Sarah Mayberry - She's Got It Bad

“I’m going to go clean up,” she said.

She hooked the neck of the bourbon bottle between two fingers and made her way down the cinder-block corridor to the pokey change room. Inside, her work clothes were draped over the back of a chair, and her makeup kit was folded open on the counter in front of the mirror. She took another pull from the bottle and eyed herself in the mirror. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth as she again imagined Liam Masters’s reaction to Vixen’s performance.

Hilarious. Way, way too funny.

Then she heard the scuff of footsteps and turned her head to see him filling the doorway—tall and dark and intense.

Her smile widened into a grin and she raised the bourbon bottle in salute to him.

“How’d you like the show?” She held up a finger before he had a chance to speak. “No, no, let me guess. You thought it was all wrong.”

He didn’t say a word, just walked into the room and pushed the door shut behind him.

Suddenly the small space seemed even smaller. Zoe took another mouthful of bourbon.

“We need to talk,” Liam said.

“Do we?”

“I want to help you out. If you need money, a fresh start. Whatever. I’ll get you whatever you need,” he said.

She slowly put down the bottle. He was offering her charity. Like she was some down-and-out junkie or streetwalker.

“Gee, thanks, Lord Liam. How good of you to come down amongst the peasants and offer your bounty. I feel so privileged, I hardly know what to say.”

His gaze swept her from head to toe.

“Do your parents know you do this kind of thing? Your brother?”

She was a little sick of the judgment in his tone.

“This kind of thing? What exactly are you referring to, Liam? My singing? My career?”

“I’m talking about putting yourself on display for anyone to look at,” he said. “Letting every man and his dog stare at you and imagine what it would be like to screw you stupid.”

She shrugged, knowing somehow that it was the one reaction that would really piss him off.

“Men can look and imagine all they want. I’m the one who decides when and what they can touch.”

She raised her chin, daring him to say more. The silence stretched between them for what felt like a long time.

“What happened to you, Zoe?” he finally asked, his voice low.

She blinked, caught off guard by the pain in his face, the sincerity in his tone.

“You left and I grew up,” she said, turning her back on him. She didn’t trust herself to look him in the eye.

She could feel him watching her as she stowed her cosmetics in her kit.

“Let me help you. For old times’ sake.”

She closed her eyes, despising herself for the way he could still make her feel. Tears threatened for the second time that day and the emptiness inside her yawned wide.

God, she had to get him out of her change room and out of her life.

It had taken her years to find a place and a persona that made it all bearable, doable, survivable. She would not let him strip her of her armor.

She let her eyelids drop over her eyes as she turned to face him, at the same time hooking one thumb into the waistband of her hot pants.

“I don’t need any help from you, Liam,” she said. “The only thing I need from any man is the one thing I don’t have myself. If you get my drift.”

She watched as her meaning dawned on him and his expression grew even grimmer.

If that didn’t get rid of her self-appointed Sir Galahad, she didn’t know what would. After all, it had worked a treat twelve years ago.

“Don’t play games,” he said. “There must be something you need.”

“Definitely,” she said. “Especially after performing. It always makes me hot.”

She fanned a hand in front of her face. At the same time, she used the thumb in her waistband to pop the stud on her hot pants. The small sound brought Liam’s gaze to her waist.

“Not interested?” she asked, finding the tab of her zipper with her fingertips.

She had a sudden flash of how it had been all those years ago, the way he’d slid his hand under the waistband of her jeans at first rather than undo her fly, how she’d had to beg him to touch her properly.

The memory urged her on as she slid her zipper down.

“Don’t.” His voice sounded too loud in the small space.

A muscle jumped in his jaw.

Good. She wanted him to sweat. She wanted him gone. And she was enjoying being the one with the power for a change. Once, she’d begged him to love her and he’d pushed her out the door, then abandoned her without a word. Tonight, she was the one in charge.

She snagged her thumbs into the belt loops of her hot pants and pushed down. She had to wriggle her hips a little to get the leather over them.

“Tight,” she said, wrinkling her nose. She pushed the hot pants down her legs and stepped out of them, standing in front of him wearing only her black lace thong and bra and her red garters and stockings.

“So what’s it going to be, Liam? Are you going to give me what I need, or are you going to make me take care of things myself?”

She touched the tip of her middle finger to her tongue then slid her finger down her chest until she found her left nipple through the lace of her bra. She brushed it lightly, then caught it between thumb and forefinger and squeezed. Heat shot down her belly to her thighs and her nipple hardened into a tight, needy peak.

She could hear him breathing.

“I just want to make things right for you,” he said.

“And I told you how you could do that.”

She’d meant to drive him away, but the way he was watching her so intently was having its own effect on her. Suddenly it wasn’t a game anymore.

She’d always imagined what it would be like to be with him. She’d held him in her hands, stroked him, found the single bead of desire that had glistened on the head of his penis. She’d had his fingers between her legs, inside her. She’d been so desperate for him that she’d begged him to take her virginity. But he’d pushed her away and left her wanting.

Not this time. Not if she had any say in the matter. She took a step backward until she felt the cool ridge of the counter against the backs of her thighs. She propped her butt against it and lifted her leg up onto the seat of the chair beside it.

She held his eye all the while, watching him watching her.

He wanted her. The tension in his body would have betrayed him even if there hadn’t been a bigger, longer giveaway bulging the front of his well-worn jeans.

“What’s wrong, Liam? I’m not Tom’s innocent little sister anymore. No parents are going to come barging in. It’s just you and me. No excuses, nothing.”

She kept her left hand on her breast and slid her right down her belly until she felt the lace of her thong beneath her fingers. She slid her fingers beneath the elastic and between her thighs.

Between taunting him so publicly onstage and this far more private, provocative session, she was aching for fulfillment.

She closed her eyes and sucked in a breath as she circled her finger.

“Feels so good, Liam. Want to try?”

LIAM SWORE. He was so hard it hurt and he was about out of reasons for keeping his hands off her. She was touching herself, her hips circling as she pleasured herself right in front of him. He couldn’t remember ever being so confronted, turned-on and conflicted all at the same time.

But this was Zoe. Zoe of the big trusting eyes and the silken, untouched skin and the breathless, utterly guileless sexuality. He couldn’t screw her in the back room of some shitty club.

“Better hurry up, Liam, or the show will be over.” She pushed down the cup of her bra and exposed one full, creamy breast.