At midnight, I went up to my room, but sleep eluded me. At one a.m., I finally stopped trying to sleep and went to the kitchen, made myself hot cocoa, and settled in front of the fire.
I glance at the antique wall clock now. Four a.m. Something else crashes, this time followed by the sound of cursing. I walk over to the door of the study and peek in. Liam’s standing with his back to me. He’s at the bar. Next to him, an empty bottle of whiskey lies on the floor. As I watch, he reaches for another bottle of whiskey and misses. "Bugger. Bugging fuck."
"Is that even a swear word?" I walk into the room, but he doesn’t turn. He puts out his arm, his actions that of a man who’s inebriated but is trying his best to make his limbs obey his commands. He manages to brush his fingertips across the bottle, but yet again, he doesn’t grasp the bottle. I draw abreast with him and lift the bottle. I pour it into the glass and slide it over to him.
He scowls at the liquid in his glass, then turns to me. "No nagging about staying out late or drinking too much?"
I open my mouth, but he holds up his finger. "Oh yeah, I forgot. You’re not really my wife, are you? You might become the mother of my child, but you still wouldn’t want to be my wife, which you made abundantly clear."
I wince. "I… I’m sorry for what I said earlier."
"No, you’re not."
I bite the inside of my cheek. "You’re right, I’m not. I meant it."
"And I mean it when I say, I’m not letting you out of your contract."
I nod. Nothing I didn’t expect. He didn’t get to be where he is without ensuring people stick to their commitments.
He wraps his fingers about the glass, making no move to lift it.
"How’s your hand." I glance toward his other hand with the dressing I wrapped about it. "Does it hurt?"
"Not as much as my heart."
I squeeze my eyes shut. "Liam, please," I whisper.
"The only ‘please’ I want to hear from you is when you’re under me with your pussy pried open and around my cock."
A hot flash of heat detonates in my belly. I’m instantly wet. The throb in my core is only matched by my heart thrashing against my ribcage like a bird yearning to break out of its cage.
Like I’m craving to smash through my self-imposed walls and tell him the truth about me. Why is it so hard? Have I tamped it down so deeply inside that now, when I want to tell him, I’m no longer able to bring it to the fore? Have I spent so long trying to ignore it that now, when I want to reveal it, I’m unable to? Like a muscle memory that’s been relived over and over again, until it’s formed a neural pathway that I can no longer erase? Have I forgotten what it means to speak from my heart? Will I no longer be able to share what it means to go through what I did? What makes me…me? Am I no longer the person I thought I was? Have I lost the ability to see myself in the mirror, and now, when I’m trying to remove the shroud from over my eyes, I can’t?
"LadyBird?" I glance up to find he’s watching me closely. I thought he was inebriated, but his eyes are clear. Maybe he isn’t as drunk as I thought he was? Maybe I’m the one who’s been lost all this time?
"What is it?" He searches my features. "Tell me, baby, please."
The tears that spill from my eyes are as cleansing as the moisture that drips down from the opening between my legs.
I reach over, grab the glass from him, and take a gulp of the whiskey. Then, I place the glass back on the counter, grab the hem of my nightshirt, and pull it up and off.
His breath catches. "Isla, what are you doing?" His gaze snaps on my bare breasts and stays there.
I bring my palms up to cradle the weight of the globes. Then I tweak the nipple. It instantly tightens into a pin-point of pain.
His nostrils flare. A vein throbs at his temple. Color flushes his cheeks, and it’s not from the alcohol he’s consumed. If anything, his eyes are clear. They’re burning into me, his irises that blue-green color that appears only when he’s experiencing heightened emotions.
I slide my fingers into the waistband of my sleep shorts. I slide them down my thighs, then my knees. I straighten and they pool around my ankles. I kick them aside, then stand with my arms at my sides. He rakes his gaze down my waist to the triangle between my legs. My thighs clench, and my core spasms. My fingers tingle, but I refuse to cover myself. Instead, I spread my legs wider apart.
His entire body hardens; his muscles seem to turn into orbs of solidness that ripple under his skin, like they have a life of their own. I glance at his crotch to find it’s tented. The thick column of his cock outlined by the fabric of his pants. My mouth waters. Another fat drop of cum slips out from between my lower lips.
In a flash, he’s on his knees in front of me. He grabs the back of my thighs, holds me immobile, then lowers his head and licks the errant droplet.
Heat flushes my skin. My knees weaken. I sway, then dig my fingers into his hair and tug. A growl rips from him, then he swipes his tongue up my pussy lips, and I cry out. He begins to eat me out without hesitation. He attacks my pussy like he’s a starving man and he’s been served up his favorite dessert. He licks me from my slit to my swollen nub. He swirls his tongue around my cunt. He licks me, tastes me, stabs his tongue inside my pussy and curls it inside. I moan, the sound broken, and intertwined with the messy slurping of his mouth on my most intimate part.
"Liam, please," I gasp.
He leans back then, his mouth and chin glistening with the evidence of my wetness. A fierce sliver of lust sizzles up my spine.