by K Larsen
Liam opens his mouth to speak but I interrupt him. “I know, okay. It is depraved. Twisted—” He slaps a palm over my mouth to quiet me. I stiffen.
“Shh. I’m not judging you. In fact, the idea of it intrigues me. Would you want to fight back? Try and hurt your attacker?”
His hand is still across my mouth as I nod. He drops it and grins at me. “A bit, yes. I would struggle. You, I mean he, could get hurt.”
“I think maybe you and I are suited for each other, even more than I thought,” he says. I blush and straighten my shirt.
“You never told me where those scars on your scalp came from. I’d like to know,” I say.
He returns to his cutting board and I join him in prepping the veggies now that the crust is warmed.
“Abuse. During my childhood. From someone close to me.” He does not say more and I do not need more from him. I abandon my slicing to grab two beers from his refrigerator. He pops the top for me and we cheers. “To scars and dark desires,” he says. I mimic his words and take a slug of my beer.
The vegetable pie not only looks remarkable, it tastes amazing. Liam groans at his first bite and I preen with pride. I like the praise. I like the slippery feeling it gives me.
“You win. This is definitely a thousand times better than I anticipated.” I laugh and stuff another bite in my mouth. “I wish you did that more often,” he says. I look to him and cock my head.
“Eat?” I ask.
“No. Laugh. Your laugh is infectious,” he says.
“I laugh.”
“Not often enough.” I shake my head at him and finish my dinner. “This was perfect. I don’t generally enjoy cooking but you made the entire process more enticing,” he says.
“I love cooking. I think to take lonely ingredients, and combine them into something, that when combined, makes you think, wow, is superb, cathartic even. The idea of it really. That lonely and boring individually, becomes something stunning combined is lovely.”
Liam blinks once, twice, three times.
“That was deep.”
I realize how ridiculous I must have sounded. It’s just cooking. It’s only dinner. And my shoulders slump with embarrassment.
“Don’t do that. It was adorable. I fucking love your little rants. Your deep thoughts. It is fucking sexy, Nora,” he says.
“Sexy?” I question. Liam’s gaze makes my skin break out in goosebumps.
“Sexy.” He stands with his plate and saunters to me to clear mine.
“Do you need to rush home?” His question momentarily makes my pulse spike with anticipation.
“No.”
“Could I convince you to take a ride with me? There is something I’d like to show you.”
I lick my lips. “As long as you behave,” I say.
He winks and disappears into the kitchen as I laugh.
Liam leads me into his massive garage. From a peg on the wall he pulls down a leather jacket and puts it on. Next he hands me a matte black helmet and points to a motorcycle.
“Oh, no,” I say, beginning to back away.
“Oh, yes. Have you ridden before?” he asks.
Slowly, I shake my head at him. The very idea of motorcycles terrifies me. “I prefer cars.”
“You’ll prefer bikes when I’m done with you.” The idea of plastering myself against his body, of clinging to him, feeling his muscles turns me on; but I am uncertain I will be able to enjoy it with the anxiety that is sure to come.
“Liam, I’m not sure I can.”
“I have a jacket you can wear, and the helmet. I’ll drive nice and leisurely for you. I promise you’ll love it. Do you trust me, Nora?”
I look to him. At his outstretched hand holding a helmet, at his boyish grin and those mischievous green eyes. “I don’t think you’re going to give me a choice.”
“Excellent. Now,” he says and pulls the helmet down over my head. He flips the visor up and buckles the chin strap. “I’m going to play you some music while we ride. All you need to know is this; keep your feet on the pegs and mold your body to mine. When I lean you lean. Got it?”
“Um.”
“If you need to stop, triple tap my chest.” He leaves no room for argument and grabs a second jacket from another peg. I slide it on and fumble with the zipper. Liam, helmet on and straddling his bike, motions for me to climb on.
“I’m already feeling anxious,” I say.
“Just hold on to me. You’ll love this.” I swing a leg over the seat and scoot against him. My helmet bonks his. Liam lets out a laugh that echoes in the garage.
“Try to keep your helmet from hitting mine, okay?”
I nod and bonk my helmet against his again. “Sorry,” I squeak as the bike fires to life. It rumbles beneath my legs. I squeeze my thighs together, pinching Liam’s hips. I close my visor and slide my arms under his armpits and lock my fingers together at his chest. He revs the engine. Music begins as we lurch forward toward the opening garage door.
The first five minutes I am terrified. The landscape rushes past us in a blur. But the beats and melodies in my ear combined with the soft steady thud of Liam’s heart beneath my locked hands, begins to calm me. I chance looking around. We are on a windy road that runs parallel to the ocean. The sun is just beginning its decent, casting everything in rich orange and pink hues. I am pressed into Liam’s firm body. A strong body. He wiggles his hips a little and a tiny sound escapes me that I know he cannot hear over the music.
Attraction is not random. It is science; fact. It is pheromones, instinct, physiological arousal and biology. Attraction is not something you can control. You can be afflicted by it in a nanosecond and feel its physical symptoms for years to come.
You can recall it. Draw upon it, even, despite having never spoken to the person who caused it in the first place. It is an oxymoron; ephemeral and indelible. And I am attracted, unreservedly, to Liam Lockwood. My pulse is surely noticeable. The hair on my arms stood at attention when he brushed against me in the kitchen. My stomach is a flurry of butterflies right now. It is agonizing to rein in my lust for him, to feel him so closely without being able to do anything about it. Dr. Richardson would be so proud though. I am doing what is healthy and morally sound.
I loosen my grip around his middle slightly as I gain confidence as a passenger. There are few cars on the road at this time. It feels as if we are alone in this universe. Just me and him. Him and me. If that were the case, would I hold back or would I let him ravage me as he liked? Can I be so bold to inflict the kind of pain he desires? Questions rush in and out of my mind. His hair curls out just under his helmet at the nape of his neck. His shoulders, broad and leather clad, make me want to rest my head on them. Waves crash onto the shoreline to our right. The view is glorious. He rests one of his hands for a moment on my knee and gives a little squeeze. I savor the sensation.
Yes. I can hurt Liam. I can hurt him to please him.
In fact, I want to.
Liam
Nora fucking Robertson makes my cock hard.
Her slight body presses against mine in a way that makes me want to pull the bike over and fuck her on the beach for anyone to see. But I don’t. We’re almost to my beach house and I’m still gaining her full trust. When I pull onto the single wide road that leads to my seaside cottage, Nora’s grip tightens around me again as we cross little bumps in the pavement from years of frost heaves. I pull up to the house and kill the engine, which kills the music as well. Nora hops off the bike and lifts her visor. I put the kickstand down and stand. My hand brushes hers away from the chinstrap she is struggling to undo.
I set her helmet on the bike followed by mine.
“Whose house is this?” she asks.
“Mine.” I grab her hand and lead her inside. It’s not much. A sparse, but comfortably decorated, thousand square foot cottage on the ocean. Every window on one side of the house looks out over the sea. I have no TV here. No internet. It is an escape. Not even Mike or my father know that I bo
ught it.
“This is phenomenal, Liam.” She puts her hands against the glass and stares out.
“It’s my oasis. I’ve never told anyone about it, let alone brought anyone here.”
“Really?” She turns to face me.
“Really.”
“Why me?” she asks.
I shrug. “It just felt right.” I take off my jacket and toss it over a wingback chair.
“I’m flattered.” She turns back to the view. “This is the perfect place to write.”
“So, come write here,” I offer. The words leave my mouth before I realize what I’ve said. A knee-jerk reaction. The very thought of Nora in my private get-away makes my body vibrate with excitement.
“I couldn’t.” I watch as she unzips the jacket, and removes it.
“You could. There’s no internet. No cable. No distractions beyond the view.”
“I am behind on my manuscript,” she muses.
“Use the house then.”
“I don’t want you to think I’m using you,” she says.
“Some of us want to be used.” Nora blushes and I’m forced to adjust myself.
I'm trying to stay afloat but secrets buried in the floor create so much pressure. She is starting to get to me. To worm her way into my thoughts in ways I didn’t intend. There's a riot in my life, a big bad wolf at the door. With her, my blackness is shrouded in heavenly light. “Come sit with me.” I lower myself into the plush cream couch facing the window. Nora begins to come but gets sidetracked. I watch as her fingers trail across the rustic side table, the burlap lamp shade, the spines of the paperbacks in the floor-to-ceiling bookcase on the west wall. There is no simple explanation for the things I feel while watching her.
“Have you read all these?” she asks.
I chuckle. “No.”
She pulls one from the shelf and holds it out. “This one?”
It is a copy of The Search by Nora Roberts. I shake my head at her. “I think it is hilarious that you have though,” I say.
“She’s my namesake! Of course, I’ve read almost all her work. Let me read it to you.”
“You want to read it out loud?” I ask.
“Yes.” She sits at the far end of the couch, toes off her Converse and stretches out until her feet are on my lap. In a soft voice she begins reading. This woman is dazzling and refreshing in so many ways. As she reads, I massage her calf, she eyeballs me over the top of the book, but keeps going. Her legs are milky white and the shorts she’s wearing suit them. I am going to make her come. I am going to show her my trick. I massage the back of her knee gently, her breath catches slightly. I work my way down her leg, until I have a hold of her left foot and begin caressing it, with special detail to the instep followed by long strokes along the arch to the ball of her foot. I massage hard and slow. She moans quietly and the book drops open to her chest.
“What are you doing to me?” she asks.
“Giving you a foot job.” Her breathing stutters and I know it is starting to build. She shifts her hips faintly.
“Liam,” she breathes. I knead slower. Harder. I press into a trigger point, followed by long deep strokes from heel to big toe. She is breathing through her nose, eyes closed.
“Relax into it, Nora. I told you I had a trick up my sleeve.” Three more passes over her arch and her body clenches. Her knee pops, straight and rigid, forcing her foot almost to my chest. She shudders and relaxes. Her eyes open, lust glazed and hooded.
“Was that actually a ...” she stares, mouth agape. I nod. “Is that a thing? A real thing?”
I chuckle and start on the other foot. “You tell me.”
She snaps her knees together and curls her feet to her chest. “Nuh, uh buddy. I think one is enough for an evening. I can’t. I’m ... speechless.”
“Come here, Nora.”
She shakes her head. I twist and plant my hands on either side of her hips and crawl until I’m hovering over her. “You said I’m allowed to. You also said I was also allowed to kiss you. Are you reneging?”
Her smile fades, her mischievous expression is replaced by a sinfully sensual one. I dip down until my lips are on hers. Her tongue darts out, wetting her lips and mine. I nip at the tip of it. She sucks on my bottom lip, before letting her teeth graze it. I groan into her mouth. She is gasoline and I am a match. It’s strange what desire will make people do. We make out like horny teenagers, until our lips are numb and mouths are swollen.
“I hate to break up our moment,” I say sitting up onto my knees. She grabs my shirt and tries to pull me back to her. “No, no, Nora, you made me promise to behave.”
She releases me and sighs. “You make my brain stop.”
“Is that a compliment?” I ask.
“It is. All my rage and anxiety subsides when we’re together,” she says quietly.
I surprise myself by saying, “I like that.”
“Do we have to leave now?” she asks and tucks her hair behind her ears. I glance at the clock. If we wait too much longer, the bugs will be bad on the ride home, but I am willing to endure a visor smeared with dead insects for extra time with her. “We can wait a little longer if you like.”
She nods. I go back to my corner of the couch, while she sits up and adjusts her shirt. She grabs the book from the floor and finds her place. Using her finger as a bookmark, she comes to my lap and rests her head on it. I’m overcome with sticky sweet emotion.
“Here,” she says and hands me the book. “You read to me for a while.”
I scrunch up my face. I don’t read often, let alone out loud. “It’s not really my thing.”
She pouts but opens the book and begins reading again. I could listen to her voice all night long. The softness of it. The slight rasp. I play with her hair while she reads. It’s silky, long and fine. It slips through my fingers with ease. I massage her scalp, too. It feels nothing like mine. It is smooth to my bumpy. I enjoy the feel of it beneath my fingertips. I am zoned out, eyes unfocused on the steady rise and fall of her breasts, the tactile feeling of her hair and it is long moments before I realize she is no longer reading.
I blink away my fog and look down. Her eyes are closed, a gentle curve to her closed lips, her chest ascending and descending steadily. I have put her to sleep. I would like to enjoy this moment. To memorize her features closely without her noticing. To be able to scrutinize every miniscule feature undetected but a sleepy passenger on the motorcycle makes for a dangerous ride. I tickle her ski jump nose but she doesn’t rouse. I lean down and brush my lips against hers. She stirs. I kiss the tip of her nose and let my hands wander. Her breasts are firm and warm as I palm them. Her nipples stand at attention. My cock is painfully erect under her head. I try to shift my hips but the spell on sleeping beauty is broken.
“Liam Lockwood,” she says sleepily. “Are you breaking your vow to behave while I’m unconscious?”
I laugh and remove my hand from her breast. “Never. That would be creepy. There was a bug.”
Her eyes widen. “In that case, thank you for protecting me.”
This fucking woman is madness. “I love looking at you. Taking you in. All of you. All your expressions, your curves.” Her cheeks tinge pink and I grin. “I need to get us home. It’s getting late and it will be a buggy ride.”
“Thank God I have you to save me from the bugs.” She arches a brow.
I help her sit up. We do not speak while we suit up and head out to the bike. I help her with her chinstrap before securing mine. I cue up the playlist I made for her, not that she knows that, but I did. Every song is there to make her feel something. To seep into her subconscious and make her think of me. Want me.
We climb on the bike. I start the engine and wait for her arms to encircle me before racing up the long drive through the copse of trees.
Nora
Aubry’s birthday party is an event. When she said she was throwing a party, I assumed it would be a small friends-and-family type gathering in the backyard. I assum
ed wrong.
There are lights strung up, zig-zagging across Angela’s yard, making everything twinkle and look magical in the dusk. I am barely over Liam’s glass house visit. It flits to the forefront of my mind many times throughout the days afterward. Aubry laughed at me, wholeheartedly, when I told her about the foot job. She said the man must have magical hands and I’m prone to agree with her on that. I find myself thinking of him often. Always with a small bit of trepidation. Part of me is perpetually waiting for the other shoe to drop. Things cannot be this ... normal. There is always something lurking in the shadows.
There are four long tables, capable of seating six people each, arranged in and around Angela’s gardens, with ivory tablecloths on them. They have just a little tinsel weaved into the fabric, making them shimmer occasionally. It is mesmerizing to look at. Peonies, bright, broad and prominent are in short square glass vases down the center of each table. It looks more like a wedding reception than a birthday party.
“What can I do to help?” I ask, as Angela brushes past me carrying a large tray of food.
“Tell my darling dimpled daughter that birthdays are not national holidays,” Angela says.
“I’m not good at telling Aubry anything. She dictates, I am simply along for the ride.”
“Aren’t we all,” Angela says with a light laugh. “If you set the tables, I’d be forever grateful. Aubry should be here soon and I don’t want her to have to worry about running around getting things set up for her own party.”
“You spoil her. That’s why she expects all this,” I say.
“You’re probably right.”
There is a knock at the front door as I stack plates to bring outside. I leave the plates and pull open the heavy wooden door.
“Hey! Just in time to help out,” I say to Eve and Lotte. Eve laughs and Charlotte’s face drops slightly. I bump her with my shoulder. “Oh, come on, it’s not that bad.”
“I know, but Eve made me clean my room, which practically took all freakin’ day.”
“You had life forms living under your bed. It was necessary to our survival.”