When I come out from the bathroom, I damn near walk right into the woman of the hour herself. She’s looking up at me with oddly focused eyes for a woman who’s already a fair few drinks down. I keep my face impassive, polite, professional, and devoid of anything that might pass for flirting.
This woman is so off-limits it’s not even funny.
I won’t let my eyes trail down the sculpted curve of her neck to where the trio of birds line her collarbone. I won’t letmy gaze drop to her cleavage. And I certainly won’t remind myself of the legs that are hidden under the body of that dress. Thatwedding dress.
I swallow hard. Fuck, she’s even more beautiful up close. She burns too hot, and people like me shouldn’t get close to her flame. The best thing I can do is keep my distance, so I make a move to side-step her, but she cuts me off.
“You’ve been watching me.” She’s not slurring or swaying, and her eyes narrow like she’s honing in on her prey.
There’s no point in denying it. I’m many things, but I’m not typically a liar, nor do I gaslight women. And if it gives her a lick of self-confidence after the day she’s had, then who am I to deny telling the woman she’s a stunner? “I have. You’re a hard woman to not look at.”
A ghost of a smile flickers across her face, but it’s gone as quickly as it came. She points at me, while her sisters murder “Single Ladies” by Beyoncé on the karaoke ‘round in the bar. “You know who I am?”
I nod.
“You saw the video?”
Another nod.
“You want to do a girl a solid?” A dark blush blossoms in her cheeks, making her eyes look somehow even greener, but her confidence is unwavering, her voice doesn’t shake, and she holds my stare.
The way her eyes darken suggest she’s flirting with me, but there’s no way, is there?
Before I can answer, or react, she purses her lips, like she’s trying to decide how much she’s going to tell me. There’s a subtle shift in her eyes before she says, “Fuck it,” and reaches for the front of my t-shirt with both hands.
As though it hits her that she might need my consent before doing something physical, she tips her head, an unasked question lingering on her lips as she overtly ogles mine. I giveher a nod, or rather, half of a nod because her lips are on mine before I can blink or think.
My dick perks up, like she’s tickled my balls with her fingernails, and it’s poking her. Subtle, man. Real subtle.
I’m a measured man, composed, calculated, and I never do anything rash like kiss a stranger outside the bathrooms of my local, but I can’t find it in me to push her away. She smells fucking delicious, there’s a sweet smell coming from the fresh flowers—jasmine and freesia—pinned in her bridal updo. She tastes of gin—the type with citrus botanicals, not floral—and her lips are so fucking soft against mine.
When she cups my now painfully hard cock, I groan, and her tongue spears into my mouth, finding mine.
In the bar, her sisters have moved on to the Spice Girls, but Rhiannon seems to have zero interest in returning to her new life onstage. In fact, she’s pushing me back toward the accessible toilet and reaching around me for the handle.
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 bloodyweddingday, 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 exactlyspaciousin 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 screamingdo it.
My handsome toilet-friend places his hands on my shoulders and steps back, but I fist his shirtso 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,monthssince 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, somethingbetterthan 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.
