Chapter 8: Silencing the Smartass
The silk was cool and firm against her wrists, a stark contrast to the heat flooding her skin. Evie’s breath hitched as Liam tightened the knots, his movements efficient, practiced. The soundproof booth absorbed everything—the rustle of their clothes, the frantic beat of her heart, even her own sharp intake of air. It was just them, trapped in this capsule of amplified silence.
“Still feeling clever?” Liam’s voice was a low murmur, his breath warm against her ear. His teeth had left a phantom sting on her pulse point, a promise of more.
She tested the restraints, a futile little tug. “Depends. Is this your idea of a creative collaboration?”
He laughed, a soft, rough sound that vibrated through her. “You’ve been pushing buttons all day, Evie. From that text you sent Damon during his meeting to wearing that shirt you know makes me lose my train of thought.” His fingers traced the line of her jaw, tilting her face up to his. The blue of his eyes was intense, stripped of their usual laid-back warmth. “You don’t get to be the director here. Not right now.”
Her smirk tried to make a comeback, but it faltered under his gaze. This was different from the calculated dominance Damon wielded like a weapon. Liam’s control was fluid, a current she could easily get swept away in. It was more dangerous because it felt like play, until it very suddenly wasn’t.
He didn’t kiss her. Instead, he stepped back, his eyes roaming over her, pinned against the textured wall. The hum of the studio’s idle equipment was a distant drone. He reached over to a small table cluttered with patch cables and a half-empty coffee cup, picking up a guitar pick. He held it up, the tortoiseshell plastic catching the dim light.
“You’re going to count for me,” he said, his tone conversational, as if suggesting they order takeout.
“Count what?”
He didn’t answer. He simply dragged the rigid edge of the pick down the sensitive skin of her inner arm, from elbow to wrist. It wasn’t a cut, but a sharp, startling line of sensation, somewhere between a scratch and a caress. She gasped.
“That’s one,” he said calmly.
“Liam, what the—”
The pick came down again, on the other arm, a little harder. A bright, stinging pain bloomed in its wake.
“Two.”
This was the game. This was the consequence for her earlier teasing, for the deliberate way she’d disrupted his focus, for the thrill she got from seeing that control in his eyes slip. It was a language they both understood, a negotiation without words. Her body thrummed with a mixture of fear and anticipation. She remembered the feel of Damon’s desk under her thighs, the possessive growl in his throat, and how this—this was its own kind of claim. Softer around the edges, but no less absolute.
He varied the pressure, the location. A light scrape across her collarbone. A sharper, more focused stroke over the tattoo on her ribs, making the ink feel alive. Each time, he waited.
“Three.”
Her breaths were shallow pants. “Four.”
He paused, the pick hovering over the thin fabric of her shirt, right over her heart. “You’re doing so well, little rebel.” The nickname wasn’t mocking; it was an acknowledgment, a term of endearment that sent a shiver through her.
He dropped the pick. It clattered onto the floor, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet room. Then his hands were on her waist, big and warm, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh above her hips. He leaned in, his forehead resting against hers, his long hair brushing her cheeks.
“Tell me what you need, Evie.” His voice was stripped bare now, all the playfulness gone, replaced by a raw intensity that made her stomach flip.
It was the shift she’d been waiting for. The moment the power dynamic quivered, poised to be renegotiated. She could push, could test this new vulnerability in him. She could say something flippant and watch the control snap back into place. Or she could be honest.
She swallowed, her throat dry. “I need you to remind me I’m not in charge.”
A slow smile spread across his face, relief and desire mingling in his eyes. He didn’t undo the restraints. Instead, he kissed her, deep and consuming, a reward and a claiming all in one. His hands moved from her waist, sliding under her shirt, palms flat and hot against her skin. The world narrowed to the feel of his mouth, his hands, the silk biting gently into her wrists.
When he broke the kiss, they were both breathing heavily. He looked at her, really looked at her, seeing the surrender and the fire that still flickered behind it.
“Good,” he whispered, his voice rough. “Now we can play.”
He reached up and, with a gentle tug, loosened the knot on one wrist. The silk slithered away, and blood rushed back into her fingers with a prickling heat. He did the same with the other, his touch lingering on the faint red marks left behind.
He didn’t set her free. He simply changed the game. Taking her hand, he led her out of the booth, into the main room of the studio. The air felt cooler, the space vast and echoing after the confines of the soundproof wall. He walked her over to the worn leather couch, pushing her down onto it with a firm pressure that brooked no argument.
He knelt before her, not in submission, but in focus. He took one of her boots off, then the other, tossing them aside. His hands moved to the button of her jeans.
“Liam,” she started, a thread of uncertainty in her voice.
He looked up, his gaze steady. “You gave me the words, Evie. Now let me do the work.”
He peeled her jeans off, his movements slow and deliberate. Then he shifted, sitting back on his heels, and pulled her towards him, turning her over so she was draped across his lap, her bare stomach against the cool leather. The position was exposing, vulnerable in a way that made her face flush.
His hand came down on her ass, a sharp, stinging smack that echoed in the quiet room. It wasn't the precise, clinical punishment Damon might administer; it was warmer, more emotional. Another smack, on the other side, and a shaky breath escaped her.
“This is for interrupting my recording,” he said, his voice low. Another slap, a little harder. “And this is for thinking you could get away with it.”
Each impact sent a jolt through her, a mix of pain and a deep, spreading warmth. The initial sting faded into a throbbing heat that pooled low in her belly. She buried her face in the crook of her arm, her body relaxing into the rhythm of it, into the surrender. This was the reminder. This was the anchor.
He stopped, his hand resting gently on the heated skin. He rubbed slow, soothing circles. “Okay?” he murmured.
She nodded against her arm, unable to form words.
He helped her turn over, settling her back against the cushions. Her eyes were wet, but she wasn’t sad. She felt stripped clean, light. He looked down at her, his expression soft, the musician once more. He brushed a stray strand of red hair from her forehead.
“You’re a mess,” he said, but his voice was full of affection.
“Your mess,” she countered, her voice hoarse.
He smiled, that easy, lopsided smile she loved. “Yeah. Mine.” He leaned down and kissed her, softly this time, a slow exploration that tasted of forgiveness and belonging.
The buzz of his phone on the coffee table shattered the moment. He broke the kiss with a sigh, glancing at the screen. A wry grin touched his lips. He showed it to her.
It was a text from Damon. Is she still in one piece?
Liam looked from the phone to Evie, his eyes glinting with a new idea. He typed a quick reply, his thumbs flying over the screen, then set the phone down.
“Get dressed,” he said, his tone shifting back to that playful command. “We’re going out.”
“Out? Where?”
He stood up, offering her a hand. “Damon’s wrapping up at the office. He’s meeting us at The Alibi in twenty.” He pulled her to her feet, his grip firm. “And you’re going to sit between us and be very, very good for the rest of the night. Think you can handle that?”
The challenge in his voice was unmistakable. The night wasn’t over; it was just beginning. She felt the ghost of his hand on her skin, the lingering warmth a brand and a promise. A slow, genuine smile spread across her face.
“Try and stop me.”