Chapter 2: I’ve never
His hands slid from her face, down her arms, tracing the shape of her. They found the backs of her thighs, his grip firm and certain. He lifted her, the movement effortless, and she let out a small, shocked gasp that was swallowed by his mouth. Her body was light in his arms, a bundle of tense energy yielding to his strength.
He turned and placed her on the worn wooden countertop. The chipped laminate was cool through the thin fabric of her dress. He stood between her legs, his hands settling on her hips, anchoring her. The streetlight from the window cut across his face, highlighting the darkening bruise on his cheekbone, the earnest set of his jaw.
She didn’t think. Her body moved on an instinct older than responsibility. She hitched her dress up, the fabric bunching around her thighs, and wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him closer. The heat of him through his jeans was a shock, a direct current. She kissed him again, harder this time, a clash of lips and tongue that was all hunger.
He groaned, a low, rough sound that vibrated through his chest and into hers. His hands tightened on her hips as she moved against him, a slow, deliberate rock that made his breath catch.
Her own breathing was ragged, each gasp a white flag against the silence of the sleeping house. She fumbled for his belt buckle, the cold metal slipping under her frantic fingers.
He helped her, his larger hands covering hers, and the buckle came loose with a sharp click that echoed in the quiet. She quickly pulled down his jeans to his lower thighs, leaving him in his boxers. The urgency was a live wire between them, her need to outrun her own thoughts.
She went for her underwear, her fingers hooking around the lace. The elastic snapped against her skin as she started to tug them aside.
“I’ve never…” he says, the words rushing out, stopping her.
She looks at him. Her fingers stilled. In the stark, shadowed light, his face was all stark angles and open vulnerability. The brave kid who tackled a thief in a filthy alley was gone. This was someone else, laid bare.
“Never what?” she whispered, her voice rough.
He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He didn’t look away. “Never done this. Not… not like this.”
The admission hung there, immense and fragile. It wasn’t just about sex. It was the opposite of everything she expected from anyone, especially a man who looked like him.
Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird. She studied his eyes—the same blue that had watched her from the railing—and saw no lie, only a frightening honesty. The heat between her legs pulsed, a demanding rhythm.
“Okay,” she said, the word softer than she intended. Her hand, which had been pulling at lace, moved. She cupped his cheek, her thumb gently avoiding the bruise from his fight. “Then we go slow.”
She leaned in and kissed him again, but the texture had changed. It was searching, questioning, a dialogue without words. She felt the tension bleed from his shoulders under her palms.
“Okay,” she whispered again against his mouth, a promise and a permission all at once.
Her hands slid down. She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of his boxers and pushed them down. The soft cotton pooled at his knees with his jeans. Then, with a quick, determined movement, she peeled her own underwear down her thighs, kicking them off onto the kitchen floor beside his. The night air was cool on her newly bared skin.
He positioned himself between her legs again, his hands finding her hips. The feel of him, skin to skin now, was almost overwhelming. Her breath hitched.
She wrapped one hand around the solid muscle of his shoulder, her fingers digging in for purchase. With her other hand, she reached between them. Her fingers found him, the smooth, hard heat of him. She guided him to her entrance.
He let her, his gaze locked on hers, his breath coming in short, sharp clouds in the dim light.
He slowly pushed in.
She gasped. Her head fell back, a sharp line of throat exposed in the shadows. The fullness was a shock, a stretching ache that stole the air from her lungs.
He groaned, a raw, shattered sound. He slid halfway in and stopped, his entire body trembling with the effort of holding still. He looked at her, his blue eyes dark and wide, searching her face for any sign of pain.
They both let out a gasping breath, a shared moment of suspension. He slid the rest of the way in, bottoming out with a soft, final sigh.
He groaned again, dropping his forehead to hers. The sensation of being utterly filled, completed, left her dizzy. Her fingers, still clutching his shoulder, trailed up the column of his neck and slid into the soft, black of his hair.
She moved her hips, a tiny, experimental shift. It sparked a lightning bolt of feeling. A soft, helpless sound escaped her.
“Is this…” he started, his voice strained. “Is this okay?”
She answered by pulling his mouth back to hers, her kiss fiercer than her words could ever be. She rolled her hips again, setting a slow, deep rhythm.
He watched her, his blue eyes glassy with a wonder that felt like a physical touch.
His hand moved from her knee to her hip, his fingers pressing into her skin as if memorizing its shape. He shifted, sliding out until just the tip remained, a tantalizing, almost-loss that made her muscles clutch. Then he drove back in, a smooth, deep stroke that stole her breath.
She moaned, the sound tearing from her throat, raw and unbidden. Needing him closer, she wrapped her legs tighter around his waist, her heels locking at the small of his back. The new angle was deeper, perfect, and for a few strokes, she lost herself in the pure, pounding sensation.
Then her hand, braced on the counter behind her, slipped. Her balance shifted wildly. Instinctively, she threw both arms around his neck, holding on.
He stumbled back, caught off-guard by her sudden weight. His hands shot to her thighs, gripping hard to keep her from falling.
She gasped, not in fear but in wild surprise, as she used the momentum to lower her hips fast, taking him all the way in as they fell. He couldn't stabilize. The floor rushed up.
He landed on his back with a heavy thud, the air punching from his lungs. She came down on top of him, her body cushioning the impact for her, her own breath huffing out. They were a tangled heap on the cold linoleum, the shock of the fall reverberating through them.
For a stunned second, they just breathed, chests heaving. Then a shaky laugh bubbled out of Fiona, born of adrenaline and absurdity. “Well. That was graceful.”
Joseph winced, a real flash of pain crossing his features. “My back officially hates that linoleum.” He shifted carefully, and she rolled off him, the separation feeling oddly cold. He sat up, wincing again, and scooted backwards until his shoulders met the lower cabinet doors beneath the sink. The wood groaned softly in protest.
He looked at her, his hair mussed, his expression a mix of concern and lingering awe. “You okay?”
“Better than your back,” she said, but she was already moving. She climbed into his lap, straddling him again on the hard floor. The cabinet’s edge dug into his spine, but he didn’t seem to care. His hands came to rest on the curve of her hips, his touch warm and sure.
She rolled her hips against him, finding the angle again with an ease that made her head spin. His cock, still hard and inside her, hit all the right spots. She gasped, her forehead dropping to his shoulder. The sensation was sharper, more intense like this, grounded by the unyielding floor.
He hiked her shirt up, the soft cotton brushing her skin. He took her nipple into his mouth, his tongue hot and wet against the peaked bud. The dual sensation—the deep, internal friction and the sharp, pulling heat of his mouth—unraveled her.
Her hand flew to the back of his head, her fingers tangling in his jet-black hair, pulling him closer. A moan tore from her throat, loud in the silent house. Her hips now moved in a fast, desperate rhythm, each snap of her pelvis seeking a crest she could feel building low in her belly.
“Joseph,” she breathed, a plea and a promise. Her movements became less controlled, more urgent. The kitchen, the sleeping kids, the whole weight of her world blurred into a background hum against the roaring focus of this feeling, of him.
Her breath came in sharp, ragged pulls that echoed off the old cabinets. Each desperate rock of her hips sent a jolt through her, a lightning strike searching for ground.
She needed more. Her hand, which had been gripping his shoulder for balance, shot out behind her. Her fingers scrambled over the linoleum until they found the sharp edge of the lower cabinet door frame. She clawed at it, needing something stable, something to push against.
It wasn’t enough.
With a grunt of effort, she planted her other hand flat on the floor behind Joseph and pushed herself up. She rose, knees screaming, until she was crouching over him, her thighs burning. The new angle was brutal, perfect. She looked down at him, her hair a curtain around their faces.
His eyes were blown black, his lips parted. He watched her with a raw, unfiltered reverence that made her stomach clench.
“Fiona.” he breathed, the single syllable choked with feeling.
That was all it took. She leaned back, bracing one hand on his thigh. Her other hand snaked behind her, fingers splaying, searching. They found the cool, smooth edge of the countertop above them.
Her fingers curled over the lip, white-knuckled. She anchored herself.
Using that grip for leverage, she began to move. This wasn’t the frantic rocking from before. This was deliberate, a deep, piston-like rhythm that used the full strength of her legs and core. The sound of their joining was obscenely loud in the quiet kitchen.
She threw her head back, her throat working. A string of broken sounds fell from her lips. “God… Joseph…”
His hands flew to her hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh there as if he were clinging to a lifeline. He met her every downward stroke with an upward thrust of his own, his body bending from the waist despite the hard floor. The cabinet door behind him rattled with their rhythm.
The coil inside her, which had been winding tighter and tighter since his first kiss in the dark, was vibrating at a frequency that threatened to shatter her. Pleasure built in a relentless wave, drowning out every thought, every fear, every memory that wasn’t him.
She gripped the countertop, rolling her hips against him harder, faster. The muscles in her arm stood out with the strain. Every nerve ending was on fire, screaming toward a finish line she could now see.
Gasping out “Almost… almost,” she moaned.
He groaned, a deep, ragged sound that seemed torn from his chest. The world had narrowed to the feeling of her, the sight of her above him, the coiled, screaming tension in his own gut.
Then a knock came from the door behind them.
The sound was a physical shock, a gunshot in the quiet. Three hard, official raps on the wood.
“Fiona.” A man’s voice called out, bored and familiar.
She froze. Her entire body went rigid above him. The desperate rhythm shattered. The pleasure, so close, evaporated into cold, sharp panic.
His hands loosened on her hips, falling away. The loss of his touch was its own shock.
“Shit, shit.” The words hissed out of her, all breath and no voice. She scrambled off him, her movements clumsy with adrenaline. Her bare feet slapped against the cold linoleum as she snatched her discarded underwear from the floor.
She didn’t look back. She was a blur of motion, yanking her dress down as she sprinted for the stairs. Her footsteps were a frantic drumroll on the steps, fading into the upper darkness.
Joseph lay there for one disoriented second, the hard floor a brutal reality against his spine. The knock came again, more insistent. “Fiona, are you home?”
He pushed himself up, his body aching in protest. He pulled his jeans and boxers up in one frantic motion, fumbling with the button and fly. His hands were unsteady. He took a shuddering breath, trying to force the wild look from his eyes.
He walked to the back door, his heart hammering against his ribs. He smoothed a hand through his hopelessly mussed hair and opened the door.
A cop stood on the sagging porch, his expression flat and weary. His eyes, accustomed to nightly nonsense, scanned Joseph’s torn jeans, his bare chest, the fresh bruise blooming on his cheekbone. The assessment was quick and thorough.
“Is Fiona in?” the cop asked, his tone implying he already knew the answer.
“Uh, she’s upstairs,” Joseph said, his voice thankfully steady. He became acutely aware of the cool night air on his skin, the lingering scent of their sweat in the kitchen behind him.
The cop’s gaze lingered on him, a silent question hanging in the damp air. Joseph cleared his throat. “I’ll go get her.”
He didn’t wait for a reply. He turned and took the stairs two at a time, his own pulse loud in his ears. He nearly collided with her at the top.
She had thrown on a pair of loose grey sweatpants and a zipped-up hoodie. Her hair was hastily pulled back. She looked like she’d been sleeping, but her green eyes were wide-awake and wary.
“Cop looking for you,” Joseph said, breathless from more than the stairs.
“Stay here,” she ordered, her voice low and firm. She brushed past him, already descending with a composed speed he couldn’t fathom.
He waited, listening. He heard the creak of the door, the murmur of voices. Then a heavier, dragging sound. A thump. Joseph crept halfway down the stairs, peering into the kitchen.
The cop was hauling a man in by the armpits. The man was a limp ragdoll, head lolling, clothes smelling of stale beer and something sour. With a practiced heave, the cop deposited him on the floor near the table. The body slumped, unconscious.
“Thanks, Tony,” Fiona said, her voice devoid of inflection.
“No problem. See you, Fiona.” The cop gave Joseph one last, inscrutable look and let himself out. The door clicked shut.
Joseph walked the rest of the way down. He stared at the man on the floor. He was gaunt, with a greying stubble and clothes that might have been decent once. His breathing was a wet, rasping snore.
“Who’s that?” Joseph asked, though he already knew.
Fiona didn’t look at the man. She walked past the body as if it were a discarded sack of laundry. “My dad.”
She moved into the adjoining lounge, a room dominated by a worn sofa and a silent television. Joseph followed, the heat of their interrupted moments now a cold, confusing ash in his stomach.
“You just leave him there all night?” The question escaped before he could temper it, colored by his own upbringing, by the sheer wrongness of it.
She turned to look at him, her expression closed. “He’s never there when I get up.” She said it like stating a simple fact, like the sky being blue. It was the law of this house.
Her eyes drifted over him, standing there shirtless in her chaotic kitchen. She walked to the sink, where his shirt from the fight still lay, now dry but stained. She grabbed it.
“Here.” She held it out. He took it, the familiar cotton soft in his hands. He pulled it over his head, the fabric smelling faintly of her soap.
He began buttoning it, his fingers methodical. Each button felt like closing a chapter on the person he’d been just minutes before. The silence stretched, filled by the ragged snores from the kitchen.
Fiona wrapped her arms around herself, a defensive gesture he was beginning to recognize. She looked at the floor, then back at him.
Joseph finished the last button on his shirt, the one that had been soaked with her sink water hours ago. The fabric felt like a costume now.
He wiped a hand over his mouth, the split lip stinging. The wild, open thing that had passed between them on the floor was gone, locked away behind the practical horror of the man on the linoleum. The kitchen light they’d turned off earlier still felt too bright.
He thought she would want him to leave. “I’ll uh, I’ll go.” He said, making his way toward the door and closing it behind him.
The click of the latch was final. Fiona stood alone in the center of the lounge. The empty silence was worse than the snoring. She let out a shaky breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
“Fuck.” She muttered out under her breath. Her body was still aching, needy. The phantom sensation of his hands on her hips, the deep, full pressure of him, throbbed in time with her heartbeat. It was a raw, physical echo that made the empty room feel suffocating.
She wrapped her arms tighter around herself, her nails digging into the sleeves of her hoodie. The cold was inside her now. She walked back into the kitchen, stepping around her father’s outstretched leg without looking down.
She went to the sink, turning the faucet on hard. The water was ice-cold. She splashed it on her face, the shock blurring her vision. She braced her hands on the edge of the counter, head hanging, droplets falling from her nose and chin onto the stained porcelain.
A small, pained sound escaped her. It wasn’t a sob. It was frustration, a pure distillation of it. She had been so close to forgetting, to feeling something that was just hers, and the universe had delivered Frank Gallagher to her doorstep as a reminder. A bill coming due.
She stared at the water swirling down the drain, taking nothing with it. The cold on her skin was a poor substitute for the heat she’d just lost. She turned the faucet off. The sudden silence was split by Frank’s wet, guttural snore from the floor. It was a sound that had scored her entire life.
Fiona dried her face on the sleeve of her hoodie. She walked over to her father. He reeked of fortified wine and unwashed clothes. Bending down, she patted his pockets with a practiced, impersonal efficiency. Her fingers found his worn leather wallet. Inside were three damp dollar bills and a lottery ticket stub. She took the cash.
“Interest on the childhood you stole,” she muttered, tucking the bills into her sweatpants pocket.
She left him there and climbed the stairs. Each step felt heavier than the last. The house was a cage of sleeping dependents, and the weight of the silence pressed on her lungs.
In her own room, she stripped off the hoodie and sweatpants. The cool air raised goosebumps on her skin. She caught her reflection in the darkened window—a pale, tired woman with shadows under her eyes. She could still feel the phantom pressure of Joseph’s hands, the specific ache he’d left inside her. It felt like a cruel joke.
She pulled on an old t-shirt and climbed into bed. The sheets were cold. She lay on her back, staring at the water stain on the ceiling that looked like a twisted continent. Her body hummed with unmet need, a live wire strung too tight. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to force the memory of his touch, his low voice saying slower, to dissipate.
A door clicked down the hall. Footsteps. Light spilled under her door, then vanished. Lip was probably raiding the fridge. The ordinary sounds of her life reasserted themselves, burying the extraordinary under a layer of mundane survival.
He’s gone, she told herself. He put his shirt on and walked out the door into the South Side night. She’d watched boys and men leave a hundred times, through that door and others. They all left. The good ones were just quieter about it.
She’d never see him again, she thought as all guys who entered the Gallagher household eventually evaporated, melting into the neighborhood’s background noise of sirens and shouted arguments. He was just another transient flare of light in the permanent, manageable dark.