Chapter 6: Fabric Armor
“No more of this,” she repeated, the fight draining out of her as she wrestled the heavy fleece-lined jacket closed over the top he couldn't seem to stop looking at. It hung enormous on her frame, the cuffs covering her hands.
He exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing a fraction. “Good.” A faint, awkward smile touched his lips. “You should, uh, keep the jumper on. While you’re here.”
Her own lips twitched. “And why’s that?” She followed his gaze, which had drifted again to where the jacket gaped slightly. “Because you can’t stop staring at my chest, Liam?”
He dragged his eyes up to her face, a reluctant, self-deprecating laugh escaping him. “Alright, you got me.” He ran a hand through his hair, a faint blush visible under the factory grime on his neck. “It’s a very distracting shirt, Zara. I’m only human.”
“I feel sexy in it,” she admitted, her voice softer now, not a performance. She hugged the jacket around herself, his scent wrapping her like an anchor. “I wanted to feel good. Do I look good?” He didn’t look away this time. His warm brown eyes held hers, honest and direct. “You look incredible,” he said, his voice low and rough in the quiet bay. “You always do. That’s part of the whole bloody problem.”
“It’s a problem that you think I look good?” She took a small step closer, the space between them humming with a new, more fragile charge. “No,” he murmured, his gaze dropping briefly to her mouth before returning to her eyes. “The problem is I want to kiss you right now, and I can’t. Because you’re right. That’s not what friends do.”
She just looked at him, her expression softening into something unbearably genuine. “You’re so cute,” she murmured, her voice barely audible over the distant machinery. Her fingers, tentative at first, brushed a lock of dark hair from his forehead, the touch lingering in the gritty factory air.
He flinched, but didn’t pull away. A shuddering breath escaped him. “Don’t.”
“It’s way too hot to be wearing this jumper,” she said, abruptly changing the subject as she stepped back. Her hands went to the zipper of the oversized fleece, fighting the snag for a second before she wrestled it off and let it drop to the concrete with a soft thud. The revealing top was on full display again, but her posture was different now, less of a challenge.
“See? Better.” She hugged her arms around herself, not meeting his eye. “It’s like a sauna in here with all these big paper rolls.”
“Maybe I like you staring,” she said, the words leaving her in a rushed whisper. She fixed her eyes on a scuff mark on the concrete floor. “Maybe I put this on knowing you would.”
Liam’s breath hitched. The distant thump of the bindery line felt like a countdown. “Why would you do that?” he asked, his voice strained.
“Because I’m an idiot,” she said, finally looking up at him. Her expression was open, painfully raw. “And because after last week, I don’t know how to be around you anymore.” She took a shaky step forward. “Are you free later?”
He blinked, thrown. “Later for what, Zara?”
“For sex.” The word hung in the inky air, stark and simple. “Just sex. No games this time.” She watched his face carefully. “A clear agreement between two people who clearly want each other.”
He let out a slow, controlled breath, running a hand over his jaw. “A clear agreement,” he repeated, tasting the phrase. “And then what?”
“Then we see.” She shrugged, the movement making the fabric of her top shift. “Maybe we’re compatible. Maybe we get it out of our systems.” Her voice softened. “Maybe it’s just a really good time.”
“You called it a mistake.” His eyes searched hers.
“I was scared,” she admitted. “I’m still scared. But I’m also…” She gestured vaguely at the space between them, buzzing with unmet tension. “Tired of pretending this isn’t all I think about.”
Liam was silent for a long moment, the machinery groaning in the distance. “Tonight,” he said finally, the word decisive. “My place. Eight o’clock.”
“Just sex,” she confirmed, her heart hammering against her ribs.
“Just sex,” he agreed, his gaze dropping to her mouth. “And you wear that shirt.”
“And you wear that shirt,” he said, his voice low. The promise hung between them, a tangible thing in the dusty air. Zara nodded, a sharp, decisive motion, but didn’t move to leave.
She bit her lip, her eyes scanning his face. “Actually, wait,” she breathed out, the words almost lost under the hum of a distant compressor. She shuffled a half-step closer, the toe of her sneaker nudging his work boot.
“I kinda want it right now.” The admission was a rushed, hot whisper. Her gaze flicked toward the dark aisle between two towering paper rolls. “Can we just… quickly?”
He didn’t answer with words. He closed the distance, his hand cradling the back of her head, and kissed her. It was deep and hungry, erasing the space, the pretense, the factory itself.
Her hands fisted in his polo, pulling him into the shadowed alleyway of paper. The world narrowed to the feel of his tongue against hers, the taste of coffee and exhaustion, the dry scent of pulp surrounding them. She pressed him against a firm roll, her body aligning with his.
“Here,” she panted against his mouth, her fingers already working the button of his work trousers. He groaned, his head thumping back against the paper. His own hands slid under that damned top, finding her skin warm and eager.
It was frantic, clumsy, a grappling of clothes and need. He lifted her, her back against the rough paper, and she wrapped her legs around his waist. There was no slow build, only a desperate, shared ascent that was over almost as soon as it began.
They sagged together, breathing ragged, still joined. The silence felt louder than the machinery. He rested his forehead against hers, his eyes closed.
After a moment, he swallowed hard. “So,” he rasped, his voice rough. “Are we still friends?”
She laughed, a breathless sound against his neck. "Yes, we're still friends," she whispered, then kissed him again, soft and lingering. They adjusted their clothes in the dim, paper-choked air, the act now a familiar, silent ritual.
Tony was leaning against a forklift when they emerged, his arms crossed. "Getting a proper tour, was she, Liam?" he called out, a greasy smirk spreading. Liam kept walking, his hand a light, guiding pressure on the small of Zara's back.
"Just showing her the stock," Liam said, his voice flat. "Mind your machine, Tony." Zara offered a small, polite wave, her face carefully neutral. The other men watched, their expressions a mix of curiosity and vague amusement, as Liam led her past the bindery line toward the exit.
At eight precisely, her knock was firm on his front door. He opened it to find her in the same black top, now paired with jeans. "Right on time," he said, stepping back to let her into the halo of his porch light.
The door clicked shut, sealing them in the quiet hallway. She turned, her curls brushing her shoulders. "Just so we're absolutely clear," she stated, her brown eyes holding his. "This is just sex, Liam. We're just friends."
He didn’t smile back. “What kind of friends do this, Zara?” His voice was low, serious, cutting through the game. “Meet up just to have sex? Talk in circles for weeks, then end up against a paper roll in a factory?”
She leaned against the wall, the worn wallpaper cool through her top. “The bad kind?” she offered, but her attempt at lightness faltered under his steady gaze.
“Or the only kind we know how to be right now.” He stepped closer, his hands finding her hips. “I don’t want to be your friend tonight.”
“Then what do you want?” she breathed, her eyes searching his.
“I want to stop talking.” He brought his mouth to hers, but paused a whisper away. “I want to see if it’s like last time. Or better.”
“It will be,” she murmured against his lips, her certainty surprising them both.
It was. There, in the dim hallway still smelling of takeaway and old carpet, there was no rush, no factory alarm waiting to sound. His kisses were slow, deep, unraveling. Her hands learned the planes of his back through his shirt, mapping new territory.
When he lifted her, she wrapped her legs around him willingly, her laughter soft in his ear as he carried her the few steps to his bedroom. The single lamp painted the room in warm gold, glancing off the pins in the cracked map. He laid her on the bed like something precious.
“Just sex,” she reminded him, pulling him down by his collar.
“Just the best I’ve ever had,” he answered, his voice rough with promise.
And it was. A seamless, hungry conversation of skin and sigh. Every touch was a question answered, a silent argument resolved. There was no past, no future, only the breathtaking, shuddering present. Afterwards, they lay tangled, slick with sweat, the silence full of everything they’d finally said without words.
Her head rested on his chest, rising and falling with his breath. “So,” she whispered into the quiet. “Friends?”
He kissed the top of her head, his lips lingering in her curls. “Shut up, Zara.”
He traced a slow pattern on her bare shoulder with a single, work-roughened finger. She shifted, her body a warm, liquid weight against him, and propped herself up on an elbow to look at his face. In the lamplight, his expression was unguarded, a landscape of tired contentment and something deeper, almost sad.
“Did you mean that?” she asked, her voice still sleep-soft.
“Mean what? That you should shut up?” he teased, his thumb brushing her bottom lip. “Often, yeah.” His smile faded. “The other part. ‘The best I’ve ever had’.”
She watched him for a second, then let out a soft, incredulous laugh. “No,” she said, shaking her head, her curls falling around her face. “You shut up, Liam.” She said it without malice, a gentle, disbelieving command. “Don’t do that. You can’t just drop that and expect me to know how to hold it.”
“It’s just true,” he said, his warm brown eyes steady on hers. “And it scares the hell out of me.” He let his head fall back against the pillow with a soft thud, staring at the cracked map on his ceiling, one of the pins marking a spot over some ocean. “Zara,” he began, then stopped, clearing his throat. “Do you want to go out? With me. Like, on a date.”
She stared at him, her lips slightly parted, the air between them thick with the unspoken weight of all the factory floors and quiet bedrooms behind them. “A date?” she finally whispered, the word sounding foreign and fragile in the warm dark. A slow, disbelieving smile broke across her face, making her eyes crinkle at the corners. “You’re so cute,” she murmured, leaning in to brush a soft, lingering kiss against his lips.
She pulled back just enough to search his face, her expression turning serious. “So… should I say yes?” He watched her, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw. “You should,” he said, his voice low and certain. “We both should.”
“Okay.” She let out a slow breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, her body relaxing against his. “But Liam… this may change things.” He gave a rough, quiet laugh, the sound vibrating through his chest where her head still rested. “As if the sex didn’t already change things,” he said, his fingers trailing down her bare spine.
He laughed again, a low rumble she felt against her cheek. “You’re right. A date is different.” His fingers stilled on her skin. “Scarier, maybe.”
“Why?” She tilted her head to look at him. “What’s scarier than me turning up at your factory in that top?”
“The possibility of getting it right,” he said, his voice softening. “Or fucking it up properly.”
She rolled onto her back, staring at the cracked map with its ghostly pins. “So we’re friends who have sex,” she stated, the definition hanging in the lamplight. “But now we’re going to be going out on a date.” She turned her head toward him, her expression wry. “It’s not the same.”
“No, it’s not.” A slow smile spread across his face. “One involves getting dressed and leaving the house, for a start.”
“And talking,” she added, pushing his shoulder playfully. “Actual talking, in public, without my clothes coming off.”
“Sounds awful,” he deadpanned, catching her hand and lacing his fingers with hers. “We can still do the other part after, right?” His thumb traced circles on her palm, a silent question. “That’s the rule for dates?”
“Is that what you want?” she asked, her teasing tone fading into something quieter. “A rule?”
He was silent for a moment, watching their joined hands. “I want to take you somewhere,” he said finally. “And not have it be about… this.” He gestured at the rumpled sheets. “I want to hear you talk about things I don’t know yet.”
He looked at her, the lamplight painting gold in the stubble along his jaw. "Maybe have a drink without either of us working up the nerve to touch the other one.Yet."
She felt a strange, liquid warmth spill through her chest. "Okay. A proper date." A slow grin spread across her face. "But you have to admit the other parts are pretty great too."
“Oh, come on.” She rolled to face him fully, her hair fanning out on the pillow. “You can’t pretend you haven’t been enjoying the sex.” Her fingertip tapped his sternum. “Enjoying seeing me naked. Admit it.”
A faint, almost shy smile touched his lips. “Alright, you win.” He captured her wandering hand, holding it against his chest where she could feel the solid, steady beat underneath. “I’ve enjoyed it. Immensely.”
He turned her palm over and pressed a kiss into its center. “We’re definitely having sex after the date, though.” His voice was a low rumble of promise. “No question."
"But I want the other thing more." He let go of her hand to cup her cheek, his thumb stroking her skin. “I want to go out with you. Be more than just…” He searched for the words, his gaze intense and clear. “Be more than the bloke you sometimes have sex with."
She swallowed, the air feeling thin and precious. "More than friends who have sex." She breathed the phrase, tasting its terrifying possibility. “What’s that, then?"
"A boyfriend, maybe.” The word hung between them, simple and seismic. "If you want." He watched her, his eyes reflecting every waver of lamplight, and saw the hope break across her face like dawn.
He watched her, his eyes reflecting every waver of lamplight, and saw the hope break across her face like dawn. A slow smile touched her lips as she leaned in, brushing her mouth against his in a soft, closed-mouth kiss. “Maybe,” she whispered against his skin, the word warm and tentative.
She shifted then, rolling so she was straddling his hips, her weight settling on him with familiar ease. “Can you live without ever having sex with me ever again?” she asked, her tone suddenly playful, her fingers walking a slow path up his chest.
He blinked, caught off guard. “Where’s this random question coming from?” His hands found her waist, thumbs tracing the ridges of her hip bones.
“Just answer it,” she laughed, pinning his wrists lightly to the pillow. “Honestly.” Her expression was mischievous, but her eyes held a real curiosity.
He pretended to think, the corner of his mouth twitching. “No,” he said finally, his voice low. “Probably not.” He flexed his wrists under her gentle grip. “Your turn. Sex or food?”
“For the rest of my life?” She threw her head back, laughing genuinely now. “Sex, obviously. But only if it’s good sex.” She dipped down to kiss him, quick and teasing. “Would you rather… only have bad sex, or never have sex again?”
“Cruel,” he murmured, pulling her down for a deeper kiss. When they parted, he was smiling. “Bad sex, I suppose. There’s room for improvement.” He shifted under her. “Okay. Sex or sleep?”
“Sleep,” she shot back instantly, giggling at his offended look. “I’m chronically tired, Liam! You have no idea.” She rocked against him, feeling his body respond. “Sex or… video games?”
He groaned, shaking his head. “That’s unfair. That’s like choosing a limb.” He tugged her closer, his hands sliding up her back. “Sex, today. Games tomorrow.”
They kept playing, the questions growing sillier, their laughter easier, punctuated by languid kisses that tasted of shared breath and a dizzying, unspoken relief.
“What did you think about when I first kissed you? In the hallway yesterday?” she whispered, her lips tracing the shell of his ear.
He tensed for a second, his hands stilling on her back. “Honestly?” He let out a shaky breath. “Paper cuts. I was worried the back of your head would get a paper cut against that bloody big roll.”
She burst out laughing, a bright, unfiltered sound that filled the dim room, and kissed his chin. “Mine was ‘I hope he doesn’t hear my stomach growling.’” Her fingers danced up his ribs, making him twitch. “Would you have done it if Tony and the lads weren’t watching?”
“Yes,” he said without hesitation, his gaze steady on her. “But maybe not quite so… urgently.” His thumbs pressed into the soft flesh of her hips. “Did you really just need to drop off a USB?”
“No.” She dipped her head, nipping lightly at his collarbone. “Do you think you were good at this when you were my age?” The question made him snort, his body shaking under hers.
“Christ, no.” A rueful smile touched his mouth. “I was a bag of nerves. Probably talked too much.” He slid a hand up into her hair, gently tugging her head back to look at her. “Are you comparing me to men your age right now?”
“Maybe.” She grinned, unrepentant. “Does that make you jealous?” Instead of answering, he rolled them over in one smooth motion, pinning her beneath him with his weight.
“A little,” he admitted, his voice rough. He kissed her, deep and claiming, until she was breathless. “Better question,” he murmured against her lips. “If I saw you in a pub, before we ever talked online, would you have looked twice at me?”
"Yes," she said, the word quiet but immediate. Her fingers traced the line of his jaw, rough with evening stubble. "I would have seen you sitting alone in the corner, looking like you carried the weight of every secret in the room."
She pulled his face down until their foreheads touched. "And I would have walked right over and asked if you played Aethelgard," she whispered, her breath warm against his lips. "Because you're very handsome, Liam."
He let out a slow, shuddering breath, as if he'd been holding it for years. Her thumb brushed the arch of his cheekbone, a soft, wondering touch. "You are," she repeated, as if stating a simple, undeniable fact, like the time of day or the color of the sky outside his dim window.
Then she kissed him, not with hunger this time, but with a slow, melting certainty that seeped into his bones. He kissed her back, his hands cradling her face, the world narrowing to the soft press of her mouth and the frantic beat of his own heart against hers.
When they parted, he kept his eyes closed for a second, absorbing the feeling. "You'd have had terrible chat-up lines," he murmured, a faint, dazed smile playing on his lips.
"I'd have said my printer was broken," she shot back, her voice laced with teasing laughter. She settled back against the pillows, pulling him with her. "Asked for your professional opinion."
"My professional opinion is you'd have been a distraction," he said, nuzzling into the curve of her neck. He inhaled the scent of her skin, clean and faintly sweet beneath the factory's ghost. "I'd have missed my bus home."