Chapter 8: The Faire and a Tent of Furs
The roar of the Ducati faded into the distant hum of excitement as they approached the faire grounds. Music wove through the air in tangled threads, carried by wind that smelled of woodsmoke and honey and something sweetly spiced. The festival sprawled before them like a living tapestry, a riot of color and sound where stall after stall lined the dusty paths, their colorful awnings snapping in the breeze.
Lauren slid off the bike first, her boots hitting the ground with a satisfying crunch. The sword at her back had shifted during the ride, the leather straps conspiring against her, but she'd take the ache of it over the absence. She pulled off her helmet and shook her hair loose, the pink strands catching the sunlight like spun sugar, and when she turned around, Liam was staring at her again.
"What?" she asked, suddenly self-conscious.
Liam dismounted slowly, pushing his own helmet up to rest on his handlebars. "You keep looking like you stepped out of the very books you love." He stepped closer, his thumb brushing a strand of hair from her face. "It's a good look on you."
Before she could respond, the crowd swallowed them, and Lauren found herself swept into the chaos of the faire. Everything demanded her attention—the jingling bells on a jester's cap, the wailing of a hurdy-gurdy drifting from a corner, the smell of roasting meat curling from a nearby stall. A knight in full armor clanked past, his visor raised to reveal a sweaty, grinning face. A woman in a corseted gown juggled fire, her movements fluid and hypnotic.
Liam's hand found the small of her back, steering her through the crowd with confidence. "You're taking me to the joust, right? Tell me we're seeing the joust."
"Obviously." Lauren turned to face him, walking backward just to extend their eye contact, almost colliding with a merchant hawking pewter tankards. She stumbled, and Liam's hand shot out to steady her. "Sorry. It's just—I've been coming here since I was a kid. The joust is the best part."
"That long?" He studied her, something warm and curious in his gaze. "You must know all the tricks, then."
"I know the names of the horses." She grinned, her guard dropping just a little. "My dad used to bring me every year. He'd tell me the story of each knight and their mount, and I'd just—believe him. Completely."
Liam's mouth curved. "And now?"
"Now I know they're mostly fictional." She shrugged, catching herself smiling. "But it's still fun to pretend."
The jousting arena came into view moments later, a massive ring of packed earth ringed by wooden stands. The seats were packed—screaming children waving pennants on sticks, parents squinting against the sun, serious-faced enthusiasts in full period gear. And at the center, two knights sat mounted, their armor gleaming and their lances lowered. The crowd held its breath.
Lauren pressed close to Liam, the excited chatter of the crowd swelling around them. He guided her into a spot near the rail, his chest against her back, his chin nearly brushing her ear as they watched. She felt the warmth of him, solid and steady, and a strange ache blossomed in her chest.
Then the horn sounded, and the horses surged. The thundering hooves sent tremors through the wooden rail, the sound vibrating up through Lauren's spine. Lances struck with a crack that echoed through the arena, and the crowd erupted—cheers and gasps, laughter and whoops of approval.
Liam let out a low whistle, turning to her with wide eyes. "Okay, that's—wow. That's better than I expected."
Lauren laughed as she watched three costumed men rush forward to help a toppled knight to his feet, dust billowing around them in golden clouds. "Wait until you see the archery display. There's this woman named Rosalind—she does trick shots with a longbow. She hit a target from fifty paces while doing a backflip last year."
"While doing a backflip?" Liam shook his head, a disbelieving grin spreading across his face. "I'm starting to think your dad wasn't the only storyteller in your family."
"That's not what my dad taught me." She nudged him lightly with her elbow, enjoying the warmth that spread through her. "That's just what a friend told me."
She glanced up at him, and their eyes met. For a moment, the crowd noise seemed to fade, the world shrinking to just the two of them. He was looking at her like he was seeing her for the first time—really seeing her—and it made something flutter low in her stomach.
Then the moment broke. A burst of laughter erupted from a nearby stall, yanking them back to the present. Liam cleared his throat and glanced around, the casual mask sliding back into place.
"Okay. You've sold me on the faire." He rubbed his hands together, surveying the maze of tents and pavilions. "Now—where can a man get a drink around here?"
They found a tavern tent half-swallowed by the crowd, its canvas walls sweating with condensation. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of sausages and mead, and a trio of musicians on a small wooden platform sawed at fiddles with frantic energy. They squeezed into a corner table, the wood sticky with spilled drinks, and Liam ordered two mugs of mead before Lauren could protest.
"This is the kind of place that puts hair on your chest, I swear." Liam slid a mug toward her. "Go on. Not too fast, though. It's stronger than it tastes."
The liquid was sweet on her tongue, with a honeyed aftertaste that bloomed into a pleasant warmth at the back of her throat. She drank a little more before setting the mug down.
"Good?" Liam asked.
"Yeah. Actually, it's really good." She took another sip, feeling the heat spread through her limbs. Her eyes drifted to him, watching the lantern light play across his features. "Why did you ask me here?"
Liam paused, the mug halfway to his lips. "I wanted to spend time with you."
"That's not what I mean." Lauren traced the rim of her mug, her finger leaving a path in the condensation. "I mean—you could have asked anyone. There are probably a dozen girls who would've jumped at the chance to be on the back of your Ducati."
Liam set the mug down. His gaze was steady on hers, and the playfulness in his eyes dimmed just enough for something else to show through. "I didn't want anyone. I wanted you."
Lauren's heart stuttered. Around them, the noise of the tavern faded into a dull roar, the music and laughter becoming static. She opened her mouth to respond, not entirely sure what would come out, when a commotion at the tent entrance drew her attention.
A tall girl with a shock of copper hair had commandeered the central space, her voice carrying through the crowd. She was a performer—Lauren recognized her from the archery display, the woman with the longbow and the backflips. Rosalind. She was holding court, gesturing wildly, and the crowd around her laughed and clapped.
"Is that her?" Liam asked, following Lauren's gaze.
"Yeah." Lauren tore her eyes away from the performer. "She's amazing."
Liam raised an eyebrow. "Reminds me of someone I know."
Lauren's face heated. "I'm not like that."
"You're braver than you think." He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, the light catching the warmth in his eyes. "You walked into a coffee shop a week ago and left with the attention of a complete stranger." A slow smile spread across his face. "Now you're wearing a sword and sipping mead like it's your birthright. That takes guts."
"It's a costume."
"It's armor." He tilted his head, studying her with an intensity that made her skin prickle. "You spent the whole morning flinching at everything, but you're here. You showed up. That matters."
The observation hit her harder than she expected. She'd spent so long perfecting the art of invisibility that she hadn't realized how close to the surface her fears ran. But with him, in this moment, surrounded by laughter and music and the warm glow of honeyed drink, she felt something loosen in her chest.
"Come on." She pushed back from the table, reaching for his hand. "I want to show you something."
The archery range was tucked near the edge of the grounds, a long stretch of green grass lined with wooden targets. Rosalind stood at the far end, demonstrating to a crowd of children. Lauren found a clear spot near the fence and pulled Liam beside her.
"I used to dream about learning to shoot a bow," she said. "Every time I came here, I'd watch them and think—I could do that. I could be the one they all stop to watch."
"So why didn't you?"
Lauren's gaze drifted to the targets. "Because I was always too scared someone would laugh at me."
Liam turned to face her, his hand finding her chin and tilting her head gently. "Let me ask you something. What's the worst thing that could happen?"
It was such a simple question, but it cut through the fog of years-old anxiety. She considered it—really considered it—and found the answer wasn't as scary as she'd always imagined.
"I'd try. And I might fail." She met his eyes. "And that would be okay."
"That's the answer right there." His hand dropped to her shoulder, squeezed once, and then he was steering her toward the range, already chatting up the attendant, flashing that dimpled grin that could charm the scales off a snake.
"Two arrows," he said, pressing coins into the attendant's hand. "One for her, one for me. Loser buys dinner."
"I never agreed to this." The protest was weak, and they both knew it. Lauren took the bow from the attendant, her fingers trembling slightly as she ran them along the wood. It was lighter than she expected, the grip worn smooth from hands that had come before hers.
"Now what?" she asked.
"Now you let the bow do the work." Liam stood behind her, his chest pressing against her back, his arms sliding around her to guide her grip. "You don't fight it. You just—breathe. Pull back the string, find your anchor, and let go."
His hands on hers were warm, his breath tickling her ear. She felt drawn into his orbit, his presence wrapping around her like the fur blankets she'd seen at the craft stalls.
"And when do I let go?"
"When it feels right." His voice was low and steady, and somewhere in the back of her mind she realized they weren't talking about the bow anymore.
She pulled back the string. The world narrowed to the target, to the beat of her heart, to the weight of his body against hers. She held, breathed, and released.
The arrow arced through the air and thudded into the target—not the bullseye, but close enough to earn a smattering of applause from the watching children. Lauren let out a shaky breath.
"Nice shot." Liam stepped back, his hands finding her shoulders. "I think you're a natural."
"I had a good teacher." She handed him the bow. "Your turn."
He winked, took the bow, and released his own arrow with the ease of someone who'd done this a thousand times. It hit the bullseye dead center, and he shrugged with theatrical modesty.
"Beginner's luck."
"Right." She laughed, the sound surprising her—light and bright and free. "Come on, you show-off. Buy me dinner."
The sun was dipping toward the horizon when they finally admitted they were hungry. They wandered through the paths, the crowds thinning as the day wore on, and found a small stall selling meat pies wrapped in rough brown paper. They ate standing up, their shoulders brushing, grease on their fingers, and Lauren was struck by how incredibly ordinary and wonderful it all felt.
"Tell me something no one knows about you," Liam said, breaking a comfortable silence.
"Something no one knows?" She chewed, thinking. "I still read my favorite childhood books before bed. When I can't fall asleep. It's embarrassing."
"It's nice." He took a bite of his pie. "I still sleep with the lights on when I've watched a scary movie. Can't help it."
"That's not a shameful secret. That's just being human."
"Exactly." He wiped his hands on a napkin, crumpling it into a ball. "That's what I like about you, Lauren. You see things the way they are."
She wanted to argue, to point out all the times she'd misread a situation or frozen in a crowd. But the word like had lodged itself somewhere in her chest, fluttering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
They drifted down a quieter path, past the sound of the jousting grounds until they came to the smaller tents—the ones rented out to guests seeking a moment of respite from the chaos. Lauren paused outside one of them, its canvas walls glowing warm from within. Faux fur blankets spilled out from the open flap, embroidered tapestries hanging from the wooden beams inside. Beeswax candles flickered on a low table, casting dancing shadows that made the space feel almost otherworldly.
"Look at this," she breathed, stepping closer.
Liam peered over her shoulder. "Now that's an investment."
"You say that like you're not curious."
"Curious?" He shot her a sideways look. "I'm always curious. It's the follow-through that usually gets me into trouble."
But he was already ducking through the entrance, his broad shoulders filling the space. Lauren followed, pulled by an invisible thread she couldn't name. The tent was small—cozy, with just enough room for a bed of furs and a few scattered cushions. The lantern light painted everything in shades of gold and shadow. She ran her fingers across the fur, the texture luxurious and soft.
"This is amazing."
"It's something." Liam settled onto the furs, sprawling back, letting the lantern light carve shadows across his face.
She stood at the entrance, seeing him like this, casual and open. Her heart hammered against her ribs, the adrenaline of the day catching up with her, the honeyed warmth of the mead weaving through her thoughts. She didn't want to leave. The morning felt so far away, the woman she'd been at her wardrobe like a stranger she'd left behind.
She closed the tent flap behind her.
Liam looked up, his eyes meeting hers in the dim light. There was no surprise in them, but there was something—a watching stillness that made her breath catch.
She crossed the space and lowered herself onto the furs beside him. The air between them felt electric, charged with a tension that had been building all day, all week, since the moment he'd walked into that coffee shop and asked for a seat at her table.
She straddled his hips, feeling the hard planes of his chest against her thighs. She had to shift a little to keep her balance, her leather skirt bunching around her waist, his hands rising instinctively to her thighs, fingers curling at the edge of her thigh-highs.
For a moment, they just looked at each other. The heat of him radiated through his clothes, and the lantern light flickered across them, casting dancing patterns on their skin. She leaned down and kissed him, and the contact was electric—soft and searching and more intimate than anything she'd ever experienced.
He kissed her back, his hands sliding higher, brushing the bare skin of her thighs. She gasped against his lips, her heart stuttering. His fingers inched upward, toward the hem of her skirt, tracing patterns that left a trail of fire in their wake.
She pulled back just enough to whisper, her voice shaking with a vulnerability she'd never let anyone hear. "I've never... not like this."
He went still beneath her. His hand stilled on her leg, his gaze searching hers. For a moment, the only sound was their breathing, ragged and loud in the small tent. Then he found her hips and guided them gently against his, the movement both tender and possessive, a question and an answer all at once.
"That makes you different," he murmured, his voice gravelly. "And I mean that as the highest compliment."
She let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding, and the tension between them snapped. She kissed him with everything she had, feeling the impossible softness of the furs against her thighs only amplified by the press of his body against hers. They moved together, learning each other's rhythm, the world outside dissolving into a distant echo.
The lantern flickered. Somewhere beyond the canvas, a lute played a slow, lilting melody. And Lauren let herself fall, letting the warmth of him consume her, the weight of the sword gone from her back and the future a wide-open road before them.
And Lauren let herself fall, letting the warmth of him consume her, the weight of the sword gone from her back and the future a wide-open road before them.
Her hands knotted in his hair, tugging the dark strands as she kissed him with a hunger she didn't know she possessed. He groaned against her mouth, his fingers tightening on her thighs before sliding higher, tracing the boundary of her leather skirt. The pad of his thumb brushed the skin just beneath the hem, and she inhaled sharply, her body going rigid.
He pulled back immediately, his eyes searching hers in the dim lantern light. "Hey. You okay?"
She nodded, but her breath came in shallow bursts. "I just—nobody's ever touched me like this."
"Lauren." His voice was soft, almost reverent. "I promised you we'd go at your pace. Whatever that means. Even if it means we stop right now and just—sleep."
The offer hung in the air between them. She saw the sincerity in his eyes, the way his hands had stilled, ready to retreat at her command. And instead of fear, she felt something else—a surge of want so fierce it surprised her.
She leaned in and kissed him hard, her tongue sliding against his, her hands gripping his shoulders. She took his wrists and guided them back under her skirt, pressing his palms against the bare skin of her ass. He groaned into her mouth, his fingers kneading the flesh there, and she arched into him.
"I don't want to stop," she whispered against his lips. "I want this. I want you."
His shirt came off in a messy tangle of fabric and eager hands. She pulled back just long enough to look at him—the broad planes of his chest, the defined ridges of his abs, the way the lantern light painted shadows across his skin. She traced her fingers down his sternum, feeling the heat of him, the slight tremor in his muscles.
"You're so fucking beautiful," he breathed, and the words hit her like a physical blow.
He sat up and reached for the buttons of her blouse, his fingers fumbling with the delicate fastenings before he gave up and simply pulled it open, scattering buttons across the furs. He pushed the fabric off her shoulders, and she shrugged out of it, leaving herself in just her black bra and the leather skirt.
"God, Lauren." His eyes roamed over her, dark and hungry. "Look at you."
She felt herself flush, but she didn't look away. His hands found her waist, thumbs tracing the curve of her ribs before sliding up to cup her breasts through the lace. She gasped at the sensation, her nipples hardening beneath his touch.
"Can I take this off?" he asked, his voice rough.
She nodded, and he reached behind her, unhooking her bra with practiced ease. The lace fell away, and the cool air hit her skin, but his mouth was there a moment later, hot and wet against her breast. She moaned, her head falling back, her fingers digging into his shoulders as he sucked and laved at her nipple, tongue flicking against the sensitive peak.
Somehow, they shifted positions. She found herself on her back, the furs soft beneath her, Liam above her, his body a warm weight pressing her into the bedding. He kissed his way down her throat, her collarbone, the swell of her chest, leaving a trail of heat in his wake. His hands worked at the fastening of her skirt, and she lifted her hips to help him.
The leather slid away, leaving her in just her black thigh-highs and the damp cotton of her panties. He pulled back to look at her, his gaze raking over her body with an appreciation that made her core clench.
"Fuck," he breathed. "You're even more beautiful than I imagined."
"You imagined this?" Her voice came out small, vulnerable.
"Every night since the coffee shop." He leaned down and kissed her, slow and deep. "Couldn't stop thinking about you."
His jeans came off next, the button popping open, the zipper rasping as he shucked them down his legs. He was left in his boxers, the fabric straining against his erection, and she could see the outline of him—thick and hard and impossibly tempting.
He settled between her thighs, his hands stroking the smooth skin of her thigh-highs, sliding higher to the bare flesh above. "You're sure about this?"
She nodded, then reached down and brushed her fingers over the bulge in his boxers. He hissed, his hips jerking into her touch. The fabric was damp at the tip, and she could feel the heat of him through the cotton.
"I'm sure," she said.
He kissed her hard, his tongue plunging into her mouth as his hands gripped her hips. Then he started trailing his mouth down her body—her neck, her breasts, the soft curve of her stomach—each kiss a brand that made her shiver. He paused at the waistband of her panties, looking up at her.
"You tell me to stop, and I stop. No questions asked."
She nodded, her throat tight.
He hooked his fingers into the elastic and pulled them down slowly, inch by inch, exposing her to the cool air. She felt herself flush, suddenly self-conscious, but the look in his eyes—pure hunger, pure reverence—chased the doubt away.
He settled between her legs, his breath warm against her slick folds. "Jesus, you're wet for me."
"I've wanted this," she admitted, her voice shaking. "I've wanted you."
He didn't respond. He just lowered his mouth to her cunt, and Lauren's world went white.
His tongue found her clit immediately, circling the sensitive bundle of nerves with a precision that made her gasp. He licked up her slit, tasting her, groaning against her flesh, the vibration sending shockwaves through her body. She arched her back, her fingers twisting into the furs beneath her, a cry caught in her throat.
"Oh, fuck—" The words tumbled out of her unbidden, raw and desperate.
He didn't slow. He ate her like she was the last meal he'd ever have, his tongue lapping at her, his lips closing around her clit to suck gently. His fingers found her entrance, sliding inside her with a slick, easy thrust, and she cried out—a wanton, keening sound that echoed off the canvas walls.
"That's it," he murmured against her. "Let go for me."
He curled his fingers, finding a spot inside her that made her see stars. His tongue kept working her clit, relentless, and she felt the pressure building—a coiled tension in her belly that grew tighter and tighter until it snapped.
She came with a scream, her body convulsing, her walls clenching around his fingers. He didn't stop, licking her through the orgasm until she was trembling and oversensitive, the waves of pleasure finally receding.
"Jesus Christ, Lauren." He crawled up her body, his face slick with her. "You have no idea what you do to me."
She reached down and gripped his cock through his boxers, feeling it twitch against her palm. His eyes rolled back, and he groaned, thrusting into her hand.
"Take these off," she said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. "I want to feel you."