Chapter 6
Rhiannon
All common sense has left my body—burned out in the heat between my thighs.
It’s the middle of the day, my bloody wedding day, and I’ve just shoved a total stranger into the toilet at my local. My pulse hammers so loud it’s all I can hear, just as well because if common sense got a look in, I’d be turning on my heel and bolting.
The air tastes like gin, sweat, and something that feels dangerously close to freedom.
It’s not exactly spacious in here, but it’s not as confined as a single stall bathroom, either. There’s a toilet, a sink, a changing table, and a delicious man staring at me with wide and tempestuous eyes. He smells like Guinness and rain and the kind of bad idea you’ll still taste tomorrow.
I can’t even blame the drink on my actions. Sure, I’ve had a few brambles, but I’m not nearly drunk enough to chalk up my newly discovered brass neck with the opposite sex to the alcohol. Every nerve ending is screaming do it.
My handsome toilet-friend places his hands on my shoulders and steps back, but I fist his shirt so he can’t go too far.
There’s a faint hint of the pub’s disinfectant in the air, but it’s overshadowed by whatever aftershave this stranger is wearing.
His eyes are wild with questions, his lips red and already slightly swollen from my kissing him.
Fuck. It felt good to kiss someone other than George. I mean, it’s not like George was ever overly affectionate to me, but it’s been months, months since I’ve touched anyone, or been touched. A girl has needs, you know?
I’m ready for that to change. I don’t want to wait a week or two, I don’t want to turn thirty only having ever been touched by the man who betrayed me, the man I kept in a cushy house while I worked two jobs when he was out of work. For over a fucking year.
My blood flickers with a flare of fury at the sheer amount of my time, my money, and myself that I gave to that cheating motherfucker.
Even thinking about George should turn my stomach, shred my heart further—but my body’s buzzing, greedy for something, anything, that isn’t him, and electric with the possibility of something more, something better than what I’ve had for years.
Goosebumps explode up my arms as I brush against the cold, tiled wall. I don’t want to wait another second to erase the memory of his sloppy tongue against mine, his fumbling hands that took a compass, a map, and being physically led to my goddamn clitoris before he’d know where to go.
The old saying “you can take a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink” is never truer than when you’re lying naked, sexually frustrated, and you have a man who doesn’t give a flying fuck about your pleasure with his sausage fingers in the general area of your happy button.
Ugh. The more I think about him, the more the vengeful, murderous thoughts I’ve spent months trying to push down break through my sex haze. I’m definitely doing this.
I search my potential no-strings fling’s face for a sign of what he’s thinking, and he searches mine right back.
“Rhiannon… Are you sure you—?”
I press my hand against his mouth while heaving out a sigh of my own. So, we’re doing this now. Part of me doesn’t blame him, but I’d be lying if I didn’t want the man I kidnapped into the bathroom to just bend me over and fuck me without questions.
“Look. I’m not too drunk to give consent.
Contrary to what you might think with the wedding dress and all, I don’t want till death do us part.
I just want a quick romp to erase the memory of my cheating ex-fiancé who hardly ever had his dick in me but went to fuck one of my best friends. Repeatedly.”
Apparently, it’s important for me to be clear that it wasn’t a one-off thing that could be put down to an accident. How a man accidentally sticks his cock in someone other than his girlfriend—fiancée—is beyond me, and yet, I’m still here qualifying my situation to a stranger.
Fucking internalized misogyny.
Wow. That was a little more on the nose than I had intended, but it seems to have hit the mark. My bit-of-fun-in-the-loo’s face softens, and his eyes swim with something I can’t decipher.
His fingers skim my cheekbone as he takes a step toward me.
“His loss.” His thumb traces my jaw, and the air between us thickens.
I can feel every breath he takes, every decision he’s contemplating—and the one I already have.
He sweeps his hand into my hair as he takes another step, backing me up against the toilet door.
His breath brushes my cheek. There’s a split second before contact—the static crackle of possibility, the hum of need, the impatience of every primed cell in my body—and then his mouth is on mine. Tenderly, slowly, not rough or hungry.
This is the kind of kiss that steals time.
He pulls back, staring at my lips, opening his mouth to say something, but if he says something nice to me, I might burst out crying.
And that is not what I want to happen at this moment. I want this man to scratch an itch, to help me erase the bad memories of Sloppy George and replace them with something hot, spontaneous, and fun.
The thought of George’s name tastes bitter in my mouth. I want to scrub him out of my skin, my heart, my life… out of the walls of my neglected pussy. I want to replace every trace of him with something new, something hot enough to cauterize the wounds they both left.
So instead of letting the stranger say another word, I wrap my hand around his, and with my free arm, I bunch up my wedding dress and place his digits on the lacy, barely there fabric between my thighs.
He rests his palm on the door next to my head, the sound that leaves him is somewhere between a growl and a prayer, and it hits me low in the belly.
The room smells of something darker now—desire has never smelled so good.
“Fuck. He didn’t deserve any of this, Rhiannon.
Christ.” He drops his forehead. “You’re so wet. ”
I am. I can’t deny the thrill charging through my veins at taking back control of my sexuality so soon after airing my most embarrassing moments to a room full of people. Plus, the way this guy is looking at me… like all his Christmases have come at once… well, it’s hard not to be wet.
I love how this man says my name. There’s a gravelly timbre to his voice that sends little sparks across my skin.
Did George ever say my name with such reverence?
Such desire? If he did, any memory of it is erased as this blue-eyed, black-haired hulk of a man’s fingers gently trace the edges of the scrap of underwear covering my shaven pussy.
Toilet Tryst—admittedly a name I need to work on—lets out a slow hiss when I jolt at his touch as he moves my knickers aside for access. Heat blooms where he touches, the thin lace dragging over skin that’s already pulsing for him.
The air between us thickens.
I tip my head back against the door, the cool metal of the door handle presses against my hip, grounding me. Thank fuck, because if he touches me any harder, I might float off the floor.
My sisters don’t know where I am, and after blowing my life up so publicly, they’re worried about me.
And rightfully so. They—or even Matthew—will come and find me if I’m not careful.
I’m on borrowed time, but I want this man and his massive hands to worship my body, and I want to worship his in return.
We don’t have time for worship, and if he worships me, I might grow attached. We have time for a quick and dirty, no-frills fuck in the bathroom of the bar, and my pussy is throbbing so much she doesn’t even care.
He slides his middle finger through my slit, the pad of his digit rough and deliberate. Every drag sends a spark shooting up my spine. My knees threaten to give. My body leans into him, silently begging for more. The air’s thick with the sound of our breathing—uneven, needy, real.
The slick sound of his fingers moving over me fills the tiny room, echoing off the tiles, indecent and so fucking obvious. Fuck. This is so mortifying. I want to bury my head against his shoulder so he can’t see my hot, undoubtedly pink cheeks get darker.
Can he tell I haven’t been touched in months? Crap. I hope he just thinks his fingers really do it for me. I can’t even lie, he’s barely touched me, and they do do it for me. It makes my skin burn with the humiliation of just how neglected my body was by my ex.
I scrunch my eyes closed. If I can’t see him, he can’t see my indignity, right?
“Fucking love how wet you are.” He murmurs against my neck, his hot breath sending waves of goosebumps across my skin as his fingers spread my lips open and move toward my clit.
My body answers before my brain can keep up—hips rolling, clit aching, chasing more like it’s the first time I’ve ever been touched right.
He’s going so fucking slowly I almost beg him to go faster.
“Soaking.” He hums an approving sound which makes my shoulders relax.
He at least knows where my clit is located.
This is a promising start. With every brush of his fingers, I’m cranked higher and higher and am becoming more convinced that life with George was a punishment of some kind.
Every sweep of my toilet tryst’s hand between my thighs reminds me of the neglect I’ve endured, and an unhinged desperation to come consumes me more with each breath.