High Hopes (Coastal Rivals #3)

36. Birdie

36

BIRDIE

I’ve been hooked on throwing big pieces lately. Something just clicked during those first weeks in Hall’s mastery class—like I finally cracked some secret code. There’s this rhythm to it, a kind of hypnotic pull when you let the wheel guide you and trust the clay to respond.

The biggest piece I’ve thrown so far is twenty-eight inches tall. It’s not perfect, but it’s huge and commanding in the way I wanted it to be. There’s this rush in pushing the limits, testing what I can handle. And seeing how far I can go without it collapsing feels like its own kind of victory.

I’ve been toying with submitting them to the Ellsworth, but they need to feel finished—not just big. That’s why outside of Hall’s class, I’ve been working with Professor Tanaka, too. His ideas are inspired—sculptured additions that elevate the forms into something alive.

I feel like I’ve hit my stride with this. It’s not about impressing anyone or proving I belong anymore. It’s about the love of creating something that feels like an extension of myself. In just a few weeks, I’ll be working in Claire’s studio, and I’m eager to take everything I’ve been learning to the next level, to experiment without limits.

Right now, though, I’m in Liam’s room, sprawled out on his bed like a starfish. He’s at his desk, flipping through the photos he took of my pieces. Some of the prints are already developed, scattered across the desk in a haphazard display.

“Did you ever think about taking photography more seriously?” I ask, rolling onto my back and propping myself on my elbows. “Like, classes or an internship or something?”

He doesn’t even look up. “Nah. Too good at too many other things. Wouldn’t be fair to the rest of the world if I monopolized photography, too.”

I snort. “Right. Such a humanitarian, keeping your talents to yourself.”

“It’s a heavy burden. You wouldn’t understand.”

I grab the nearest pillow and chuck it at him. He catches it one-handed, like it’s nothing, and tosses it right back. We’re both laughing when a muffled thud and low grunts come from the other side of the wall. Liam freezes mid-throw, tilting his head like a confused golden retriever.

“Is that Warren?” I ask, sitting up straighter.

He squints at the wall. “Sounds like he’s wrestling a bear.”

We both stay silent for a minute, listening intently. Warren’s been living with Liam for three months now, and I’ve barely gotten to know him. He’s like a silent enigma—gruff and intense, with this perpetual storm-cloud expression that makes connection feel impossible.

I’ve seen him exactly twice outside of this apartment: once heading to the gym with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder and another time at the coffee shop, ordering a medium black coffee in the flattest monotone I’ve ever heard.

“Warren, buddy, you good?” Liam calls, just loud enough to carry. There’s another beat of silence and then—faintly—laughter. A girl’s laughter.

My eyes go wide. Liam’s expression mirrors mine, and for a second, we’re just sitting there, locked in stunned disbelief.

I didn’t even know Warren was capable of being intimate with anyone. He’s so closed off, like he’s built an impenetrable wall around himself. The idea of him laughing with someone, let alone sharing something as vulnerable as this . . .

“Oh my God,” I whisper.

“Yup.” Liam’s lips twitch. “Not a bear.”

We sit there, frozen in some weird mix of horror and amusement, until we hear footsteps—two sets, hurried and unsteady—followed by the front door slamming shut. Liam raises an eyebrow at me, and I clap a hand over my mouth to keep from laughing out loud.

“Well,” he says after a moment. “Guess we mind our own business now.”

“I feel bad. He just . . . left.”

“Good for him,” Liam says. “Man’s got his priorities straight.”

I stare at him for a moment, processing everything before an idea strikes. “Come here,” I say, grabbing his hand. My voice dips, teasing, like I’m about to share some grand conspiracy.

“What are you up to?” he asks, one eyebrow quirking as he lets me pull him up from the chair.

“Just come here,” I insist, dragging him closer until he’s standing in front of me. Then, without warning, I flop back onto the mattress, pulling him with me. He stumbles, barely catching himself as he lands beside me, his weight shifting the bed beneath us.

“Birdie,” he says, his tone caught somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “What the hell are you—”

“I didn’t know Warren had sex.”

His laugh bursts out of him, loud and unfiltered. “Seriously? That’s what this is about?”

“Yes!” I exclaim, rolling onto my side to face him. “I mean, did you know Warren was having sex? Do you think he’s, like, secretly a wild card?”

His laugh morphs into a groan as he drops his head dramatically. “Nope, nope. Don’t like that. Those two words should not be coming out of your mouth together.”

“What? Warren and sex?” I tease, dragging out the words just to watch him squirm. I shift so I’m straddling him now, my fingers tracing lazy patterns on his chest. “You’re acting like it’s scandalous.”

“It is scandalous,” he retorts, looking at me with mock seriousness. “Warren is basically a cryptid. Cryptids don’t—” He gestures vaguely, his cheeks tinged pink. “—do that.”

“Maybe he’s a sexy cryptid,” I say, biting back a grin. “Have you ever read monster romance?”

“Oh my God, stop,” he groans, covering his face with his hands. “You’re ruining everything.”

“Am I, though?” I tease, leaning down to nudge his hands away. “Because you’re laughing, and I know you love it when I make you laugh.”

His hands drop, and he looks up at me, his grin softening. “Yeah, I do.” His fingers trail up my sides, settling at my waist as his gaze flicks between my eyes and my mouth. “Even when you’re being ridiculous.”

“Because Warren—”

“Birdie, baby, say the man’s name. One. More. Time.”

His hands are gripping my hips like he’s torn between stopping me and letting me keep going. “Warr—”

Before I can finish, he surges upward, cutting me off with a kiss. I squeal in surprise, but it’s muffled by his lips. Warm and insistent, they steal the breath right out of me. His laughter melts into the kiss, and mine does, too, until it’s just us, lips moving together.

Liam flips us over with surprising ease, rolling me beneath him as his weight presses me into the mattress. His hands are on my waist, then in my hair, threading through the strands and tugging lightly as his mouth deepens the kiss.

It’s slow and teasing at first, but then he shifts, his hips settling against mine, and a sharp jolt of heat shoots through me.

“Liam,” I whisper, the sound caught somewhere between a gasp and a plea.

My hands clutch at the back of his shirt, fisting the fabric as he leans into me. Every inch of him feels solid and overwhelming in the best way—his broad shoulders, the strong line of his torso, the way he fits against me so perfectly.

His lips leave mine to trail along my jaw, then down to my neck, where he presses kisses that make me shiver. “You’re ... very distracting.”

“Good,” he mutters against my skin, his voice low and rough. “Don’t want you thinking about anything else.”

His hands slide down to my hips, gripping firmly as he grinds against me. My breath catches, and I arch up into him instinctively, the friction sparking something primal and needy inside of me. I’m wet, aching for something to fill me up.

He feels so good, so solid and warm, and I want more. My head tilts back against the pillow, my body moving against his as if it has a mind of its own.

“Birdie,” he murmurs, his voice thick with want as he presses his forehead to mine, his hands tightening their grip on my hips. “I want to taste your pussy.”

Heat rushes through me, flooding from head to toe, and I wriggle beneath him, my body reacting before my brain can catch up. I want that. I really want that.

But my thoughts spiral, pulling me out of the moment. I’ve only ever done that twice, and honestly, it wasn’t that good. Both times were awkward, rushed, and left me wondering if I’d built it up too much in my head.

I liked to save that kind of intimacy for boyfriends, and before the car accident, I had plenty of them—casual, surface-level relationships that never went anywhere. Nothing that mattered, nothing that felt even close to this.

Now, with Liam above me, his lips brushing mine and his hands gripping my hips like he can’t get enough, I’m torn between the raw pull of the moment and the overthinking that’s always been my worst enemy.

“You’re in your head,” he murmurs, his voice softer now, cutting through the storm of my thoughts. He pulls back just enough to look at me, his blue eyes scanning my face with a mix of patience and mischief.

Then he flashes me that lopsided grin, the one that always makes my stomach flip. “I don’t have to eat you out if you don’t want me to. I was just thinking it could be really good. For both of us.”

A nervous laugh escapes me, and I lift my hands to his shoulders, gripping them as if I need the anchor. “No, I want that. I really do.”

He cocks his head, feigning innocence. “Want what?”

I flush even deeper, biting my lip as I try to muster the courage to say it. “You to ... eat me out. I just ... don’t know if I like it.”

That perks him up immediately, and his brows rise with exaggerated delight. “Boy, do I love a challenge.”

His playful tone pulls a startled laugh from me, and I relax a fraction, my fingers slipping from his shoulders to the back of his neck. “What if I’m terrible at it?” I blurt, my voice smaller now but still laced with humor.

He shakes his head, his smile softening into something reassuring. “Birdie, baby, I promise, you won’t have to do anything but enjoy it. If it’s not good, we stop. No pressure.”

I stare at him for a beat, his words sinking in. He’s so calm about it, like he’s completely certain this is going to work, that I’m going to love it. His confidence should be obnoxious, but instead, it settles something inside me, easing the nervous energy bubbling in my chest.

“Okay,” I say, my voice steadier now. “But if you’re bad at this, I’m making fun of you forever.”

He lets out a low chuckle, leaning down to press a kiss to my forehead. “Deal. But spoiler alert—I’m not bad at this.”

He shifts, trailing his hands down my sides and settling between my legs with a wicked grin that sends a fresh wave of heat surging through me. Every nerve in my body is on high alert, anticipation coiling tight.

His hands are quick, tugging at the button of my jeans and peeling them down my legs. My panties go next, a fleeting press of his fingers before I’m bare beneath him, utterly exposed. He pauses, his gaze dragging up my body, and the way he looks at me—like I’m art, like I’m something to be savored—makes my heart stutter in my chest.

He pushes my shirt up, baring my stomach, and leans in, his breath hot against my skin. I shiver as he blows a puff of warm air just above my navel, his lips brushing over the spot. Then he works his way lower, kisses trailing a path down my stomach and along the inside of my thighs, where his teeth nip gently at the sensitive skin.

When his lips finally press against me, I gasp. It’s like everything sharpens at once—every nerve alive and begging for more. He licks, lavishes, kisses, and sucks with a focus that makes my head spin.

It’s not just good—it’s overwhelming. He’s quite literally making out with my pussy, and it feels like ... magic. Like fireworks detonating behind my eyelids, like I’m floating and sinking at the same time, like nothing else in the world exists except the way he’s making me feel.

I grab at the sheets, my knuckles white as my head falls back against the pillow. My hips buck against him, completely out of my control, chasing every press of his tongue. His mouth moves to my clit, and I cry out.

Then his fingers join in—two of them, sliding inside me with the same ease as his tongue, pushing and pulsing in rhythm with the swirling heat building low in my belly. One flat hand presses firmly against my lower abdomen, anchoring me as his fingers curl just right, hitting that spot that makes me see stars.

The combined pressure—the way he’s everywhere at once—is too much, too good, and I instantly shatter. My whole body tightens, every muscle locking up before releasing in a powerful wave as I come. I’m exploding into his mouth, my body trembling with the force of it as he keeps going, coaxing every last aftershock from me.

And then he’s licking me clean, gentle now, his tongue soft and soothing against oversensitive skin. I think I’ve just died. Truly, honestly. There’s no way I’m still alive, not after that.

My chest heaves as I try to remember how to breathe, how to think, how to exist. Liam looks up at me, his mouth curling into that smug, lopsided grin. His lips are shiny, and I should probably feel embarrassed, but I’m still too blissed-out to care.

“So,” he says, his voice low and gravelly as he rests his chin on my thigh, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Still not sure if you like it?”

I manage a shaky laugh. “Oh, I like it. I definitely like it.”

“Good,” he says, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to my hip. “Told you I wasn’t bad at this.”

And for once, I can’t argue.