The Problem with Falling in Love (Falling in Love #5)

Chapter One

Ethan

“Another?” The bartender tips her head towards the schooner of beer I’ve been nursing for so long that it’s now warm and flat in my hands.

I look down and realise I’ve barely touched it. Too distracted.

She nips the glass out of my hand and pours the warm amber fluid into the slops tray.

“How about I give you a fresh one? On the house. Can’t have you drinking warm beer in my bar. I’ll get a bad reputation.” She efficiently pours another perfect schooner, while swaying her hips to the house music they’re playing to fill the time between the support act and the band I’ve come to see. Seraphina Cloud.

“Did you get stood up?” she asks with an exaggerated look behind me, searching for friends or a date.

“Nah. Just came to see the band. I hear they’re good.”

“Well, Solo Man, you heard right. They’re brilliant. This is their last Aussie show before they take off to Europe.”

I lift the glass towards her in thanks and sip the beer she gave me. It’s not the one I ordered earlier. It’s better. Cold and hoppy and fruity and a little cloudy. Boutique beers have exploded in the years I’ve been away.

“What’s this?” I lift the glass and ask as she serves the lone guy who’s appeared beside me. Most of the crowd is gathered in front of the stage. A tight cluster waiting in buzzing anticipation of the band. It seems like not too many are keen to give up their hard-won positions to buy a drink.

“It’s our own brew. Fat Possum XIPA.” She looks me in the eye, and I feel it all the way to my balls. Is she flirting with me?

“It’s good.” I take another gulp. Looks like maybe I did want another after all. Or maybe it was that I wanted something new.

“I know.” She grins. Not just with her mouth but with her whole face. And there’s that direct eye contact again. It feels like she’s telling me without words that something else I’ve never tried before might be good. Something like her.

She’s what I was distracted by. This woman behind the bar. Not because she’s beautiful, although she is, but because she glows and pulses with life. Her energy is like an oasis in the barren desert of my life.

It’s been so long; I can’t remember when I last felt that … I don’t even know how to describe it other than alive. Before my life imploded, for sure. Before I lost the past couple of years in a dirty swamp of guilt and regret and grief.

The house lights flicker. Once. Twice. The crowd roars. The bartender jumps on the spot before hooking her thumb at the guy serving with her. He rolls his eyes and nods, and before I know it, she’s out from behind the bar, taking me by the hand and towing me to the rear of the crowd.

Stretching onto her toes, she brushes her lips against my ear as she whisper-shouts over the screaming, “This is the best spot anyway. More room to dance.” My ear tingles at the contact. And it spreads until I’m feeling a long-forgotten buzz from head to toe.

Hot pink lights swing wildly across the stage and the crowd, and the tiny singer of Seraphina Cloud—my brother’s unofficial sister-in-law—bounces onto the stage.

An hour and a half later, we’ve somehow ended up in the middle of the crowd, crushed together. Her back to my front. I’m almost surprised to find my hands on her hips. She hasn’t stopped moving. Dipping and swaying. And my body hasn’t stopped responding to her. A fact she’s clearly aware of, judging by the looks she throws over her shoulder. Is that an invitation? I’ve never been good at this kind of thing.

“See you on the flip side, Sydney,” Seraphina, who I’ve never met but have heard about, shouts as the band leaves the stage for the last time.

The house lights go up, and the sudden silence rings in our ears.

“Better get back to work or I’ll be getting a bollocking,” the gorgeous bartender says, although it sounds like it’s coming from the bottom of an empty oil drum. Seraphina Cloud were loud. And the crowd was louder. “I’ll get you another XIPA.” And before I can object or make an excuse and tell her I’m heading home, she bounces off.

The bar is crowded now, but I find a quietish spot right at the end. I should go home. It’s late. But there’s nothing waiting for me there, and I find I can’t quite drag myself away from the woman who feels a little like the source of all life. This must be the way the Ancient Egyptians felt about the Nile.

“Here you go,” she says as she puts another schooner in front of me nearly an hour later. “You got off to a slow start, but you’re making up for it now.” She’s been keeping me supplied while serving the crowd at the bar. She’s good at her job.

She’s also good at flirting. For the first time in a long while, what has become a clear invitation is tempting me. And I’m flirting back. I think.

If I’m being honest, that’s why I’m still here. The thought of maybe hooking up with her is irresistible.

Christ almighty. This is not how I expected tonight to go when I decided to check out the band. This is not how any night has gone. Ever. By the time the last of the stragglers are pushed out the door, I’m both confident and incredulous that tonight will end … well, happily.

I fumble sliding the key into the lock. Not because it’s dark and the overgrown hedges are blocking the streetlight or because I haven’t replaced the broken bulb in the porch light. I fumble because there’s a hand in my jeans. In my boxer briefs. Stroking my already hard dick. And it’s not mine.

Or maybe it’s because there are soft breasts pressed against my back. It’s been too long since I’ve felt this kind of thrill. This kind of urgency. This kind of desperation.

I don’t turn the key in the lock. Just leave it dangling. I spin my body, pressing my back against the cold bricks. Those full breasts are now warm and firm against my chest, my cock somehow still in her hand.

She glances nervously over her shoulder towards the sounds of voices carrying from the footpath, but not nervously enough to take her hand out of my pants.

“Nobody can see,” I whisper, beyond glad those hedges are still untended.

“Good.” It’s more a moan than an actual word, and with that she drops to her knees.

Her mouth is warm, a thrilling contrast to the cold of her hands.

I slide my fingers into thick, silky hair, pushing it back from her face as she licks and sucks. Her cheeks, pink with the cold, hollow, and my head falls back against the bricks as the voices fade out of earshot. I squeeze my eyes shut because looking into those big grey eyes while she turns me inside out with her mouth is too much. Too close. Too intimate.

I’m so hard it hurts. I can feel my balls tightening. I don’t want to blow this. Literally.

Pulling out of her mouth with a pop, I lift her to her feet and spin her to face the wall. Planting her hands against the bricks, I press down on her back so her beautiful arse is on display. Flicking her short skirt up, I take a second to admire the perfect curve of muscle, bisected by a sheer scrap of red lace. I reach around her, shoving it aside. With more desperation than technique, I plunge my middle finger into her dripping heat. Curling it for maximum effect as my thumb finds her clit.

I press my body to her back, my cock nestled between her arse cheeks, hot and hard.

“You want me to fuck you here? On the porch? Where anyone could hear us. See us. If they cared to look?” I hiss into the soft, sweet-smelling skin below her ear.

Garbled noises that might or might not include yes and condom fall from her mouth.

I reach one handed into my back pocket, pulling out my wallet, thankful for the condom my brother had teasingly put there when I had a drink with him last week. Neither of us expected me to be using it so soon when he joked about the use-by date.

Getting the condom on isn’t any easier than getting the key in the lock, but finally, it’s stretched over my length and with no finesse at all I’m shoving myself into her, all force and fury.

There’s no awkwardness. No disconnect. We hit a rhythm right away. She’s pushing back into my thrusts as though we’ve done this a thousand times before.

I’m self-aware enough to know why I favour this position. Why it’s the only one I’ve used—infrequent as it's been—in recent years. Face to face means eye contact. Eye contact increases intimacy. And the way our eyes locked and held at the bar, the way her direct gaze felt like a full bodycheck, gave me fair warning this would be intense.

A car passes, the muted sounds of doof doof music overlaid on the roar of a souped-up engine. The faint smell of exhaust fumes drifts over the fresh green scent of the hedges. Voices come closer, then start to fade as more walkers pass by. None of it impacts our rhythm.

I can tell she’s close. Her movements are picking up pace, in time with her quiet gasps and gurgles. I slide my thumb back to her swollen clit, and that’s all it takes. She’s there. A harsh breath, almost a snort, erupts from her as her legs stiffen and her internal muscles grip me with such strength it drags my orgasm from deep in my balls. My rhythm falters. I grip her hips, holding her tight against me as I empty all the energy I’ve built up for way too long into the condom.

Disembodied voices and the tang of cigarette smoke float towards us. Did you hear that? Hear what? It sounded like … it sounded like someone having sex. Don’t be ridiculous. There’s nobody around … Footsteps fade into the distance. We laugh silently, shaking, my belly and chest pressed to her back.

“Guess they could hear us, even if they couldn’t see us,” she says. The crown of her head is pressed to the bricks, but I can hear the smile in her hushed voice.

What just happened is so far outside my normal behaviour I don’t even recognise myself. But from the moment our gazes clashed at the bar, there was an energy between us.

I wait for the guilt. For the regret.

For the first time since my wife died, it doesn’t come. Maybe I’m tempting fate. Maybe I’m asking for it. I straighten, flipping her skirt back over her arse and wrapping my arm around her waist. Pressing my lips to the delicate skin of her neck, where a few damp strands of toffee hair cling, I invite her inside.