Chapter 6 #2
He skims his lips along my jaw, down the column of my neck, and across the top of my bare shoulder as though he has all the time in the world to explore my body.
Sagging against the door, I’m suddenly glad there’s something solid behind me.
The way he’s fingering my clit, I could easily slide down the panel of wood and onto the gross bathroom floor in a puddle.
Every brush of his lips feels like an apology I didn’t know I needed.
Every flick of his fingers says he means it.
Every tickle of his breath lights my body up like I’m a firework, lit and hurtling toward an explosion of color.
This man knows. The way his mouth maps my skin feels like worship disguised as sin. Each kiss burns hotter than the last, the scrape of his stubble catching on my tattooed collarbone as his breath ghosts the word beautiful into my neck.
His fingers curl in my hair, firm enough to anchor me, gentle enough to undo me.
He mutters something about George being a stupid fucker who didn’t deserve me, but the words melt under the low growl in his throat.
When his fingers slide deeper between my thighs, they find me slick and trembling.
The slow circles over my clit steals my breath; the plunging of his fingers between my folds drags a moan straight from somewhere deep and involuntary.
For such big hands, he touches like he’s afraid I’ll break—and somehow that makes me splinter faster.
Is my body so desperate for a release that it’s making it so easy for him? No idea.
Do I care? Not really. It’s a hookup in a bathroom, not the start of some timeless love story. He’s most definitely pleased I’m a soaking wet mess; the “why” doesn’t seem to matter to him, so it doesn’t to me.
My hips buck against his hand as his fingers pick up speed, riding in earnest as I chase the release building up in my core.
“I’m going to make you come on my hand, Rhiannon. Then I’m going to make you hold onto the sink while I fuck you senseless from behind. Is that what you want, pretty girl?”
I think I nod and say yes, but I’m too busy chasing the orgasm that’s so close I can almost taste it in the back of my mouth.
The world blurs. My body tightens, tightens, until I can’t hold it anymore.
It rips out of me, a low, broken sound I don’t recognize as my own.
My thighs shake. My pulse stutters. Every nerve ending lights up like a fuse, burning bright.
When it hits, the world stops turning on its axis, my head snaps back, and not even the sting of pain from the sharp contact against the door stops me from riding his hand through the best orgasm of my entire life.
My muscles tense, like they want to stay in this moment forever, not wanting the release to end. The pleasure crashes into me in waves, cascading, melodic surges of bone-deep pleasure that I feel in every single cell of my body. Is this what it’s supposed to feel like?
Fuck. For a few seconds, the world is just breath. Heartbeats. The faint drip of the tap and the tremble in my knees. My whole body relaxes, hands shaking. Before I can fully come down from the high, he grabs my chin with his free hand. “You still want to be fucked, Rhiannon?”
I like his dirty mouth. And part of me wants him to fuck me face-to-face so I can keep kissing it, but my body lit up when he mentioned fucking me from behind.
George was a lazy man—not that we had sex too often—but he was boring, dull. A man set in his ways and as long as he nutted his load, he didn’t care about much else.
Why the fuck did I stay with him for as long as I did?
Who knows. Maybe I was comfortable with the familiarity of it all.
Or maybe I hate myself on some level and figured I deserved the punishment of being with a bland and wholly uninteresting man.
That’s definitely something I’ll need to unpack, but for right now, it’s going to wait because the striking man with my chin in his hand gives my face a squeeze.
“Rhiannon?”
I blink.
“Do you still want bent over and fucked?”
My mouth is dry at how forward he is. “Y-yes. Fuck me.”
Wildfire flares in his blue eyes, and the only warning he gives me before shoving me toward the sink is a sharp nod. It’s rough, it’s demanding, and it’s everything George isn’t: proactive, dominant, and urgent. I fucking love it.
I bite my lip as I plant my hands on the robust porcelain of the Belfast sink. There’s a tear of plastic behind me, and as I cast a glance back over my shoulder, relief floods my veins that one of us is switched on enough to think about protection.
I’m on the pill, but of course that doesn’t guarantee against STDs, STIs, and whatever else one may pick up in the bathroom of a bar with a stranger. Fuck. I’m so bad at this. Blinded by straight up lust and a dripping, needy ache between my thighs.
He grins at me before caressing my face with the back of his knuckles, his touch pulling a quiet gasp from my lungs. “Breathe. It’s okay. You can have both safe sex and a quickie in a grotty bathroom.”
I can’t help the giggle that wells up inside me. I’ve never done anything like this before in my life, but this stranger’s making me feel like it was the best decision I’ve ever made with his easy smile, pretty eyes, and forethought to making it safe, at least sexually.
There’s a tiny part of me now aware that he could be a serial killer, so I’m glad I have my family on the other side of the door.
He’d never make it out onto Fleet Street before someone ripped him limb from limb.
And if he plans on killing me, at least I’ve gotten off first. This warm, fuzzy feeling encompassing my entire being feels kind of like the way I’d love to go.
The tall, dark, and handsome stranger slides my dress up over my ass.
The rustle of my dress sounds obscene in the silence.
Cool air hits my thighs as he lifts it. And he makes a strangled sound in his throat as he squeezes my cheeks with both hands.
“What I wouldn’t give to spend a few hours getting to know this body of yours, Rhiannon Morrigan. ”
He said it again. That low, sexy voice dragging out my name like it’s his favorite word to say.
He skims his thumb between my cheeks, my body freezing, cheeks clenching and another wave of goosebumps breaking out on my skin when he grazes my arsehole.
He chuckles. “Easy, pretty girl. I’m not going to fuck you in the arse. I don’t have any lube on me.”
I’ve never had anything go in that particular hole, and I’m not about to experiment on that level while standing inside a toilet.
Maybe I need to add that to my list of Hot Girl Healing things to do before I turn thirty.
I’ve heard some of the girls on the team talk about how they love a little back door action.
He leans over my back, his mouth next to my ear. “Hold on tight.”
Fuuuuuck. I might come again just from this man’s voice.
I grip the sink, my knuckles turning white, and my body thrumming with excitement of what’s to come.
He kicks my legs farther apart with one of his feet and slides my bridal lingerie to the side, then the blunt head of his cock presses against me—thick, hot, inevitable.
He nudges his dick against my entrance. He’s girthy, stretching me as he slowly starts to sink into my soaking wet pussy.
There’s no warning as he shunts in so deep it draws a moan from me.
A shiver rolls through my body as he gives me a minute to adjust.
“Still okay?” My heart threatens to crack at the pained sound of his voice as he checks on me. The more time I spend with this stranger, the more of a prick I realize my ex was, and the more I realize just how much I settled with a man who didn’t even give me the bare minimum.
I’m not letting George ruin this moment for me by striking an emotional chord, so I blink back the threatening tears.
My nipples are tight, my muscles primed, my pussy flexing and fluttering around Bathroom Buddy’s dick as I nod.
“Yes. Yes. Please… just…” My mouth is still open as my brain tries to figure out what I’m asking him for, but he already knows.
He pistons into me, slowly at first as if he’s trying to work up a rhythm.
It’s not long before his balls slap against me with every sharp thrust of his cock.
Our bodies moving together in the cramped space, makes it feel even more urgent and desperate.
The more he fucks me, the more breathless and eager I get.
I’m driven by an unrelenting anger, a blooming ache, and the desire to erase the memory of my ex-fiancé from my most intimate spaces, so I meet him thrust for thrust.
Pettiness made me grab this man, but the faint tingle of a promised orgasm fuels my ferocity, driving my hips back against the brutal thrust of his body.
The moment our eyes lock in the mirror, it’s like he’s seeing straight through my armor. My first instinct is to flinch, to look away—but he grabs my hair, forcing me to look into his bottomless eyes—and God help me, my whole body lights up.
It’s unexpectedly hot, and uncomfortably intimate.
Historically speaking, I stare at the magnolia wall above the headboard and run through my chores or gameplay during this moment.
So this eye-contact thing hits harder than his thrusts—this unexpected intimacy.
He’s watching me come apart. Watching me see myself.
It’s raw, almost too much. It’s exposing me in a way I’m not sure I like with a man I just met.
And when his other hand somehow makes it under the front of my dress and back to my pulsing clit, it’s a matter of seconds before I detonate for the second time. This time on his cock.
I’m gone again. The pleasure blindsides me, violent in its devastation.
I claw at the porcelain, at air, at him.
He growls something I can’t hear over the rush in my ears.
It’s messy, desperate, perfect. It takes us both by surprise, my body jerking and spasming, my breath stolen from my body on a wail as he drops his forehead onto my shoulder, hissing through gritted teeth.
I should care about being overheard, but I can’t find it in me to care.
Holy… What the hell? I can’t even get myself to come twice in close succession.
His cock swells, and he grunts, pressing me into the sink so hard there are going to be bruises on my hips.
Watching him as he unloads inside of me is the most erotic thing I’ve ever experienced. When he tips his head back, his cheeks are flushed, his eyes unfocused, and a deep sense of satisfaction spreads through me.
My body trembles. The air smells like sex and relief. My reflection shows a woman I barely recognize: flushed, wild-eyed, alive.
I offer him a shy smile. My hair is disheveled, my cheeks red, and my makeup not quite as dewy looking as it was before I left for Ballygally Castle.
He cleans himself up, tossing the condom in the rubbish, and fixes my dress in silence, the fabric now clinging to my sweat-slicked skin. He makes sure I’m ready before he reaches for the lock.
I stop his hand with mine. “Wait. You should go out there first. I’ll wait a minute and go out after you.”
He purses his lips as though he’s fighting a laugh, then nods.
I smooth out the front of my wrinkled dress with clammy hands, unsure of what to say to this good Samaritan who helped me get over George by letting me get, well, not exactly under him, but close enough.
“Uh… thanks?” I hold out my hand ready to shake his.
He lets his melodious, rich laugh go this time. “I just had my dick buried in your dripping wet pussy, Rhiannon. A handshake’s a little formal, don’t you think?”
My body didn’t get the memo that it’s a one-and-done thing. It flares to life at his words. “I guess it is.”
He lets his gaze rake all over my body. It’s so slow, deliberate, that I can almost feel my skin sizzling as they linger on my cleavage. “If only we had a little more time.”
I tip my head to the side asking a silent question.
“Well, I made you come on my fingers, then on my cock, I’d have loved to eat you out till you came on my face to make it a hat trick.”
His. Dirty. Mouth.
I barely contain the urge to fan myself, and the even stronger urge to pull up my wedding dress and demand he get on his knees and lick my sensitive clit until I detonate on his tongue.
It’s tempting, but the girls will send out a search party if I don’t get back out there soon.
He leans forward, plants a chaste kiss on my forehead, and winks at me as he opens the door. “Maybe next time.”
Even after the door clicks shut, I swear I can still feel his breath on my neck.
The ghost of him hums beneath my skin, like he’s rewired something inside me.
I stand staring at the door for a long moment after he leaves.
I’m left with nothing but the flicker of his touch and the echo of my own heartbeat.
Jesus. Maybe I just met my next mistake.
Did I really just have sex with a stranger in the bathroom of the Anchor?
Who even am I?
I have no idea, but I think it’s time to find out.