Chapter 1: Dirty Dancing to Dirtier Fucking
The bass from the live band thumped through the floorboards of The Rusty Nail, a physical thing that vibrated up through the soles of Tom’s boots and into his bones. The air was a soupy mix of spilled lager, cheap perfume, and the heat of too many bodies. He leaned against the scarred wooden bar, a pint of something dark and bitter mostly forgotten in his hand, and let his gaze wander over the dance floor.
That’s where he saw her.
She was a curve of laughter in a sea of frantic movement, a woman with a riot of auburn hair and a dress that clung to every generous inch of her. She was dancing with a girlfriend, eyes closed, head thrown back, utterly lost in the rhythm. It wasn’t a performance for an audience. It was a pure, private joy, and Tom found himself utterly captivated.
He must have stared too long, because her eyes snapped open—a stunning, clear green—and locked directly onto his. A slow, knowing smile spread across her lips. She didn’t look away.
Challenge accepted.
He pushed off the bar, weaving through the crowd until he was beside her. The music was too loud for polite conversation, so he didn’t try. He just moved into the space near her, his body finding the same beat. She turned to face him, her smile turning playful, and shifted closer. The scent of her cut through the club’s stench—something clean and sharp like citrus.
“I’m Rachel,” she yelled over the guitar solo.
“Tom!”
“Just Tom?”
“For now!”
She laughed, and the sound went straight to his gut. She reached out, her hands landing on his shoulders. His own, calloused from a lifetime of handling timber and stone, settled naturally on her hips. The dress was thin. He could feel the heat of her skin beneath it.
They moved like that for a song, a teasing, building friction. With every roll of her hips, she brushed against the growing tightness in his jeans. He pulled her closer, until her back was flush against his chest, her arse a perfect, maddening pressure against his cock.
“Fuck, you feel that?” he growled into her ear, his voice rough. He ground himself against her, leaving no doubt. “That’s all for you. You’re driving me fucking wild.”
She arched back into him, her head lolling against his shoulder. “Yeah? Prove it.”
That was all the invitation he needed. His hands slid from her hips, one splaying across her stomach to pull her tighter, the other drifting lower, cupping her through the soft fabric. She gasped, her body jerking against his. He could feel the damp heat already seeping through.
“Christ, you’re wet already,” he murmured, his fingers pressing harder, finding a rhythm against her.
“Your fucking fault,” she panted, her own hand reaching behind to claw at his thigh.
The song crashed to an end. They didn’t wait for the next one. A silent, urgent agreement passed between them. He grabbed her hand, his grip firm, and pulled her off the dance floor, through the sweating crowd, and out the heavy fire door into the cool, diesel-scented air of the alley.
His white work truck was parked twenty feet away, a hulking shape under a flickering streetlight.
They didn’t make it to the cab.
As soon as they were clear of the pub’s glow, he spun her around and pushed her against the side of the truck, his mouth crashing down on hers. It was all teeth and tongue and hungry, frantic noise. Her hands fisted in his hair, pulling him closer. He yanked at the hem of her dress, rucking it up around her waist. Her fingers tore at his belt buckle, the clank of metal loud in the quiet alley.
“Jeans. Off. Now,” she breathed against his mouth.
He shoved his own jeans and boxers down just past his hips, his cock springing free, already slick at the tip. He shoved her lace panties to the side, not even bothering to take them off. One hand braced against the cold metal of the truck. The other guided himself to her.
He entered her in one deep, brutal thrust.
A raw, punched-out groan tore from his throat. She was so fucking hot, so tight, and so wet. She cried out, a sharp, profane sound that echoed off the brick walls.
“Oh god, yes! Fuck, Tom!”
He set a punishing pace immediately, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in, the truck’s suspension creaking with every drive of his hips. The wet, filthy sound of their coupling filled the air. He leaned over her, his chest against her back, his mouth at her ear.
“You like that? You like being bent over and fucked in an alley like a dirty girl?”
“Yes! Harder!”
He obliged, his balls slapping against her with each thrust. His rough hands gripped her hips, sure to leave bruises. He could feel her muscles beginning to flutter around him, her cries getting higher, more desperate.
“You gonna come?” he grunted. “Come on my cock. Do it.”
She screamed, her body seizing, clamping down on him like a vice. The intensity of her orgasm pushed him over the edge. With a final, deep snarl, he buried himself to the hilt and came, pulse after hot pulse spilling into her, his vision whiting out at the edges.
For a moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing, mingling with the distant thump of the bass from the pub.
Slowly, he softened and slipped out of her. He rested his forehead against her shoulder, both of them still braced against the truck. He gently tugged her panties back into place and smoothed her dress down.
“Well,” Rachel said, her voice shaky but laced with humour. “That was a hell of a hello.”
Tom chuckled, pulling up his jeans. “You started it.”
She turned around, her face flushed, her lipstick smeared. She looked utterly debauched and beautiful. “I need a cigarette. And I don’t even smoke.”
He was fishing his keys from his pocket when a voice cut through the dark.
“Leaving so soon?”
A man leaned against the wall a few yards away, partly shrouded in shadow. He was tall, lean, dressed in dark jeans and a simple black t-shirt. He took a drag from his own cigarette, the ember glowing brightly. Tom hadn’t even heard him approach.
Rachel stiffened slightly. Tom stepped subtly in front of her, his body thrumming with a new, alert tension.
“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” the man said, his voice smooth. He pushed off the wall and stepped into the dim light. He had sharp features, intelligent eyes. “Just getting some air. Saw the show.” His gaze wasn’t threatening. It was appraising, curious. It drifted from Tom to Rachel and back again, a small smile playing on his lips. “Quite a performance.”
Tom felt a strange jolt, not of anger, but of something else. Something that had been lying dormant for years. The man’s look was direct, unashamed. Tom found he couldn’t look away.
Rachel, instead of being embarrassed, let out a low laugh. She stepped out from behind Tom, not afraid, but intrigued. She looked from the stranger to Tom, her green eyes missing nothing.
“Seems we had an audience,” she said, her tone light, challenging.
The man took a last drag and dropped the cigarette, grinding it under his boot. “Name’s Liam.” He didn’t offer a hand. His eyes stayed on Tom. “You two look like you’re just getting started.”