most beautiful fucking smile I’ve ever known.

“Say my name, love,” I urge in her ear.

And Becky Brooks—being Becky Brooks—opens her mouth to shout to the heavens:

“ELVIS! FUCK YES, ELVIS! ELVIS! ELVIS!”

Uh…not exactly.

But she’s so damn cute, and she’s having fun, and her voice makes me smile like a bloody fucking bastard. So I suppose for now, it will do.