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; ‘Better than nice.’ I push up on my elbows, seeking his lips; he kisses me, pushing me back to the pool table and he thrusts into me, my already sensitive nerve endings quivering as he shows me that what we did before was actually pretty fucking mild.
That was sex.
This is fucking.
He grips my hips and drives into me and I cry out because I had no idea anything could ever feel like this—I’m being stirred to fever-pitch from inside. I lift my legs and he grabs my ankles, hooking them over his shoulders. Hell, he’s so deep inside me now, I groan and he brings his hands down, cupping my butt, lifting me up higher.
God.
This is heaven on earth. Right here, like this.
‘Fuck,’ I cry out, and he laughs softly.
Harder. Faster. Deeper.
But I’m rolling over the wave again and all I can do is moan loudly, so loudly, and scratch my nails over the green velvet as he drives me to the edge of sanity and humanity. This time he holds me still when I fall apart and he comes inside me, he comes hard, my name on his lips rough and gritty and the best thing I’ve ever heard, because there’s insanity and loss of control in the way he’s calling ‘Millie’ into the passion-soaked air. And I like hearing it.
* * *
My body craves her when I wake up. I reach for her on instinct, finding emptiness, because she left some time after midnight. I called her a cab and she slipped into it, throwing me a smile that was dazzling and confident as the taxi pulled away.
Not a hint of doubt or regret.
She was glad we fucked.
And God knows, I am too.
I reach for her, though, my body already wanting her again. And then I collapse back against the mattress. She’s gone. I’m relieved because the rules I live by will be even easier than usual to obey. No strings. Just sex. Incredibly hot sex. And with a definite, irrefutable endpoint.
I want her again and, despite all the certainties I have, the reassurance that the confines of this relationship are locked into place, I know I’ll make myself wait. I won’t call her today, or go to the bar tonight. I’ll wait as long as I can, as long as is humanly possible. I’ll wait until I feel like I’m going to burst out of my skin, and then I’ll test myself and see if I can wait any longer.
As strong as my desire for her is, I will control it with my dying breath and all that I am. I will remain in charge of this.
* * *
He walks into the bar, just as he has three or four times a week for the nine or so weeks I’ve worked here. But this is different.
Tonight, when Michael Brophy strides into O’Leary’s, it’s the first time since we slept together and my body has some kind of strange primal reaction to him.
It’s been five nights since then, five unbearably long, lonely nights, and the sight of him in a suit, looking as he always has but different somehow, makes my body hum and vibrate.
The bar is packed with the usual after-work crowd but he looks towards me and then at me, and I stand completely still, trapped by his gaze, by the heat that floods from him to me. His smile is slow and changes his face. His eyes crinkle at the corners. Pleasure curls my toes. He cuts through people with ease but, before he reaches the bar, he’s stopped by a woman with raven-black hair and cherry-red lipstick. I watch for a moment as her hand reaches out, curving possessively over his arm, her fingernails matching her lips as they press into his suit jacket. Her smile is intimate; he angles his towards her.
I look away; my own smile has dropped slightly, but I ignore the possessive thrust of pain in my side. He’s not mine. I don’t want him to be. He’s just a guy I slept with. A guy who’s teaching me what my body is capable of. As I remember the way he drove me to orgasm, my stomach clenches and I feel heat between my legs. Desire slicks my insides and the beating of a drum begins to sound, desperate and repetitive, needing indulgence again.
I purposely don’t go straight to Michael. I serve someone else first, then someone else, and then make my way to him.
‘Hi.’ My smile unfurls on its own.
He returns it. ‘Hi yourself.’
‘Your usual?’
‘You remember?’ he teases. I nod slowly. I remember everything about him.
I turn around, reaching for the most expensive whiskey bottle in the place, pulling it down with the tips of my fingers. When I spin around to grab a glass from the bar, his eyes are glued to my midriff and I realise the shirt has lifted. I make no effort to straighten it. What can I say? The trance-like stare is addictive and flattering. I pour his drink, then an iced water, and lift them onto the bar.
