Chapter 9: Bathroom Confrontation
The laughter from the kitchen was a distant, alien sound. Dizzy stood frozen in the center of the living room, the ghost of Liam’s touch screaming from every nerve ending. Her skin felt too tight, humming with a shameful, electric aftermath. The dampness between her thighs had cooled, a sticky, intimate reminder.
She couldn’t go out there. Not with Chloe’s knowing smiles and Ben’s observant eyes. Not with Liam’s transformed presence sucking all the air from the house.
The hallway to the bedrooms was dark. She moved on silent feet, past the closed door of the room Chloe and Ben shared, past the open doorway of the twin-bedded room that now smelled permanently of sex and Liam, and pushed into the guest bathroom at the end of the hall. She locked the door behind her. The click of the bolt was a relief.
The room was small, dominated by the old clawfoot tub. Salt crusted its cracks. She leaned over the chipped porcelain sink, gripping the cool edges until her knuckles turned white. Her reflection in the clouded mirror was a mess—flushed cheeks, swollen lips, hair wild from where she’d pressed back against him. She looked… used. The thought was a pinprick in the balloon of her lingering pleasure.
“Stupid,” she whispered to the ghost in the glass.
With a shaky hand, she turned on the tap. The water ran cold. She wet a corner of a hand towel, rough and sun-bleached. Hiking up her shirt, she undid her jeans again, pushing them and her damp panties down her hips. The evidence was there, drying on her inner thighs. She bent, bringing the cloth to her skin.
The door shuddered in its frame.
Not a knock. A single, brutal impact from a foot or a shoulder. The flimsy lock groaned.
Dizzy froze, the wet cloth pressed against her leg.
“Open the door.” Liam’s voice, muffled by the wood, was flat. Commanding.
“Go away,” she called back, her own voice thin. “I’m busy.”
“Open it, Dizzy. Now.”
Another impact. The doorjamb splintered with a sickening crack. She stumbled back, yanking her jeans up but not fast enough. The door swung inward, rebounding off the tiled wall.
He filled the doorway. The shyness was incinerated, burnt away by a current of something feral. His eyes were dark, focused, taking in the scene—her with her pants undone, the damp cloth in her hand, the panic on her face. He stepped inside and kicked the door shut behind him. The broken lock didn’t catch; it simply hung, useless.
“What are you doing?” he asked, advancing. The space was so small he was on her in two steps.
“Cleaning up your mess,” she spat, defiance flaring to hide her fear, her thrill.
He snatched the cloth from her hand and threw it into the tub. His hands went to her jeans, yanking them back down her hips in one rough motion, taking her panties with them. They pooled around her ankles. The cold air hit her bare skin.
“No,” he said, his voice a low growl. “You don’t get to wipe me away.”
He turned her, forcefully, to face the mirror. Her hands shot out, bracing against the sink’s edge. His body pressed against her back, hard and unyielding. He met her wide eyes in the glass.
“Look,” he commanded.
She tried to look away, at the peeling wallpaper, at the small window with its view of the dunes. He grabbed a fistful of her hair, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to force her head up. “Look at yourself.”
Her reflection was a study in debasement. Shirt rucked up, jeans and underwear tangled at her feet, completely exposed from the waist down. Behind her, Liam’s face was a mask of intent. His free hand trailed down her side, over the curve of her hip, and slid between her legs from behind.
She was still wet from before. Slick and open. His fingers slid through her folds, coating themselves, a rough, possessive exploration. He pushed two fingers inside, curling them, and a broken sound escaped her throat. Her knees trembled.
“See that?” he whispered against her ear, his gaze locked on hers in the mirror. “That’s me. That’s mine. You’re dripping for me right now, and you want to pretend it didn’t happen?”
She couldn’t speak. Her body was betraying her, clenching around his invading fingers, heat pooling low in her belly. Shame and desire twisted together, inseparable.
With his other hand, he fumbled with his own jeans. She heard the zipper, the rustle of fabric. Then the blunt, hot pressure of him, his cock, nudging against her entrance. He removed his fingers, leaving her empty and aching.
“Watch,” he said, the word a hot breath on her neck.
He didn’t ask. He didn’t ease into her. He gripped her hip with one hand, kept his fist in her hair with the other, and shoved himself forward in one deep, brutal stroke.
The air left her lungs in a punched-out gasp. He was so much thicker than his fingers, stretching her, filling her to the hilt. The sensation was blinding. Pain and pleasure blurred into a white-hot wire of feeling. Her cunt spasmed around him, adjusting, accepting.
“Fuck,” he groaned, his head dropping for a second before he forced it back up, making her watch again.
He began to move. Short, sharp pulls almost all the way out, then hard, driving pushes back in. The rhythm was punishing, claiming. Each thrust slammed her hips into the hard edge of the sink. The mirror rattled. Her own image jolted with every impact—her breasts bouncing under her shirt, her mouth slack, eyes glazed.
“You feel that?” he gritted out, his pace increasing. His balls slapped against her with each deep plunge. “That’s my cock in your cunt. Right where it belongs. You’re so fucking tight. So goddamn wet for it.”
The filthy words, spoken with such focused intensity, sent another shockwave through her. She was mortified. She was on fire. Her body was responding, climbing again despite the chaotic rush of emotions, the awkward angle, the sheer overwhelming force of him.
“You came for me on that couch with my fingers in you,” he reminded her, his thrusts becoming erratic, harder. “You’re gonna come for me again. On my cock. In this mirror. I want to see it happen in your eyes.”
His hand left her hip and snaked around her front, diving between her legs. His thumb found her clit, swollen and sensitive, and rubbed tight, rapid circles. The dual assault was too much. The coil inside her, wound tight since the moment he’d kicked in the door, snapped.
Her orgasm tore through her with a silent, seismic violence. Her back arched, her cunt clamped down viscously around his pounding length, and a ragged, choked cry was ripped from her throat. Her vision starred, the image in the mirror dissolving into a blur of sensation.
Feeling her convulse around him was his undoing. With a final, guttural roar, he buried himself to the root and came. She felt the hot, pulsing rush of it inside her, flooding her, claiming her in the most primal way. He shuddered against her, his grip in her hair finally loosening, his forehead falling to her shoulder.
For a long moment, the only sounds were their ragged breaths and the faint crash of distant waves. Their reflected image was a tangled, sweaty portrait of aftermath.
Slowly, he softened inside her. He withdrew, a slow, wet slide that made her whimper. He gently turned her around, his hands now soft on her arms. The fury was gone from his eyes, replaced by a dazed, almost bewildered intensity.
“Dizzy,” he started, his voice rough.
From down the hall, Chloe’s voice, loud and concerned, cut through the silence. “Diz? Liam? You guys okay? I heard a bang.”
They stared at each other, frozen in the wreckage of the bathroom, his release already starting to leak down her thighs. The real world, with its questions and its judgments, was knocking on a broken door.