Chapter 16 Siobhan #2
He reaches around me and snatches the glass out of my hand. Then, he throws it against the refrigerator, where it shatters into a thousand pieces of crystal, splashing wine everywhere, making me flinch from the impact. “You are not having any more of that,” he states in a voice so cold, I shiver.
I stare at the mess, my drunken defiance momentarily shocked into silence.
He grabs my arm, his grip firm but not painful like Chris’s had been. There’s no question of breaking free. He pulls me away from the counter, away from the spilled wine and shattered glass, steering me through the living room toward the hallway.
“What are you doing?” I demand, stumbling.
“Sobering you up.” He doesn’t look at me, just keeps moving with relentless purpose. “Because this conversation is going to happen tonight, and it’s going to happen when you can actually remember it tomorrow.”
I try to dig my heels in, to resist, but it’s like trying to stop a tidal wave. He’s stronger, more determined, and fueled by a cold fury that my drunken rebellion only seems to stoke. He pulls me into my bedroom and marches across the plush white carpet to the en-suite.
He stops and turns to face me. “You want to fight me, Siobhan? Fine. But you’re going to do it with a clear head.
” His eyes burn into mine, and the anger in them is terrifying.
But beneath it, there’s something else. Something raw and desperate that reflects the chaos in my head.
He lets me go and reaches into the shower to turn it on.
“Strip off, or I will do it,” he growls at me, taking his jacket off and slinging it over the basin.
“What?” I stammer.
“You are getting in this cold shower, clothed or not.”
“You wouldn’t dare.” The words are a pathetic attempt at defiance, slurred and weak against the cold fury radiating from him.
The alcohol that made me brave a moment ago is turning traitor, leaving me with nothing but a spinning head and a body that’s suddenly very aware of how big he is, how small this room is.
He kicks his shoes off and unbuttons his shirt, peeling the wine-soaked fabric away from a chest so perfectly sculpted, I think I drool a little. My eyes drop down his abs, lingering on the tats, and then they follow the path as he flicks his fly open and drops his pants.
He is going commando.
My mouth floods with saliva as I see that the ink goes all the way down, stopping just above where his dick is in a semi-hard state. He kicks his pants away and removes his socks.
I stumble back, meaning to go forward to lick him, and trip on the bathmat. He catches me and wraps his arms around me. Turning swiftly, he deposits me in the shower cubicle, fully clothed.
“No!” I squeak as the cool water cascades down around me, as he stands inside with me, blocking the only exit with his hard body.
The shock of the water steals my breath, replacing the warm alcoholic haze with a sharp, brutal clarity.
It plasters my silk blouse to my skin, rendering it transparent.
My pants are heavy and cold against my legs.
The cold cuts through the wine like a blade.
I’m not stumbling around in a fog anymore—I know exactly where I am, exactly who I’m with, exactly what this is.
I know what I’m doing. And I don’t stop.
“Are you listening now?” he asks, his voice low and guttural over the hiss of the water as he moves closer, pressing his body against mine.
I cling to him, my hands slipping on the wet skin of his biceps. He doesn’t move. He’s a wall of muscle and ink and cold fury, and I’m pinned between him and the tiled wall. My drunken anger is no match for his sober rage.
“Do it,” I murmur, taking his hand, and moving it to my buttons. “Undress me, or get out,” I add, shocking myself with how steady I sound.
His gaze burns into me. He hesitates. The water slicks his hair to his skull, drips from the hard line of his jaw.
My eyes are drawn down to the rigid length of him, undeniable and thick.
Every part of me that isn’t screaming in protest is screaming in need.
He’s not just sobering me up; he’s breaking me down, stripping away everything until all that’s left is this raw, undeniable wanting.
With steady hands, he undoes the buttons on my blouse as I stand stock-still, unable to move.
His knuckles graze my skin, rough compared to the slick, cold silk.
Each button he frees is a surrender I give.
His eyes are locked on his task, dark and focused, as if unmaking me is the most important thing in the world.
The blouse falls open. The cold hits my chest, and my nipples tighten into hard, aching points beneath the flimsy white lace of my bra.
His gaze drops to them, filling with raw, possessive heat that makes my stomach clench.
He doesn’t touch me. He just looks, a slow, deliberate appraisal that feels more intimate than any caress.
“You see?” he murmurs, his voice a low vibration that I feel in my teeth. “Even when you’re spitting fire, your body tells the truth.”
He pushes the sodden blouse off my shoulders, letting it slide down my arms to hang heavy at my elbows. I’m pinned, exposed, the cold water and his hot stare stripping away every layer of my composure.
“You’re going to stop fighting me,” he says, his mouth hovering an inch from mine. I can feel his breath on my lips, and it sends a ripple of lust through me. “You’re going to stop fighting this.”
“Yes.”
His hands go behind my back, and he unclasps my bra, pulling it away and throwing it out of the shower door so it lands on top of his pants.
My breasts fall heavy into his waiting hands.
He kneads them gently, pushing them together before his hands move lower to undo my pants.
He drops to his knees to peel them off me as I just stand there, freezing cold and immobile.
I’m left in nothing but a pair of soaked lace panties, wet for all the wrong reasons.
His fingers hook into the sides, and he pulls them down, exposing my shaven pussy to him. He smiles indulgently as he discards my panties.
The water sluices over his broad shoulders, down his back. He looks up at me from under wet lashes, his expression unreadable.
“This is what I see when I close my eyes,” he murmurs. “You. Undone.”
“Then look,” I manage, voice wrecked. “Look, Liam.”
Before I can say anything else, his mouth is on me.
It’s a claim. Hot and wet and utterly possessive. His tongue traces my slit, a deliberate, branding stroke that makes my knees buckle. My hands fly to his head, my fingers tangling in his wet hair, trying to pull him closer.
He takes my clit between his teeth, a gentle scrape that sends a bolt of pure, unadulterated pleasure straight to my core.
A sound rips from my throat, half protest, half sob.
He answers it by sucking me into his mouth, his tongue working a merciless rhythm that has me arching against him, my back hitting the cold tile.
The fight drains out of me, replaced by a desperate, shameless need.
He’s drinking my surrender, tasting my capitulation, and I’m letting him. God help me, I’m letting him win.