Chapter One from Ro’s POV
Chapter One from Ro’s POV
Rowan
Why did I even come out tonight? I should take a page out of Kennedy’s book and stay in the night before a match, but here I am, fixing to get up to no good. I’ll have one pint then find myself a random lass to warm my bed for the night.
Except I don’t want some random wagon, do I?
No, ‘course not, because I can’t seem to get my fecking mind off a surly bartender with the most beautifully tattooed skin I’ve ever had the pleasure of viewing.
No one knows this, and I don’t intend for anyone to find out, but I haven’t done more than a quick shift with a lass in close to three months.
The opportunity has been there, and more than one have been willing to take the full ride, but I cut it short every time. Fecking eejit.
Maybe that’s my problem then? I need to get off by more than just my own hand and then I won’t be so dead set on…
“Alicia.”
I don’t even realize I’ve said her name out loud until the blonde and leggy lass in front of me says, “No, Andrea. My name is Andrea.”
Wasn’t even fecking talking to this geebag.
I was just scanning the room, seeing if there was a prime candidate for the night, when my gaze snagged on none other than the subject of all my dirty fantasies lately, Alicia Petersen.
There she is, perched on a bar stool, nursing a drink and looking deadly in skin-tight black leather pants and a black tank top with the bottom cut off just above her waist, exposing the skin of her stomach and what appears to be a phoenix wing inked onto her side.
Her hair’s down tonight, which is rare. It’s usually plaited or pulled into some wild knot atop her head.
I never realized how long it is. The ends fall to the middle of her back, eliciting all sorts of images involving it wrapped around my hand.
“Want to go somewhere more private, handsome?” Andrea cocks a hip, eyeing me up and down seductively.
Any other night, I’d at least ask her to dance, but she pales in comparison to the broody lass at the bar.
“Nah. Not tonight, love,” I tell her, flashing a grin, but never meeting her eyes.
“You sure?” A slender hand presses to my chest, sliding upwards. “I’ll make it worth your while.”
Grimacing, I gently grasp her wrist and pull her fingers from my shirt. “I said no.” I stalk past her toward the one thing in this club I do want.
Alicia doesn’t notice me come up behind her, and I can’t resist an opportunity to mess with her, so I don my best American accent. “I’d love to see the tattoos under your clothes.”
She tenses and I can practically feel the steam rising off of her as she downs the drink in her glass and spins on the bar stool. I clock the moment her eyes shift from rage, to shock, to annoyance when she realizes I’m the creep invading her space.
“Goddammit, Ro! You just about got throat punched!”
Bantering with Alicia is one of my favorite hobbies, and we do it so well.
She pretends to hate me, and I wind her up just to watch the fire flash in her eyes.
She’s all hard edges and chipped shoulders, but I know that underneath all that jaded exterior is a lass that cares deeply for those in her life.
I’ve watched her take care of her friends at O’Nelly’s and pick up Paddy’s slack.
She doesn’t share much personal information with anyone, so the things I do know about her are what I’ve observed over the years.
I’m pretty certain she has a kid sister that she takes care of as well.
“So the accent worked?” I ask, flashing a smile at her.
“Are you saying your goal was to be throat punched?” She’s looking at me like my mental state is up for questioning.
“No! ‘Course not! I’ve been working on my American accent so I can better blend in.”
She snorts indelicately, eyeing me from head to toe. “You wouldn’t blend in if you were wrapped up in an American flag. Everything about you screams Irish.”
I do love it when she gets mouthy.
Leaning in close, I ask, “Are you stereotyping me, darlin’? Because I take offense to that.”
Alicia shivers slightly, but rolls her eyes and turns away.
She raises a hand to wave down the bartender.
If she thinks ignoring me will make me leave her alone, she’s mistaken.
I move close enough that my chest is against her back my arms are braced on either side of her body, hands curled around the lip of the bar.
Her perfume is floral with a touch of a spice I can’t identify.
Without actually touching her, I angle my head closer to inhale deeply.
Goosebumps appear along her arms and her spine stiffens.
“Gallagher,” she growls through her teeth.
“Petersen,” I murmur against her ear, not missing the way her thighs rub together. Satisfaction jolts through me. She’s turned on, and that’s something I can absolutely work with.
“Move your fucking arms before I remove them from your body.”
There’s enough bite in her tone to let me know I’m walking a thin line. She can’t decide if she wants to fight me or fuck me. I’m hoping for the latter.
“Ach. No need to get violent, love,” I say, releasing her and moving to sit next to her. The bartender still hasn’t delivered her beverage. “What are you drinking tonight?”
Alicia turns her head slightly and raises a dark brow at me. “Why do you want to know?”
Why the feck does she think? “So I know what to tell the bartender when I buy your next one.”
“You’re not buying me a drink.”
“I am, actually. And,” I hold up a finger to stop her from speaking. “as it’s not your money, you can’t tell me what to do with it.”
She narrows her eyes at me, then finally seeing that I’m right, she heaves a sigh. “Fine. Buy me the damn drink.”
* * *
I buy her three drinks because she’s so tightly wound that a night of drinking and dancing will do her some good.
I know that I’m right when her smiles and laughter comes easier and, rather than being closed off, she’s turned towards me, hand resting on my forearm while she tells some story about about an arsehole she encountered at work.
She’s mid-sentence when the song changes from whatever techno shite was just playing to Ed Sheeran’s version of “Galway Girl”.
Not a bad tune, but it’s hard to beat the original.
At least that’s how I felt until Alicia links her fingers through mine and hops down from her chair.
“Ro, we have to dance to this song! It’s our song!” She says loudly, pulling me toward the dance floor.
Who am I to object when the lady wants to dance?
She throws her arms in the air, swaying in time with the music, eyes closed, and a delirious smile lighting up her face.
I’m too busy staring at her to notice some wanker moving in closer to her.
She spins around, bumping into him. I’m expecting her to lash out when he puts his hands on her hips to steady her, but she melts into his touch.
Only for a moment though. Which is good, because I’m about to rip the fucker’s hands from his body.
Her forehead creases and when she opens her eyes, they grow wider when she sees me standing a foot away from her.
She glances up, realizes some stranger is grinding into her arse, and gives him a look that has him raising his hands and backing away slowly.
With each step he takes backward, I take one forward and put my hands right where his were, right where they belong.
“You good, darlin’?” I all but yell over the music.
Alicia’s smile returns, and she nods. The song fades from jaunty to sultry in the span of a heartbeat, shifting the mood in the whole club.
The lights dim and the bass hits low. Without warning, Li pivots in my arms, presses her arse against my cock, then lifts one arm, looping it around the back of my neck.
Her body undulates against me and I’m powerless to do anything but join in.
I snake one hand around her middle, splaying it across her stomach, pulling her closer.
Her free hand rests on top of mine and our bodies move to the rhythm of the music.
The air in the club thickens with lust as other couples find themselves in similar positions.
Craning my neck, I catch a glimpse of Alicia’s face.
Her head is resting against my chest, eyes closed once more, and lips slightly parted.
Sweat beads her skin, a drop gliding down her neck into the valley between her breasts.
I’ve fantasized about this woman more times than I can count, and while this is innocent enough, I want more of her.
Giving into temptation, I slide the hand on her stomach lower, brushing my pinky just under the waistband of her pants.
Her back arches, pressing her arse more firmly against me.
I bring my other hand up to where her fingers are buried in the hair at the nape of my neck and trail my knuckles down the length of her arm, skimming the side of her breast, and over her ribs before coasting just under the hem of her cropped shirt, my thumb brushing underneath the swell of one breast then moving to the next.
Dropping my mouth to her neck, I don’t kiss her, just drag my lips over her skin.
Her head lolls to the side, giving me better access.
We dance like this for what could be seconds or hours.
Everyone else in the room is just static at this point.
I don’t move my hands any further north or south, and I still keep myself from kissing or licking her like I want to.