Broken Enagement

by Gage Grayson

  I glide my thumb back and forth over her clit, stimulating her inside and outside at the same time.

  She’s grinding against my fingers now, and my cock is ready to burst out of my pants. I want nothing more than to shove my dick in and give her a baby right here and now.

  But it’s not the right time. Not just yet, Mack.

  Good things come to those who wait, after all.

  Her pussy walls clench against my fingers, squeezing and releasing as she reaches the brink of her climax.

  “Killian!” She throws her head back, arching her pelvis and coming all over my fingers.

  Her face as her orgasm rocks her body is the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.

  It was sexy three years ago; it’s sexy now.

  But I’m not done yet.

  15

  Rebecca

  I’m naked and panting on the couch. My chest heaves, and a sheen of glistening sweat covers my body.

  Killian’s fingers are still inside me. He wiggles them, smirking down at me as I gasp, and my hips buck involuntarily.

  The pleasure is still rolling through my body. It’s been so long since I’ve had an orgasm that I nearly forgot how fucking good they feel.

  Something that I’ve somehow forgotten, until now, is that only Killian has ever made me feel like this. And that smug look on his face seems to say he knows it.

  Not wanting the moment—or the heat—to end, I reach for and grab his face with both of my hands, pulling his mouth to mine.

  I kiss him passionately, intertwining my tongue with his. He tastes of whiskey, a subtle blend of oak and caramel filling my senses. And I’m in the mood to get drunk on him.

  More than that, I just fucking want him.

  The memory of the first and last time we slept together—which lay dormant, almost forgotten, for years—now burns brightly and vividly in my mind. It was mind-blowing.

  He pulls his fingers out of my pussy and brings them to his mouth, sucking each one like you would after devouring some amazing fried chicken from Roscoe’s—or whatever the likely beer-battered Irish equivalent of that would be.

  “Delicious,” he moans, and then his mouth is on mine again.

  “I want you, Killian,” I wrap my arms around his neck pulling him close. He pulls away slightly, looking at me with unmasked, primal desire.

  He nips at my bottom lip, his hands roaming over my body.

  My body temperature’s rising, and he’s dialing up the meter so much that my pussy’s throbbing with anticipation.

  I lift my hips to press against the bulge in his pants, slowly gyrating back and forth.

  “Fuck, Becks.” He pushes back up against me, but when I move my hand down to touch him, he grabs it and pins it to the couch with his.

  “Mm-mm. Not yet.”

  A quick peck on the lips is all I get before I feel his tongue on my jaw then my neck. Before I know it, I’m crying out in pleasure as he grabs one nipple in his hand, and the other in his mouth.

  His tongue circles it before claiming it between his teeth and flicking his tongue back and forth over my swollen flesh.

  Still sucking on my nipple, his hand finds my clit again.

  “Ohh!” I can’t help the half-gasp, half-cry that escapes. The sensitivity level is off the charts, and a simple touch is enough to get my juices flowing once more.

  He doesn’t stop there, though. His lips and tongue continue to tease me as he moves his head down.

  His hands spread my knees apart, and his palms rest on the back of my thighs.

  Oh fuck, is he going to—

  “Killian!” I throw my head back and arch my pelvis as his tongue flicks across my already sensitive clit.

  He looks up at me, and as our eyes meet, a teasing grin spreads across his face. He traces the inside of my pussy lips and dips his tongue inside, moving it ever so lightly.

  It’s enough to drive me fucking insane.

  I run my fingers through his hair, grabbing handfuls and silently beckoning him to lick me where I want it most.

  He alternates between gliding over my clit and sucking on it. Every now and then, he stops, looking at me with a devilish expression that stirs both frustration and lust.

  He brings me so close to the edge, pulling back at the last minute, denying me my release.

  “You’re a fucking tease,” I pant. I can barely keep my composure. My fingers tangle tightly in his hair, and now I can’t stop myself from grinding against his tongue desperately.

  I can feel him smiling as he licks slowly around my clit.

  Infuriating asshole.

  Finally, it seems like he’s had enough of teasing me. His tongue is flicking rapidly back and forth, up and down. The pleasure is building, and all I can think is pleeeaase don’t stop.

  Squeezing his head between my thighs, I let out one last cry as he takes me over the edge.

  My body shudders as his tongue slides inside, lapping up all my juices before he slowly pulls away.

  Exhausted and spent from the most pleasure I’ve experienced in the last three years, all I can do is lay motionless on the couch.

  Killian crawls up onto the couch until his head is resting on my tits. It’s like he thinks they’re a fucking set of pillows that exist solely for him.

  I lean up, pushing him into a sitting position, and straddle his lap.

  My hand dips down to his pants, slipping inside, where I can feel the tip coated in pre-cum.

  He wants me just as bad as I want him. All I can think now is that I want that massive cock of his inside me. I want to show him the same pleasure he’s shown me and take us both over the edge again, together.

  Before I have a chance to do anything else though, he grabs my hips and moves me off of his lap. Then he stands up, adjusting his pants to shift his now very visible erection.

  Confused, I look up at him as he leans down to kiss me.

  “The rest’ll have to wait.”

  Is he fucking kidding me?

  I grab my sweatshirt from the floor and throw it on as I follow him to the kitchen.

  Walking to the table, Killian grabs the rest of the Locke’s and the bottle of Jameson sitting on my counter.

  “I’ll be borrowin’ this, lass. Not like you’re going to be able to drink for a long while, anyways.”

  Well, that’s presumptuous of him. He thinks he’s got me in the bag.

  “If it’s the whiskey you want, take it,” I admonish him, waving towards the door. “But don’t make the mistake of getting ahead of yourself.”

  That stops him in his tracks, and he turns around as he steps out onto the porch. “Getting ahead of myself? Becks, you clearly—”

  “Just because I enjoyed myself doesn’t mean that I’m going to agree to this just yet,” I cut him off. “Making a woman come and having a baby are two totally different things. Surely you didn’t think that was enough to seal the deal?”

  The look of surprise on his face is evident.

  The feeling of satisfaction I get as I shut the door in his face is glorious.

  16

  Killian

  I line the bottles up next to one another on the kitchen bench and stare at them.

  And they stare back at me.

  It doesn’t make the decision any easier.

  Shall I drink from left to right, right to left, or in alphabetical order? It’s a fucking tough choice, and one I’m prepared to make.

  Except, which way shall I go? Will it actually make a fucking difference, or am I just being a total dickhead here?

  I don’t really want an answer to that question. Self-criticism can be so fucking destructive, but not as destructive as total fucking lovesick anguish though. But that’s another story altogether.

  Fuck it. I close my eyes and grab a bottle.

  Ah, the Rampur Single Malt. If I have to start somewhere, I may as well start simple.

  I stare at the first glass I pour for what seems like an eternity.

  Why
is it that time has the ability to change depending on the circumstance? I mean, it should always be the same, and yet there are times where it feels like it’s fucking flying along and others where it’s barely moving at all.

  The briefest possible internal struggle ensues, and ultimately, the drink wins. I close my eyes and click my tongue.

  Fucking brilliant.

  Light. Fluffy. Fruity.

  It was a real stroke of genius to clear Rebecca out of her whiskey. If she’s going to have a baby, she really shouldn’t be consuming any fucking alcohol.

  Vague memories surface of reading something about alcohol and pregnancy not mixing. Best I start looking after her interests.

  So, she may not have agreed yet, but heck, the way she came on me before and stared at my cock, she’s just about there.

  It’s only a matter of time, as far as I can tell.

  I won’t rub my hands together just yet, but I’d bet Ida on it; she’ll be here in the morning, ready to agree.

  I down the next glass of whiskey and start to pace the room.

  Not only are my taste buds on fire, my entire body is also burning brightly. She ignited a flame of passion, and boy did I have to struggle against the greedier parts of myself to walk away from her.

  My thoughts drift to Jameson. It’s strange, but Jameson and Rebecca are like night and day, sun and rain, the yin and the yang—they go hand in hand.

  I’m sure I’ve got a bottle somewhere.

  Quickly, I stride over to my cabinet where I stash all the good stuff. And there it is, right at the back.

  It’s a bottle of Jameson, and not just any bottle. It’s the bottle from the year of the conference—the year we met.

  With shaking fingers, I put the bottle down.

  Shall I?

  I shake my head.

  No fucking way.

  I vowed not to get hurt again. If I drink this stuff, I’m drinking to something that’s not there.

  I mean, sure, we’ve had a real fucking hot time together real fucking recently. But I don’t need a fucking repeat of what happened last time.

  If I hand myself over entirely—hand my heart over and everything—there’s very little fucking chance it’ll turn out well.

  One broken heart in a lifetime is plenty, thank you very much.

  Instead of the Jameson, I can drink something else. Plenty of alcohol around in this wee cottage.

  Who am I kidding? Fucking Bushmills it is. That’s one Irish whiskey that’s never done me wrong.

  Maybe I should get a job in fucking advertising.

  By the time I’ve had a few, my nerves are a little calmer and my thinking’s a little foggier.

  That still didn’t seem to help one fucking bit.

  This is no fucking good. What the fuck am I doing here alone in my cottage?

  If I stay here any longer by myself, I’ll be doomed to fucking be here forever.

  No—forget it.

  I can’t be thinking like that any longer.

  It’s that type of thinking that leads to trouble—every fucking time.

  I’m just fine here on my own.

  As for Becks, she’s about to agree to enter into an arrangement with me—an arrangement which will involve a lot of no-strings-attached fucking.

  Not bad. It’s like a “friends with benefits” type of situation.

  It’s much less risky than getting into all sorts of fucking heart-risking trouble.

  With a sigh, I open the front door and breathe in the cool night air.

  There’s a strange clicking sound somewhere close by, and I need to go and investigate. It’s coming from the back of the house.

  It doesn’t take me long to work out what’s going on. Ida’s managed to open her stable door and is walking around the backyard.

  In the process, she’s knocking over various bits and pieces. A garden rake bites the dust, a bucket gets kicked, and bottles in the recycling container are tipped over.

  “What’re you doing?” I think my speech may be a little slurred.

  Ida stops and looks at me.

  “Don’t you give me that accusing look, young lady.” I point my finger at her. For some reason, there seems to be two of her. “I’m not the one who’s out of my stable.”

  The world is spinning a bit as well. Is it going counterclockwise or clockwise? Too fucking hard to tell.

  Which fucking way is which again?

  My horse nudges me, and I nearly lose my balance.

  “Giving me a sobriety test, are you? Newsflash, missy: I’m not drunk.”

  Her look speaks volumes.

  One of those volumes begins with the words: You’ve had way too many, my friend, to have an independent opinion on any matter.

  “You don’t know what it’s like to have your fucking heart broken,” I grumble, kicking the bucket she knocked over.

  She snorts and stomps with her right hoof, which I interpret to mean: That just goes to show how little you know about me and other living creatures, you selfish solipsist.

  Ida’s vocabulary might be more extensive than I realized.

  I can’t let myself be intimidated. No, sir.

  “Don’t you take that tone with me, missy. I still feed you and look after you. A little respect is the least you can show me.”

  In response, Ida turns away from me, leaving me to stare at her backside.

  “How very mature of you, Ida. I’m just about finished with this conversation.”

  Not fair, I know, but she’s making me mad.

  Ida pays me no mind and just walks away.

  “Don’t you treat me like I’m invisible, you…” I’m searching for the right words, but they fail me.

  Aren’t I supposed to be a fucking writer?

  I mean, I should be able to wield words any which way I want, any time I want. And yet right here, right now, I can’t think of a fucking suitable thing to say.

  “Come back here at once, you temperamental harridan.”

  Ida stops.

  Maybe I should lower my voice.

  With Ida’s behind still pointing in my direction, I walk up to her and grab her by the halter. She pulls her head away.

  It’s not like her to hold a grudge.

  “Okay.” I pat her on the neck. “Maybe you do know what it’s like to have your heart broken. All the more reason for you to be sympathetic to my current state.”

  Another snort, this time a softer one. I’m sure it says: Broken hearts suck, my friend. But we get over them.

  “I know, I know. But I don’t want it to happen again. She’s not going to do it again. I’m going to make sure of it.”

  Her soft nose nuzzles into me. I’m pretty sure she’s saying: Falling in love is about taking a chance. It’s like galloping up to a jump and wondering what will happen.

  “Really?” I start leading her back to the stable. “I thought it was something about jumping off a cliff and either floating on the back of a cloud or hitting the ground with an almighty thud.”

  She shakes her head violently, nearly knocking me off my feet. I think she means to say: You fool. Horses don’t think in human terms. Horses have their own analogies.

  Fair point.

  “Bottom line, Ida, I don’t want to go through fucking heartbreak again, ever.”

  Ida nods.

  Of course. Who does? Life’s about taking a chance, and well, maybe fucking up. Then you pick yourself up again and find something else to take a chance on. But if you don’t take a chance, well, what’s the point of being alive?

  “Ida,” I begin, and rouse on the gentle giant, “I never knew you were one to use profanity.”

  This time, her snort has bits of snot flying into my face.

  “Lovely,” I mumble and push her into the stable.

  I grab an armful of hay.

  “You want to share a drink with me?”

  She gives a definite shake of the head and a stomp of her left hoof in case I was in any doubt as to what she was
trying to tell me.

  “It’s not that bad, really,” I start, but I stop when I look into her eyes.

  Destroying your body by drinking yourself stupid won’t fix anything. It doesn’t fix heartache or any of the other shit you think it fixes.

  I throw the hay into her stable.

  “I know, Ida,” I mumble and stare at her for a bit longer. “I know. But what else am I going to do? What else do I have going, really?”

  17

  Rebecca

  Perky tits, check. Defined waistline, check. Nice round ass, double check.

  I’m standing in front of the full-length mirror in the bedroom of my cottage, naked as the day I was born.

  It seems strange that this is actually happening.

  It’s been a long time since I’ve stripped myself bare and had the confidence to really take a good look at myself. In some respects, I’m surprised by what I see.

  In others, not so much.

  Like these little dimples on my thighs.

  I rub light circles over my skin as I casually explore and rediscover my feminine figure.

  I’ve been avoiding mirrors since my divorce—maybe even before that, if I’m being brutally honest.

  My relationship with reflective surfaces wasn’t always problematic. Using a mirror like this to see myself—to get a good idea of what I actually looked like during a moment of my life—used to be a fairly regular practice for me.

  I was never exactly in love with myself, but for most of my life, I was quite okay with looking in a damn mirror, at least.

  That only began to change over the last few years.

  Being with my ex-husband slowly chipped away at my confidence until I started shying away from mirrors altogether.

  Hell, even picture frames and pan lids were my arch-nemeses. Anything with a reflection was off-limits.

  It’s hard to explain what it felt like to see my reflection at the time—to see what was happening.

  Mainly, I got tired of seeing the bruises. I got tired of having to tell myself this was the last time he’d lay his fucking hands on me.