Chapter 8: Blanket Betrayal
The blanket was a scratchy wool island in a sea of worn leather, and Dizzy was drowning. On screen, a car chase exploded in a symphony of shattering glass, but the sound was muffled, distant, buried under the roar of her own heartbeat in her ears. Chloe was wedged into the opposite corner of the large sofa, a bowl of popcorn balanced on her knees, her eyes glued to the television. Ben was a solid, relaxed presence beside her, one arm slung over Chloe’s shoulders.
Liam’s body was a furnace against her back.
He’d pulled her into his lap almost as soon the opening credits rolled, a silent, decisive motion that had stolen the sarcastic remark right off her tongue. “Cold,” he’d murmured into her hair, his voice a low vibration that resonated straight down her spine. It was a lie. The evening was warm, balmy with ocean air drifting through the screened windows.
Now, his chin rested on her shoulder, his breathing even. To anyone else, they looked like a cozy couple. A simple cuddle.
His right hand, hidden beneath the faded blanket draped over them, was doing something unspeakable.
It had started innocently. A thumb tracing idle circles on her hip where her shirt had ridden up. Then his fingers had slipped beneath the waistband of her jeans, just grazing the sensitive skin of her lower belly. A question. Her breath had hitched, a tiny, swallowed sound lost in a cinematic gunshot. She’d pressed back against him, the slightest arch of her spine, her only answer.
Now, the button of her jeans was undone. The zipper was down, the teeth parting with a silence that felt deafening. His palm lay flat and hot over her cotton panties, and she was already soaking through the fabric, a humiliating, eager dampness she couldn’t control.
“This scene is ridiculous,” Chloe announced, shoving popcorn into her mouth. “No way that Audi has that kind of suspension.”
“Shh, you’re ruining the artistry,” Ben joked, squeezing her.
Liam’s middle finger pressed down. A firm, slow rub right over her clit through the wet cotton. Dizzy jerked, a full-body spasm she disguised as a shifting of position. She reached back, her hand finding his thigh, her nails digging into the hard muscle of his quad. A silent plea, or a warning.
He ignored it. His fingers hooked into the elastic of her panties, tugging them down just an inch, just enough. The cool air of the room hit her exposed skin, a shocking contrast to the heat of his hand. Then his fingers were on her, skin to skin, and her head fell back against his chest.
One finger, slick with her own arousal, traced her slit from bottom to top. He took his time, exploring her folds, coating his finger thoroughly before circling her entrance. He didn’t push in. He just teased, a maddening, gentle pressure that made her hips twitch forward, seeking more.
“You okay, Diz?” Chloe asked, her voice cutting through the haze. “You’re all squished over there.”
“Fine,” Dizzy managed, her voice strained. “Just… comfortable.”
Liam’s left arm tightened around her waist, anchoring her. His right hand moved. A single, thick finger pushed inside her, filling her with a sudden, exquisite stretch. She was so wet it slid in to the knuckle with obscene ease. He held it there, buried deep, his palm pressed hard against her. She could feel every ridge of his fingerprint, the slight curl of his finger as it crooked, searching.
He found the spot. A soft, rough patch inside her that sparked white behind her eyelids. He pressed against it, a firm, relentless rhythm that was too much and not enough. His thumb came up to replace his circling finger on her clit, applying a direct, perfect pressure.
She was panting into the collar of his shirt, tiny, desperate breaths. Her hand on his thigh was a vise. With every thrust of his finger, her body clenched around him, greedy for more. The movie was a blur of color and noise. Ben’s laugh at a joke. The crunch of popcorn. The scratch of the wool blanket. It all funneled into the singular, devastating point where Liam’s hand was working her, fucking her with his fingers in the crowded, lit room.
“Fuck,” she breathed, the word a vapour against his neck.
He added a second finger.
The stretch was breathtaking, a burn that melted into pure, liquid pleasure. He scissored them gently, opening her up, then drove them deep, his pace quickening. The heel of his hand ground against her clit with every thrust, creating a brutal, overlapping rhythm. The wet, filthy sound of his fingers moving in her seeped into the blanket’s cocoon. She was sure everyone could hear it.
“Liam,” she choked out, a broken whisper.
His lips were at her ear. His voice was a dark, gritty thing she’d never heard before. “Come for them,” he whispered, his breath scalding. “Let them hear you. I want you to.”
The command, the sheer taboo of it, detonated her control. Her orgasm ripped through her with a violent, silent intensity. Her body locked, back bowing against him, her cunt clamping down on his fingers in a series of relentless, pulsing contractions. She buried her face in his chest to stifle the cry, a muffled, aching sound that was half-sob. Stars burst behind her clenched eyelids. He didn’t stop, working her through the shocking waves of it, until she was shuddering and limp, a boneless heap in his arms.
Slowly, carefully, he withdrew his fingers. She felt the loss acutely, a hollow, empty ache. He brought his hand up, resting it on her stomach under her shirt, his fingers damp against her skin. The evidence.
On screen, the credits began to roll.
“Well, that was predictably macho nonsense,” Chloe said, stretching and standing up. “I need wine. Ben, help.”
Ben grunted, heaving himself off the couch. He glanced over as he passed, his eyes lingering for a fraction of a second on the blanket, on Dizzy’s flushed face, on Liam’s too-calm expression. A slight, knowing frown flickered across his features, then was gone. “Come on, mixologist,” he said to Chloe, following her into the kitchen.
The moment the kitchen doorway swallowed them, the spell snapped. Dizzy scrambled off Liam’s lap, her legs wobbly, fumbling with her jeans. Her fingers were clumsy, trembling. She couldn’t look at him.
“Dizzy,” he said, his voice quiet now, the possession gone, replaced by that familiar uncertainty.
“What the hell was that?” she hissed, finally getting her zipper up. She turned to face him, her cheeks burning. “They were right there. Ben almost saw.”
He stood, the blanket falling away. His own arousal was blatantly obvious, straining against his jeans. He didn’t try to hide it. “You didn’t stop me.”
“I couldn’t… I wasn’t…” She floundered, the aftershocks of the orgasm still making her thoughts slippery. “That’s not the point. You told me to… to let them hear.”
He took a step toward her. The shy software engineer was gone. In his place was the man from the rumpled twin beds, the one who’d snarled ‘mine’ into her skin. That man was still here, just beneath the surface. “I wanted to,” he said, the words simple, stark. “I think about it all the time. How you sound. How you feel. How you finally let go in the morning. I can’t turn it off just because they’re in the room.”
From the kitchen, they could hear the clink of bottles and Chloe’s bright, laughing voice.
Dizzy stared at him, at the conflict in his dark eyes—the boldness warring with the fear of her reaction. Her own heartbeat, which had begun to calm, kicked back into a frantic rhythm. This wasn’t the script. He was supposed to be awkward. He was supposed to make her feel like the bold one.
“Liam?” Chloe’s voice called out. “You want a beer or what?”
He held Dizzy’s gaze for a moment longer, a silent challenge hanging in the salt-thick air between them. Then he turned his head toward the kitchen. “Yeah,” he called back, his voice miraculously even. “I’ll get it.”
He walked past her, his shoulder brushing hers. He paused at the archway, glancing back. The unspoken words hung in the space he left behind: This isn’t over. Then he was gone, leaving her alone in the living room with the flickering blue light of the ended movie and the phantom feeling of his fingers still moving inside her.