by Lexi Whitlow
“I should have done it before,” he says, looking out of the window. “Gotten a place that Marta could actually bring Brie. By the way—” he stops and looks over at me.
“What else?” My stomach drops. “I don’t like your ‘by the way.’”
“We’re meeting with the lawyer after this, and then you get to meet Brie.”
“Christ on a bike, Liam. Why in the hell didn’t you tell me?”
He looks out of the window as we cross over into Queens. “I fucking hate Brooklyn. And I hate Queens too. It’s the new Brooklyn. Fucking hipsters.”
I groan. “I’m going along with all of this and I don’t know why—and then you spring this newest shit on me like I’m some idiot who’s going to do whatever you say.”
Liam looks at me and grins. “You know why you’re going along with all of this. It’s pretty fucking clear you want this magic—” Liam looks at the Lyft driver and then leans into me. “Cock,” he whispers.
My cheeks color, and warmth spreads through my body. “I don’t know for sure if it’s magic.”
“I do,” he says. “It is.”
When he says it, there’s laughter in his voice, like there was when I first met him. I liked that sound. The goofy sense of humor that goes along with his New York accent and his inexplicable hatred of all things trendy.
He brings his hand to touch my leg, resting just below the hemline of my skirt. It’s not an apology, not exactly. Liam Dougherty hasn’t apologized to me for any of this. That’s who he is.
His hand inches higher, and a thrill runs through me. We’re pulling into the neighborhood my friend found—cheaper than just about anywhere in Manhattan and close enough to Brie’s school to get her there and back in ten minutes. Not so far away from the bar that he couldn’t get there by subway in an hour.
And you make sacrifices for your kids. At least that’s what I’ve heard.
His hand is warm. It stays, pressed against my thigh, like a reminder that he’s in this with me. That I’m here, with him, for a good reason. A favor. Something that will stick in my memory as a good thing. A very good thing.
“This is it,” the driver says, pulling up to a tiny townhouse. The bottom floor was converted to an apartment with two bedrooms, a kitchen, and a little family room just big enough for a sofa and a chair. Cute. Homey. Comfortable. The countertops might still be formica, and the floor might slope to one side, but it’s safe and warm and far better for someone with a kid.
When I see it—really look at it—as we pull up, I realize I picked somewhere I might want to live. Even though I won’t be living here. Not really.
I look over at Liam as the car parks. He opens the door slowly, his hand falling away from my thigh. He grabs my hand and pulls me out with him, looking back at me for a second. The impression I get of him in that moment is one of curiosity, interest, maybe even excitement. Not at all what I expected for a family home in Queens.
The driver pulls away, and we’re left standing there together. I realize we’re holding hands, like a real couple. That thought makes me woozy.
I’m in over my head.
It’s all too real.
He walks to the stone steps, still holding my hand. “Where’s the realtor?”
“She said she couldn’t make it. Told me the combo to get in. She’s a friend of Rhiannon’s so—” I fumble with the lock on the door, entering the code twice before it pops open and delivers a worn looking key. The door sticks when I try it, so I jiggle the handle. When it opens, there’s a change in the air. It’s warmer, quieter, inviting. “So, we can look at it ourselves.” I say it, satisfied.
Behind me, the door closes and locks. Liam is silent, walking over the slightly crooked, worn hardwoods, over to the kitchen with its old gas burners. The formica is stained very slightly from years of use. There are some scratches in the kitchen tile, and some cracks in the walls. But it feels nice, like a place we could live.
A place he could live. After this is all over.
He turns to me and smiles. “This is good. I gotta hand it to you.”
“Even though it’s in Queens—”
“Don’t mention that. You’ll ruin the moment.” He takes me in his arms and lifts me onto the kitchen countertop. There’s a window behind me that looks out into a tiny backyard. “And besides, I think I could pretend I’m somewhere else in here.”
“Like where?”
“Like not in Queens.” He kisses me, slowly, movements languid, like we’ve got all the time in the world.
“Hey, I thought we needed to meet with the lawyer.”
“Not until three,” he mumbles. His lips trail over my neck, hands searching beneath my shirt. His fingers unhook my bra. “I’d like to take this opportunity…” He lifts a hand to my breast and pinches one nipple, rolling it between his fingers. Before I can say anything, he’s lifting my shirt over my shoulders and throws it to the floor, along with my bra. “To show you more about my magic cock.”
“Come on,” I whisper. “That’s not a good idea. We don’t live here. I mean—this isn’t our place. What if someone else—”
“No one else lives here either,” he replies. “Not yet. And besides, it’s ours. We’ll sign a lease today.”
“I have two other places to look at. One in Brooklyn—”
“Fuck no,” he says, lifting my skirt and tugging at my panties. “This is the place. We’ll sign the lease today.”
“You mean you will.”
“You should too. Protect yourself and all.”
I balk at that, putting my hands on top of his. “It’s twenty-seven hundred a month. Are you just doing all of this to get me to pay.”
He laughs and moves his hands away from mine, pulling my panties off and tossing them on the floor. “The bar isn’t just a fake job. I work my ass off. I’ve been putting money away for two years. And more before—” He stops, moving his fingers to my aching sex. “I have plenty. For as long as you’re here, I’m paying for you.” He kisses me in the hollow of my neck. “For your rent. Your meals. Like a real couple.”
I’d like to tell him how that makes me feel—warm inside but also deeply anxious. It’s troubling, this thing growing between us. If it’s not real, then what is it?
Two fingers slide inside of me, making a beckoning motion against my g-spot. Lightning strikes through my veins, smoldering heat licking over my thighs. “I shouldn’t sign it. We’re not a real couple.”
“Real enough,” he says. “I’m starting to know what you like, anyway. My little librarian. Pure and innocent. But she secretly—” He leans in, the base of his palm resting against my clit now, my legs spread over the kitchen counter. “She wants to fuck.”
“I’m a writer. Not a librarian.” I laugh as I say it, and I throw my arms and legs around him. It feels good to be wanted like this, to know that his cock is pressing against my thigh, that he could fuck me at any moment. The woman who was heretofore unfuckable.
“I know what you are.” His thumb works against my clit, and the heat rises steadily. I moan softly, leaning into his shoulder. “Liam, come on. I can make an appearance when and where I need to—” I stop, panting, moaning. He has me close and he knows it. “Fuck. Just listen to me—”
“Are you going to fuck me?” I almost blush when I say it, but we’ve been building to this. He’s teased me, taunted me, made me want it more than I imagined I would.
It strikes me. I’m invested now. How much deeper will I go when we start sleeping together.
Still, there’s nothing I’m going to do to stop it now. It’s clear to me—I’m in this. And I’ll see it through to the end, whenever that is.
“Not today,” he growls. He brings me to the edge with his fingers, kissing my neck, his mouth moving down to one nipple, his other hand holding me up as the sensation builds in my body. Everything grows tighter and tighter until it feels like I’m about to snap.
“Please.” I hear myself saying the word. It wasn’t a consci
ous decision—to want this, to beg for it. The need is so deep that the words come out anyway, unexpected.
“Please what?” His voice is gruff.
“Please… make it today. I want you to fuck me today. Here.” My head swims as I’m saying it. This isn’t our apartment—and shit, wouldn’t we get arrested or something if the realtor caught us? If the landlord came by? The heat builds, pooling between my legs, centered on his fingers.
He takes his hand away just as I’m about to come, leaving me panting and exposed. “Come on,” I whimper. The thrumming in my body is maddening, taking me to heights I never experienced with Charlie. I didn’t experience much of anything at all with him—just sleepless nights when I’d get off by myself. Each experience unsatisfying.
Here, with Liam, even this denial is better than a thousand nights with Charlie. Liam’s touch trumps all the chaste kisses and promises of a future together.
“No.” He pulls me from the counter, wrapping my legs around his waist, carrying me to the back bedroom. “We haven’t seen the master bedroom yet, little miss.” He kisses me on my neck as he carries me. “Don’t worry—we’ll break it in when we do.”
I think of him, his hips thrusting between my legs. His cock, filling me to the hilt. I want it, want him bare, coming inside of me. I’ve never had these thoughts before. The images, fast and intense, frighten me.
“You mean you’ll fuck me, right?”
He doesn’t respond. Instead he carries me into the room and puts me down on my knees. The gray carpet is new and soft. The light filters into the windows, illuminating both of our bodies. If someone came and looked through the blinds, they’d see Liam unbuckling himself, releasing his cock and stroking himself in front of me.
“Pull your skirt up for me, sweetheart. Let me see your pussy.” I turn red, but I do as he says. I always do. It’s become a habit. It’s become my reality.
I kneel before him, totally exposed, skirt lifted around my hips.
“And? What do I do now?” I look up at him. If anyone had asked me a year ago if I imagined myself here, my mouth watering at the sight of this man’s cock. An ex-con, a bad boy. A man with tattoos and reckless mistakes and insane passion in his history.
I would have told them no. I’d be married to Charlie, trying to make a baby. Maybe writing a book.
But those are all dreams that didn’t happen—and what’s more, they’re dreams that are far less exciting than my reality now, at this very moment.
“Now? I’ll teach you how to suck my cock.” He strokes himself again, tugging his pants down to the floor and stepping forward. I haven’t seen it like this before—it’s huge. I swallow hard, anxiety and excitement swirling together in the pit of my stomach. “It’s a skill every good girl should know. And you’re a good girl, aren’t you? Good for your man?”
I nod. He places his cock against my lips, and I open my mouth, pressing my tongue to his hot skin and wrapping my lips around the head.
“But your man was never good to you, was he?” Liam brings his hand to my head and brushes his fingers through my hair. It sends shivers down my spine, my body lit on fire from the inside. “I will be. I might be cocky.” He thrusts forward, making my mouth open wider. I taste him, salty and sharp. A groan escapes from his lips, deep and throaty and rich. “I might be an arrogant asshole.” He shudders. “But I treat my women good. Especially if they’ve got a mouth as pretty as yours.”
I swirl my tongue over his cock, and I close my eyes. This is a visceral, deep pleasure—taking him, letting him thrust into the back of my mouth as he holds my hair, pulling it. I moan against his cock, and he grunts in response. My eyes are watering, tears streaming down my cheeks as he hits the back of my throat. But I find I like this particular brand of discomfort—my nipples stiffen in the chilled air of the room, and my sex aches for him. I feel myself getting even wetter than I was before. My body is hot, ready, anticipating.
“God, I’m close,” he says, his cock moving faster now. I bring my hand to the base of his cock, stroking it tentatively as he fucks my mouth. “That’s perfect. You’re doing so good. So fucking sweet.”
I taste him then, stronger. Sharp and musky. He moans, fingers tangled in my hair, pulling it hard. The mascara I put on earlier is ruined, running down my cheeks. I don’t care—I have no capacity now for modesty. All I want is for him to come, to fill my mouth, my throat. To give him the pleasure I’ve been dreaming about since I met him. He thrusts hard, once more, and his essence fills my mouth.
“Swallow it,” he groans. “I want to feel you swallow.” I obey, and he groans again, a shiver running through him.
When he pulls away, he falls to the floor beside me, pulling me into his arms. His taste is heavy on my lips. And to my surprise, I like it. A sensual secret, a brief sign of what took place in this room with him.
I keep it close, a memory for when we’re done. When our time wears thin. He’s told me it will—he’s not a man who stays.
CHAPTER NINE
Skye’s face is flushed when we leave the apartment.
“So this is really what you want? You don’t want to look at the other ones?”
I turn to her and take her by the shoulders. “Yeah, really. I like this place.” I smile. “Besides, it’s where you gave your first blow job.” My cock throbs at the thought of it, at the messiness of her hair, her pink cheeks.
She bites her lip hard and shushes me. “Come on, someone might hear you.”
“What? We’re wholesome. A couple moving into an apartment in fucking Queens of all places. We haven’t even fucked.”
“We should fix that,” she whispers. A shiver runs through my body and reaches the base of my spine.
I take her in my arms and kiss her, pulling her close. “We should. When the time is right.”
“Look at you with all this romantic stuff,” she says. “Someone might say you like me.” She looks at me, horrified when she says it, like she’s said something wrong. Something tightens deep in my chest, causing me an almost physical pain. “Sorry,” she adds.
“I do like you. We’re friends, aren’t we?” I give her a grin and pull her in close as we walk down to the subway. “More than that. You’re helping me. And I know you were in this for a casual thing, but—”
We stop in front of the stairs that lead down to the trains. “Don’t say anything else,” she says. “Casual is good. Romantic—not so much, right?”
“Yeah,” I sigh. There’s so much more I want to say. I want to put my hands on her body, push her against the wall by the stairs. Tell her I don’t know anyone like her, that she’s different. And different is good. So good.
If she were anyone else, I would have fucked her by now. But she’s not anyone else. I don’t know why I’m hesitating, why I’m standing here, just looking at her.
“Come on, Liam.” Skye grabs me by the hand and pulls me down into the pit of the subway. The ride is a quiet one, with many things left unsaid. But when we arrive back in Hell’s Kitchen, she takes me by the hand and doesn’t let go until we’re in the lawyer’s waiting room.
“This is it,” I whisper. “My lawyer—Donnelly—he’s meeting with Marta’s lawyer to put custody back on the table. Overnight visits at the very least. I don’t have hard evidence against Marta—” I crack my knuckles, thinking of my little girl’s stories. Her anxiety. The stomach pain she complains each time she comes back from her grandmother’s.
“Rhiannon says you probably have a good case. We’ll see.”
The lawyer’s office always reminds me of the dentist—cold and clean with its anonymous white walls. There are law degrees and shitty paintings and a sad beta fish in a bowl with a plant in it. But nothing makes it personal. Shit, my dentist’s office is way more personal.
This time, being here feels slightly better. This time, Skye is with me, and we have an apartment and a plan. I’m down to the wire with this custody thing, and she came along in the nick of time. I glance at her, sitting in
the hard-backed chair next to mine, wondering what she’s thinking. She looks lost in thought, and she pulls out a little notebook to write in. It has roses on the cover, and the edges are worn down.
I have the sudden impulse to take her hand into mine and squeeze it. But I don’t.
Don’t want to confuse things, I think. We’ve already got them confused enough.
I look over at Skye again. She’s jotting things down, then occasionally looking around the lawyer’s waiting room, then writing down a few more words.
She’s got bigger dreams than me and an old apartment in Queens. It’s not close to her work, and it’s sure as hell not what she would have imagined for herself. At least, I think it’s not. She’ll be moving on when we’re done here.
But I want to pull these moments apart and spread them out, keeping them as long as I can.
“Mr. Dougherty,” the receptionist says, looking over the fish bowl on her desk. “Mr. Jameson will see you now.” She looks at Skye somewhat suspiciously. This isn’t exactly a great area of the city, and they don’t expect people who look like Skye to wander in with a guy like me, who previously had no chance in hell of getting his daughter back. “And this is—”
“My girlfriend,” I answer. Skye blanches, but then she looks over at me and nods. “We’re getting an apartment together for Brie. My little girl.”
We stand together and walk back to the room where I was told—three times—that Marta would retain full custody until I had a more stable living arrangement for Brie. Marta’s fucking family has these lawyer people on her side, and half of the court system too. My lawyer is on the Dougherty side of things, but, until now, it’s all seemed completely insurmountable.
But I take Skye’s hand, and it doesn’t seem that way anymore.
“Are they going to buy this shit?” Her voice is a low whisper, full of worry.