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celestianstars · 5 months ago

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The range of emotions I went through reading this masterpiece! Tara oh wowww, this was beautiful and intense and heart crushing 🖤 this was so so good, apologies it’s taken me a minute to give some coherent thoughts but ahh I loved this fic!

I’m so in my feelings at how much yearning there is all through this it’s the best, all the unsaid and held back longing between Liam and Reader felt so real you could feel the chemistry between them and I already 🥺 at the fact that they are at ease around each other and it’s comfortable and easy to talk to each other, the way I went oh when she noted that he always seemed to know what to say, that her favorites were his too just knowing the implications

But also giggling and kicking my feet at her finding reasons to call him for a ride, they’re both so down bad and the tension and chemistry between them reads perfectly

Gosh Liam being so sweet and polite with her makes me *biting fist* I really love how you write him Tara it feels so real and like I’m watching this inevitability all play out like a movie! Amazingggg, you’re so talented pLs!

“If you need a ride home afterwards, just let me know, love.”

“A lovely woman like you shouldn’t be waiting that late by yourself anyway. It’s dangerous.”

Swooning right now oh man, like stop calling me those kinds of names what are we?! Him offering, trying to make her feel safe, you make me want this sad man so much 😩

She texted him before she even left her seat at the show I-same ugh the yearningggg

“And now you know. Which actually makes all of this feel so much worse because, under the serene veil of passing street lights and quiet roads, the lines are beginning to blur.”

This was such a beautiful line and it says so much! The way you write is so immersive, feels like I’m in the car too!

“So the worst he can say is no, you think, as if that wouldn’t break your heart.”

I love how much depth to their feelings is here, how it’s been building all this time and you can see and feel it and it was so good reading them getting closer and closer to taking that step with each other, how badly they both want it and her concern when she can sense he’s holding back, not saying something

Oof had me bracing for the other shoe to drop!

The little bit of them eating their noodles after Liam affirms he wants to be here with her had me smiling and so soft and then when they finally stopped tiptoeing around their desire for each other, that was insanely steamy and intense I am currently thinking of nothing else but riding Liam Black in his taxi 🥵 the way he handles her I’m going to cryyy

Your honor I could fix him I swear!

Oh gosh and when she puts it all together, the reality crashing down on everything and the spiral of emotions she has, wow amazing, fantastic delivery like GOD the devastation of realizing you’re the other woman, that he was not truthful with you, that he’s been hiding but being validated in the little red flags that had popped up before the bomb dropped, so excellent Tara!

I felt for herrr and then omfg the settling realization for her that she still feels this love for him, he has to fix this but as long as he is hers, shooook and it was such a good finish to this! I loved reading this my friend, we are so blessed to have this from you!

“The gravity of him pulling you in. You bend to him like light.”

“He’s looking at you as though he’s a damned man and you’re his salvation.”

Two more of my fave parts from this fic, so beautiful!

The Fear Has Gripped Me, but Here I Go

(13.4k)

Fandom: The Accused (BBC)

Pairing: Liam Black/F!Reader

Summary: It was so easy to develop a crush on Liam Black. He's sweet, handsome, funny, and all of your conversations feel effortless. How could you not? Maybe it was too easy because you're starting to fall a little deeper and you can't stop calling him whenever you need a taxi.

Warnings: Explicit rating, sex, car sex, semi public sex, unprotected sex, adultery, cheating, lying, mutual pinning, romance, angst

A/N: This is a fic about the character Liam Black played by Andy Serkis in the BBC anthology show The Accused. In the show, he breaks into a woman's house, steals from her, stalks her, uses that information to get her to like him, interferes with her life, etc. None of that is shown or stated in this fic, but if you’ve watched the show, you can infer a LOT about their interactions. In the show, he also cheats on his wife and lies to both her and the other woman. That IS in this fic. Unfortunately, Liam Black is one of my poor little meow meows, so this story is also intended to be romantic. I do not condone cheating (obviously). This is fiction. It's just that Liam is a sympathetic creep, but also I want to kiss him. (Andy Serkis has rotted my brain.) | Work title is from “Breezeblocks” by alt-J.

Playlist | AO3

It's distressingly easy to get sucked into the gravity of Liam Black. The way he looks at you—stolen glances in the rearview mirror when he thinks you won't notice—makes you feel special. Beautiful.

Something worth marveling at.

That should be a red flag, but you can't remember the last time someone looked at you like that. It's more than being appreciated for your appearance or checked out by a stranger. It's as if your presence is a bright spot in his day. In the same way he might stop to appreciate the view of a valley brimming with flowers or a sunrise after a particularly long night. His expression, one of awe.

Every bit of conversation between the two of you feels so natural, too. Effortless. Like meeting up with an old friend only to pick up right where you left off years ago. And he makes you laugh in a way you haven't in so long, as if he knows the exact thing to say to get you to smile. Even when you've had a rotten day.

Especially when you've had a rotten day.

So you keep calling him when you need a ride.

After all, Liam gave you his number for that very reason, you tell yourself. It's much easier than arranging a taxi because you deal with him directly. You know it will be him showing up at your door, and he already knows where you live and is familiar with the drive. Why wouldn't you call him?

At least that's how it started. Weeks ago.

Eventually any small excuse became a reason to phone him instead of driving yourself. “Parking will be a nightmare.” “I'd rather not fight with traffic.” “What if I want to have a drink during dinner with my friends?” “I swear my car made a strange noise this morning. I shouldn't drive it until I can get it looked at, and the shop is booked out a week.”

Deep down you know it's because you want that connection. You want his attention on you. You want to catch those blue eyes in the mirror. To see the profile of his nose and warm smile from the backseat. The greying scruff of his beard. The casual flex of his arms on the steering wheel—far more muscular than you would have expected from a driver and deceptively so under his polos because the way the fabric stretches around his biceps is…enticing.

It's just a crush, you tell yourself. Nothing more than a passing fancy. It's nice to have something to indulge in. It's perfectly harmless.

But then one night, you're in Liam’s taxi because you're headed to meet some friends to see a play—your favorite play—only to discover it's his favorite play, too.

So the two of you talk enthusiastically about it the entire drive there, quoting lines and debating character motivations and themes. Once you arrive at the theater, you find that you're very disappointed to be getting out of the car. You were enjoying yourself so much that it went by too fast.

“If you need a ride home afterwards, just let me know, love.” He turns in his seat to smile at you, and the corners of his eyes crinkle in a way that's endearing. Earnest.

“It'll be awfully late.” You can't help but smile back, even as you wave off his suggestion. “I can just flag a taxi.”

“I'll already be out. It's no trouble, really,” he insists while holding up a placating hand. Then his expression softens. “A lovely woman like you shouldn't be waiting that late by yourself anyway. It's dangerous.”

You want to protest further. To say your friends will be there, too, and you'll hardly be alone. That you don't want to be a bother. But, god, he called you lovely and he looks so hopeful. Those blue eyes bore into yours and pierce your defenses. The words die on your lips.

You relent.

You'll text him from the lobby after the show, you agree. He'll come get you then.

You've never texted him before. Somehow that feels more intimate than calling him and hearing the rough timbre of his voice.

The play is wonderful.

Your favorite character was perfectly cast, and his delivery of a line makes you think of Liam—the way he quoted it from the driver's seat a mere hour before, the parody of a serious expression on his face that made you laugh. He smiled at you then, all unmasked adoration, and your heart flutters at the memory.

When it's over, you text him before you've even left your seat.

As you resist the urge to impatiently push your way through the throng of people heading for the lobby, you tell your friends you couldn't possibly go out for drinks afterwards. You're tired and you have an early morning, but you'll take that rain check! Next time, you promise. You'll even buy a round! And that seems to placate them enough that they're on their way without you.

Before they can see you getting into his cab. Before they can look too closely and see what you're trying so desperately to deny to yourself: That you're more excited to see him than you are at the thought of spending time with them.

That you want this thing you shouldn't want.

He must have been close because he's already idling in wait as you exit the building. Your expression brightens at the sight of him waving at you from the driver's window, his face bathed in the marquee lights. The bulbs reflect in his eyes, tiny pin pricks like stars, and it sets your heart racing.

Christ, he's handsome.

You briefly wonder if he stayed in the area just for you. You can't deny you like the thought, even as you try to bury it down. That's something you can dig back up and indulge in later. When you're alone.

“How was the play, love?” He asks back at you once you've settled in and closed the door. The sounds outside become muted, trapping an artificial intimacy in with you.

“Fantastic! Oh, you would have loved it,” you sigh as you buckle yourself in. “You really should get tickets while it's still going.”

“Maybe I should.” He glances one last time out the window at the people still spilling from the front doors before slowly pulling away from the curb. “I might fit in better with the matinee crowd, though.”

Your head snaps up towards him. “What does that mean?”

“Well, I'm just a lowly taxi driver. Not really night at the theater material.”

“Nonsense.” You furrow your brows at him, as though you're offended on his behalf. “You aren't just anything, and there's nothing lowly about being a taxi driver. Plus, there are no requirements for going to see a play. Art is for everyone.”

He smiles to himself, almost amused by your reaction. “It'd still be sad, yeah? A man going to the theater all by himself.”

“Not at all!” You try to ignore the thrill in your chest at the implication that he doesn't have a partner. It's something you've suspected based on past conversations, but refused to ask outright. That would have been too much like showing real interest. “I've gone by myself loads of times.”

“Really?” There's a note of disbelief in his voice, and he glances up at you in the mirror. “A beautiful woman like you, without a date?”

A heat creeps over your cheeks. You bite at your bottom lip and glance out the window to hide it. You're suddenly glad for the late hour so he can't see the bashfulness in your reflection.

“Now you sound like my mother,” you tease, trying to deflect the comment.

His laughter rings out through the car. “Oh god, I take it back!”

“Besides, it's not always easy to get a date last minute, romantic or platonic. Is it?” You raise your eyebrows at him in challenge. “Why don't you take one?”

This is the closest you've come to prying because, now that he's alluded to the fact that he's available, you can't help yourself. You have to know. Whether that's to satisfy some curiosity or because a part of you has a vested interest in his answer, you're not sure.

“If you can't get one last minute, then what hope does a washed up old driver like myself have?”

And now you know. Which actually makes all of this feel so much worse because, under the serene veil of passing street lights and quiet roads, the lines are beginning to blur.

You also want to open your mouth and say something stupid like, “Then they're idiots,” or “You’re far from washed up,” and maybe even “I’d go with you.” But you know the second that you do, it pushes this beyond the bounds of rides and cautious flirting.

You don't even know if Liam would want that. What if he's only being nice? You don't know how he talks to his other passengers. Maybe he finds the flirting fun and harmless, too, and he's not actually interested in anything more. Maybe he enjoys being your friend.

Or maybe you’re only projecting what you want to see because you're lonely and he’s easy to talk to—the first man to really pay attention to you in longer than you’d care to admit. You might just end up embarrassing yourself.

Instead, you scoff and say, “Well, it doesn't matter anyway because it's perfectly acceptable to go alone and have a lovely time.”

Regret pools in your stomach. You can't help but feel you missed an opportunity. It's too late now, though. As he chuckles warmly from the front seat and shifts his attention to the road, you know the moment has passed. Bringing it up again, saying those words out loud, will give you away.

There's a silence after that, which stretches on for several minutes. A few weeks ago it might have been comfortable, but now you can't stand it. You only get a few of these moments with him and you're nearly halfway home already. It might be a while before you see him again after this. You're wasting it!

“God, I wish I had walked the block to get a takeout after the show. I'm suddenly starving,” you blurt out, lacking anything else to say, but desperate for any chance at small talk to close the gap between you.

“Want me to stop off somewhere?” He glances up at you in the mirror.

“No!” You immediately protest, a little embarrassed. You had expected this to turn into a conversation about your favorite kinds of takeout or foods so you could learn more about him. You hadn't expected him to offer anything. “No, it's fine. It was just a terrible attempt at making conversation. I swear I'll live.”

“I can if you’d like.”

“It's already so late. Don't trouble yourself. Really!” You aren't even hungry.

When did this become so difficult? When did you go from enjoying his attention to craving it this much?

“I don't have another ride after this.” His voice lowers, barely audible now over the hum of the engine. “And I've already told you, love. For you it's never any trouble.”

Oh. The uncertainty gives way to a warmth in your chest. It settles deep into your ribs and wraps itself around your heart. How could you possibly say no now?

You also know the answer to your questions then: It became difficult when, somewhere along the way, this stopped being just a simple, harmless crush.

“Okay.” Then you hurry to add, “But only if you're sure!”

“Positive.” His profile shifts as he smiles at the road, pleased you’ve accepted his offer.

“There's Chinese on the way. Over by the old Tesco? The one that closed a few months ago?”

“I know it.”

“It's not the best, but it's open until eleven. I can order it now so you don't have to wait too long.” Then you get an idea. “Do you like noodles? Or maybe fried rice? My treat.” You hold up a finger at him when he opens his mouth to protest. “You’re nice enough to stop when you don't have to, it's the least I can do to say thank you.”

“Alright,” he sighs, his shoulders going slack with acceptance. There's something tender in his expression as his smile widens, which only makes your heart constrict further. “Yeah, I'd love some noodles.”

“Then noodles it is.” You place the order on your phone as a silence settles back over the car.

All that fuss and your attempt at conversation didn't even work.

At least you get to buy him dinner, technically speaking. But you're going to do everything you can not to dwell on that right now. Especially now that you’ve realized how far this has evolved.

A few minutes and a short detour later, and he's pulling alongside the curb once again.

“I'll be right back,” you promise before hurrying out into the night.

You feel oddly self conscious of every step as you cross the street because you can feel his eyes on you the entire way. Watching you.

He probably wants to make sure you don't get mugged or something, you tell yourself. He’s keeping an eye on you. That's all. There's no reason for your pulse to be this high.

And yet, if there's a bit more sway to your hips as you walk in the hopes it draws his gaze lower…that's just more fun, harmless flirting. Isn't it?

You're not sure anymore.

At this hour, so near to closing, the restaurant is empty. There's even someone taking down tables in the dining area. The sight of it makes you feel guilty as you give them a nod of greeting. Your disastrous attempt at small talk probably prevented the kitchen from being in the same half cleaned state as well. Just add it to the list of inconveniences, you think.

It only takes a few more minutes for your order to be finished, much to your relief. You’d hate to keep Liam waiting because it's already fourteen to eleven, and you don't want him to start regretting being nice. It also means you don't have time to stand there and start second guessing yourself either, which is the last thing you need right now.

When you exit the restaurant, you notice the air has shifted. It smells damp now, like it might rain. Even the night sky is quickly growing darker as the stars are swallowed by clouds, all the telltale signs of an encroaching late summer storm. So you jog back towards the cab, clutching the takeout bag and praying it holds off.

But as your fingers brush the door handle, you hesitate.

It's late and there's not another car or soul on the street. It's just the two of you, and you've gotten both of you food. It seems almost silly to sit in the backseat now, or to pretend there's much of a separation anymore. Even as friends.

That's what you tell yourself as you head to the passenger door instead.

Liam doesn't say anything. He just watches you climb into the front seat of his taxi. When you finally meet his eyes, you can see uncertainty on his face, but of what you're not sure.

“Is this okay?” You keep the door held open in doubt, giving yourself the option of escape. “I thought it would be easier...you know, with the food.”

“Yeah.” His voice is quiet, and the wary, low gravel of it matches his expression. He glances down at the steering wheel. “Yeah, it's fine.”

Far too late you wonder if you've made a mistake.

“I'm sorry,” you gasp as you move for the door. “I should have asked first. I can get in back.”

“Wait!” His hand shoots out as if he wants to grab your arm—to keep you there—but he stops just short of touching you, still keeping that distance. He lets it hover for a second, hesitant, before lowering it back to his seat, and you swear you see his fingers twitch. Your skin tingles at the near contact. “Stay. Please.”

You take a moment to study his face, to make sure it's actually what he wants. That he isn't just being polite now that you're already in, despite his own comfort.

The genuine plea you see there makes your heart ache.

“Okay,” you say softly.

You shut the door.

Then it's quiet once again except for the rustling of the bag as you settle it on your lap. Except now there's a tension in the air that's never been there before. It's as if you brought the storm into the cab with you and have just sealed it inside. Maybe you have made a mistake.

This had always been so easy.

When there was the clear separation of a car seat between you, you both knew where you stood. Liam up front, you in back. Driver and passenger. The physical distance kept things safe. Without that, you feel unsteady, too—unsure of how to act and unsure where this is going.

You think about that heavy scent of ozone and warm concrete on the breeze outside—about the possibility of rain—and suddenly you know what you want. You know why you got in front and what your heart has been telling you all night: You want to see your possibility. What this thing between you could be.

Despite your nerves, you want him. All you have to do is continue closing the distance.

You're pretty sure that you can't make things any more awkward than they already are, at the very least. Even if you somehow manage it, you doubt he’ll throw you out of his taxi. Why would he? He’s only ever been sweet to you. So the worst he can say is no, you think, as if that wouldn't break your heart.

“I don't know how you feel about food in your cab, but we could sit here and eat before it gets cold. Together. If you want.” You try to sound casual, but hope bleeds into your voice and betrays the truth of what you're really offering him: you. Something more.

You spent weeks being careful to never cross that line while telling yourself that's what you actually wanted. That you were fine simply having something to indulge in. But now that you've finally done it, you don't know why it took you so long or how you’ve been so blind. Because as you look at him, with his snug polo, trimmed hair and beard, his full lips, and his hooded blue eyes, you wouldn't take it back for anything.

Only…that uncertainty reappears on his face. An internal struggle which deepens the lines on his forehead, pinches his brow, and causes his mouth to thin into a frown. He knows agreeing to this would mean crossing that line with you and moving forward. Except where you have hope, he seems conflicted by the possibility.

You wonder if all the flirting and stolen glances felt harmless to him, too, because he never dreamed you’d want him back. And now that you do…

“You don't need to be getting home? It's late," he says helplessly. Half-heartedly. That's when you realize: he thinks he should tell you no, but he just can't bring himself to say it. So he's offering you an excuse instead, hoping that you’ll do it for him.

Of all the ways you saw this going, you never imagined this—that he would want you and still reject you.

You want so badly to ask why, to understand, but this hurts more than a simple no would, and the fear of what he might say stills your tongue. It could just be self-deprecation on his part, the ingrained belief that he's a washed up old driver…but what if the reason is you? Imagining the pity on his face as he tries to let you down gently turns your stomach.

Despite that, you find you can't say no either. Now that you've finally realized that you want this, how do you let it go? To be the one to end it before it's even begun. You don't have the strength.

You suppose that makes the both of you cowards.

“I've got nowhere to be tomorrow, but if you do, that's alright, Liam,” you offer instead. A lie the two of you can cling to. “I don't want to keep you any longer than I already have.”

He shakes his head. “That's not it.”

Oh.

“Either way, don't worry about it,” you quickly blurt out to stop him from saying anything more. “Forget I said—”

“No!” His voice breaks as he interrupts you, stunning you to silence. “No.”

He struggles for a moment to find the words while searching your face, as if he might find the answer there. As if you might make it easier for him somehow. He must find something because then he's staring at you with the determination of a man who's made a decision, consequences be damned, and you let out a shaky breath you didn't realize you’d been holding.

“There’s nowhere I’d rather be.”

Oh.

Your heart falters for a moment, lurching with violence against your ribcage, before it stutters with renewed hope.

There's a rumble of thunder outside—the sound of possibility shifting into inevitability.

“Me either,” you whisper.

“Then, yeah.” His face softens. And he’s back to looking at you in a way you’re used to, the way he secretly would in his rearview mirror, but something between you has shifted. There's a new intensity to his gaze that takes your breath away. “I’d love to.”

“I’m glad.” Feeling bold at that look in his eyes and desperate to ease some of the lingering tension, you add, “Besides, this is much better than eating reheated takeout alone in my apartment. The company is far better.”

You can tell it works when he relaxes further in his seat.

“Yeah?” A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he raises his eyebrows at you.

“Yeah.”

“And I suppose it does smell really good, yeah? Be a shame to waste it.”

“It really does.” You huff out a laugh as you dig into the bag, relieved to have something to do with your hands that isn't clenching them uselessly in your lap. “Plus, now you don't have to listen to my stomach growl for the rest of the drive.”

He laughs along with you, but it quickly turns into a teasing grin. “Well, I’m glad I could save you the embarrassment.”

“My hero,” you say playfully, which finally earns you a full, real smile. The kind that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes your heart skip a beat. Before you can get distracted staring at him, you pull out the disposable utensils and hold them up between you. “Now, fork or chopsticks?"

He sheepishly takes the fork, and it's your turn to give him a teasing grin.

You fall back into easy conversation as you both tuck into your takeout containers. The tension between you is gone now, having dissipated under the familiar—though it'll be impossible to forget just how close he is or the way he lingers in your field of vision no matter where you look.

You’ve positioned yourself in your seat so you're half facing him, and you notice he's removed his seatbelt and done the same. There's an intimacy to the way both of your knees are turned in towards each other, unable to touch but still seeking one another out.

There it is again, you think. The gravity of him, pulling you in. You bend to him like light.

While you eat, it begins to rain. Or rather, it begins to downpour, the drops thumping and echoing off the metal body of the taxi. They coat the windows in streaks, leaving the world outside blurred—a hazy refraction of streetlights and muted color.

The combination of darkness and being shut inside the car already made it feel like there was a barrier separating the two of you from the outside, but now you feel even more cocooned from the rest of the world. In fact, you’re finding it hard to remember anything else exists beyond the interior of this cab. This moment.

Him.

Another silence settles over you as you eat and listen to the rain, but this one is comforting. As though just existing next to each other is enough. It's easy in a way that makes your heart sing.

He breaks it by clearing his throat.

“Seriously, how do you use those? I’ve never gotten the hang of it.” He gestures to your hand holding the chopsticks.

You pause mid bite, your food frozen in the air as you look up at him. “Do you want me to show you?”

“You can try, but I should warn you, I'm all thumbs when it comes to that,” he laughs and looks away, self-conscious.

You’ve seen that expression on his face a few times now. Glimpses past the easy smiles and the effortless conversations into how he sees himself. You wonder again if that was the reason he hesitated earlier. Suddenly you want to show him the man you see. The one that’s attentive when you speak and makes you feel seen. Who always cheers you up with his presence and went out of his way when you said you were hungry. The man who's never said no to you, even when you’ve called him at the last minute and were certain he was busy.

You wish you could find the way to say all of that out loud.

Instead, you raise an eyebrow and stick the uneaten bite back into the container. “That sounds like a challenge.”

“It's really not,” he says with a helpless laugh, but you're determined now.

You get a fresh set for him. Then you go about demonstrating the placement in your hand and the way you use your fingers to manipulate the utensils to pick up your food. He copies you, though his own movements are stiff and awkward. There's also a vulnerability to the way he keeps glancing up at you to see if he's doing it correctly and looking for approval.

“You’ve almost got it! It just takes practice,” you reassure him. He gives you a small smile in return, his blue eyes full of gratitude. When he tries again, he’s more relaxed and confident, and the chopsticks move with far more ease.

It's a much better look on him, you think.

You also spend the entire time resisting the urge to reach out and shape his fingers around the thin pieces of wood. Because if you touched his hands, god help you, you might not be able to stop. The idea is so tempting, though, and it only gets worse the longer you focus on the curve and press of his thick fingers.

You imagine what it would be like to have them grazing over your cheek and down your neck, or dipping along your inner thigh and dragging against your slit. There's a sudden throb of need between your legs at the thought. Now the air of the cab feels stifling, electric with a different energy, but he's so focused on what he's doing, he doesn't seem to notice the way you squirm in your seat.

Instead, you offer tips to help him get it right—from a distance, where it's safe for the time being and you're less likely to do something brash, like grab him and kiss him.

After some more practice, he makes a few unsuccessful attempts to eat and has to stop to pick dropped noodles off of his shirt and lap with a sigh while you giggle next to him. Until, finally, an entire bite makes it from the takeout container to his mouth without spilling.

“I did it!” He beams proudly at you as he chews, those blue eyes now wide and lit up with excitement. And god, it's adorable…except there's a bit of noodle stuck in his beard. You press your lips together to keep from bursting into laughter at him in his moment of triumph. He catches on anyway, and his face falls slightly in confusion. "What?"

"You've got some noodle. Right here." You point at your own face.

He quickly runs a hand over his mouth to wipe it away, but all that does is push the noodle farther down his chin. "Did I get it?"

"No!" You snort out a sharp laugh at his look of panic. So he sets his takeout carton on the center console near the gearshift for a more serious attempt, but his palm scrapes uselessly at his face again. “It's lower now.”

“Glad you're enjoying this.” He tries to sound offended, but there's a twinkle of amusement in his eyes as he feels around for the elusive bit of food, betraying how much he’s enjoying this, too.

"Here." You set your takeout next to his. And then you don't think before you lean across the center console, your hand stretched out and reaching towards him. "It's right…"

You genuinely meant to help and put him out of his misery, but by the time you realize what you're doing, your fingertips are already brushing through the coarse hair of his beard, the why of it completely forgotten. Now you can no longer help yourself. You’ve finally touched him, and he feels so warm and alive beneath your hand.

Your fingers curl against his chin. Then, almost with a mind of their own, they inch towards his jaw, seeking more. You want to run them over his cheeks. His temple. His smile lines. Along the bridge of his nose. His lips. You want to feel out every bit of his face and commit it to memory.

You don't want to let go.

And you nearly don’t stop until a heavy exhale from him sends you crashing back to reality. The one where you're basically groping him instead of helping. You also notice the noodle bit has long since fallen away and landed somewhere unseen onto his lap.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry!" You gasp in horror. You start to pull away to search for it because, after that, you're too embarrassed to even look at him. But you’ve barely removed your hand when he grabs your wrist, firmly keeping you in place just inches from his face. Your eyes snap up to meet his.

Neither of you moves. Or speaks.

For several tense seconds, the only sound in the car is the rhythmic patter of rain and your heavy breathing as you stare at each other.

The moment stretches between you like a wire, thick and coiled taut, and you're terrified to pull away. Or push closer. As if doing so might snap the tension and ruin whatever this is. Instead, you sit there, frozen at the way his eyes become half-lidded, barely lessening the now undisguised longing in his gaze.

Just when you think it's become too much and you're going to break under the intensity of it all, his thumb brushes against the delicate skin of your wrist, directly over your pulse, sending a shiver through you. And that small touch alone is enough to make all of this profoundly, achingly, real. Distantly you wonder if he can feel the frantic drumming of your heart. Because by now it's pounding so hard with anticipation, your ribs flex with every beat.

He brings your hand back towards his face and rests it against his cheek. As he does, you're mortified to realize you're trembling in his grasp. He must notice as well because, without a word, he flattens his own hand over yours, anchoring and calming between beard and flesh. His eyes dip nearly closed at the sensation, and he nuzzles into your touch, letting the corner of his mouth graze your palm.

You watch as there's the slightest purse of his lips, a shade of a kiss onto your skin, and you suck in a gasp.

He reaches out for you, then. You think he's going to mimic the gesture and cup your face, but instead his knuckles graze along your cheek. He takes a moment to trace and explore the contour of your cheekbone in awe before continuing on, gliding past the shell of your ear, until he's cupping the back of your neck instead with his thumb resting on your jaw. His hand feels massive as it envelops you, the span of it completely covering your nape, making you feel bird-boned in his grasp. But everything about his touch is so tender, so affectionate, that it never occurs to you to feel vulnerable.

Quite the opposite. Combined with his captivated expression, which is so intense that it borders on grief, he's found a new way to make you feel special.

Wanted.

Gently, he begins to guide you towards him as he leans in and stares at your lips. There's no doubting his intentions.

You go willingly. Lead to him. Pulled to him. Sucked so far into that gravity, you’d still be moving even if he let go.

"Liam," you exhale into the shrinking space between you, finally giving voice to your desire.

His fingers flex against your neck at the sound of his name, but he still doesn't stop or speak. His hand continues to guide you closer. Slow and steady. As if he's giving you plenty of time to put an end to this. To pull away and tell him you don't want it. But you do. You want it so much that you almost forget to breathe.

As his lips ghost against yours, your eyes flutter shut. You instinctively push forward, trying to close the distance between you, but he moves away before you can fully capture his mouth. Then he goes back to brushing his lips over yours, cutting off your protest and taking in your sighs and quivers.

It's almost teasing, the way he's taking his time and savoring every step of this—of you—and there's a confidence to his movements you weren't expecting. As if, now that he's gotten you, he knows exactly what he wants to do with you while you're swept along in his wake.

Except you’ve thought about this moment so many times. Indulged in the fantasy of what it might feel like to have his lips against you as his tongue eagerly explores the heat of your mouth. Now you're so close to getting what you want, too, and the anticipation is building into an agonized yearning every second he’s just out of reach.

You're on the verge of whimpering or pleading when he finally, truly, kisses you.

Any thought you might have had is gone. The pressure of his lips, his mouth slotting against yours, his relieved exhale across your skin—the combination makes you dizzy with need. A moan is torn from your throat.

The sound breaks whatever gentle spell had a hold of him because, just like that, his arms are around you, and he's kissing you hungrily.

At first it's desperate. Nothing more than a messy searching of lips before you find your rhythm. Then every bit of it is better than you imagined—the scrape of his beard, his nose nudging into yours, a brief graze of his tongue along your bottom lip before it retreats, leaving you wanting more. And god, do you want more.

As if he knows what you're thinking—or maybe you've said it out loud—he tightens his hold around you and pulls you towards his seat, his mouth never leaving yours. But you don't have time to admire how strong he is as you scramble blindly to get your legs under you. In your haste, your knee hits one of the takeout containers, which sends it toppling over.

You break the kiss to gasp out, "I think it spilled."

"I don't care," he murmurs and captures your mouth again. This time his tongue lingers at the seam of your lips. As you open up to him and taste him for the first time, you decide you don't care either.

You finish climbing into his lap. Every movement is clumsy in the limited space, all groping hands and fumbling limbs. You have to squeeze past the steering wheel and keep your head low so you don't bump it into the roof of the cab. The position is also a bit awkward as you try to find enough purchase to settle your knees on either side of his hips. You even have to adjust your dress to keep it from getting in the way, which forces the hem mid thigh.

None of that matters once you're finally settled. Because, when you lower your weight into his lap, you find him rock hard beneath you. And the only thing separating your bare sex from that impressive bulge in his pants is a pair of lacy panties. You can almost feel the warmth of his cock radiating through the denim.

"Fuck, Liam," you hiss.

You can't start grinding onto him just yet, though, because he quickly reaches between you to adjust himself over his jeans. It's something so intimate and casual—something he has to do because of you—that it's devastatingly sexy. That alone is enough to make your cheeks and neck burn. But when his hand grips over the tented fabric and slides along his length, for a brief moment it sharpens the outline of his erection in his fist, and it sends heat racing between your thighs, leaving you aching. Your hips shift involuntarily at the sudden pressure.

“Better,” he sighs in relief. Then his hands squeeze around your waist to drag you down as his hips roll up to meet you, and you see stars.

Before you’ve even recovered, he draws you back in for another heated kiss. You're so fixated on his mouth, so ravenous for him, you don't notice when he blindly gropes between the seat and the door. So when the seat tilts back all the way without warning, you barely catch yourself with your hands at the last minute to stop from falling forward and smashing your face into his. The motion is such a jolt that you cry out in surprise against his lips. You feel his curl into a smile.

It doesn't last long. The new angle gives your hips the freedom of movement to slide over the full length of him, and the friction makes your arousal thrum with anticipation. His eyes roll shut with a groan.

While he’s distracted, you take a moment to appreciate him like this—the flutter of his eyelashes, his kiss swollen lips, and the way the rain dappled streetlight bathes over his flushed skin. When he opens his eyes again and catches you staring, his expression softens.

Your breath hitches at the sight. Christ, he’s so fucking handsome.

You suddenly realize you don't have to just look anymore. Despite the heat of this moment, you can finally satisfy the urge to run your fingers over his face. So, without hesitation, you reach out and touch his jaw again. Only this time, you don't stop. You gently map out all of his lines and wrinkles, relish the contrast in softness between his skin and beard, and trace along his lips—all while he stares up at you in half-lidded awe.

“God, you're amazing, love.” His voice is low and gravelly as he nuzzles up against your jaw. “The most amazing woman I’ve ever met in my life.”

Your eyes fall closed with a shiver, letting the vibrations of it wash over you, but you don't respond. How can you? What could you possibly say to that?

His thumb caresses over your cheek.

“Look at me,” he coaxes in a soft tone. You slowly open your eyes again to meet his. When you do, he gives you a gentle smile. “I mean it. I've wanted you from the moment you got into my cab.”

Oh.

“I want you, too, Liam,” you finally admit quietly, your own voice thick with emotion.

“I'm still trying to let that sink in.” He shakes his head. “That someone as incredible as you could want someone like me.”

“Of course I do. How could I not?” You sound defensive, but you can't help it. You feel that familiar need to make him see himself the way you do. “I think you're amazing, too.”

“Jesus.” He lets out a heavy sigh. Then he glances down between you, seemingly overwhelmed by your statement.

“Why do you think I kept calling you?” You chuckle breathlessly. “I’ve been making plans and finding any excuse I could just so I had a reason to see you and be in your cab. You had to have suspected I didn't actually need that many rides.”

“I hoped.” His eyes meet yours again and that intensity is back. The muscle in his jaw clenches, making your heart skip a beat. “God, did I hope.”

“It took me far too long to realize just how much.” You lean in to place a slightly heated kiss onto his lips. Then, in a husky voice, you add, “I should have done this ages ago.”

"I don't deserve this," he groans as his hand tightens with rekindling lust around your waist, “but I could never say no to you.”

"Don't I deserve it?" He sucks in a breath beneath you. You let the tip of your nose brush against his as you lower to a whisper. "No one's ever made me feel the way you do, Liam. So please…make me feel even better."

His arms engulf you to capture your lips, just as you start to move over him again.

You continue to kiss as you ride that bulge in his jeans, the stiffness and friction sending delicious sparks up through your core while desire pools between your legs. Every roll of your hips draws needy sounds from your throat and little grunts from his as he rocks up to meet you.

His hands never stop roaming. Up your thighs, a quick squeeze of your ass, and tracing the curve of your waist. Then flattening to drag across your back, stroking along your ribs, and teasing with uncertainty over the swell of your breasts before cupping your cheeks. He leaves flames in his wake.

Yours never stop either. You want to finally run your fingers through his hair. To feel the thickness of his neck and the way the tendons in his jaw flex as he kisses you before wandering lower. And god, those fucking polos do him no favors because underneath you can feel the hard muscle of his chest and shoulders. They've softened somewhat with age, especially at his belly, but it just makes him feel solid beneath you. Steady. Like something you could hold onto.

Every new part of him you touch only makes you want him more.

All of your heavy breathing is trapped inside the taxi, making the air feel thick with humidity. With nowhere to go, condensation is starting to gather on the windows and settle across any exposed skin. It's stifling. You have to keep reminding yourself that you're in a car to stop from ripping your dress off. A part of you still thinks it's a wonderful idea.

Another part reminds you that you don't need to take it off.

You break the kiss.

"I want you, Liam,” you lean in to whisper in his ear. “Right here. Right now."

He shudders with a groan. Then he gently guides you back by the shoulder so he can look into your face. “Right here? You're sure?”

You nod. “It's dark and I've waited long enough. I want you inside of me.”

“Fuck,” he whimpers, and his cock throbs beneath you. “I told you I could never say no to you.”

You gather the hem of your dress, pulling it back and out of the way so both of you can see the way you're pressed against his straining erection. Your need for him is liquid. It's been pouring from you. By now it's completely drenched your underwear, soaking them through. Only it didn't stop there because there's also a rather large damp spot on his jeans from all of your grinding. He groans helplessly again at the sight of it.

“See?” You purr down to him.

“Christ, love,” he chokes out. “Look at you.”

He grasps your bare thighs, kneading at your flesh before sliding them higher and making you shiver—until those large hands are framing your barely covered sex. He takes a second to admire you further through half-lidded eyes. Then he hooks a thumb into your panties and pulls them aside. When your arousal is exposed, a moan gets strangled in his throat, and his clothed hips buck towards you, desperate to bury himself in you already.

Your hands shoot to the fly of his jeans to fight with the button, eager to uncover him as well…just as a thumb brushes over your slit. Instead, your whole body jerks at the contact and you nearly collapse against him. Your grip goes slack.

His expression turns smug at your reaction. So he does it again—harder this time—and the tip of his thumb slips easily past your folds, making you cry out. Then he teases circles at your entrance, smearing through your slick, and you nearly sob into his shirt.

“You feel so good already.” He sounds distracted now, as though he's more focused on what he's doing than how you’re responding. He presses again, sinking until he's knuckle deep, and his lips part with a gasp, enthralled by the way his thumb vanishes inside of you. And, god, even the thickness of that leaves you breathless and writhing. Then he teases you some more at this depth, testing how your walls flutter greedily around him, before slowly drawing back out and dragging some of your fluids over your clit. Your hips pitch forward into his hand with a moan. “Can't wait to get my cock in you.”

“Please,” you beg. All of his teasing and petting has left you helpless, and your trembling fingers move uselessly over his fly, “I can't…”

That seems to get his attention.

He removes his hand and you whimper at the loss…until he takes over for you, making fast, if a bit fumbled, work of his button and zip. Then you're eager to have something even better buried inside of you. So you quickly make room for him as he lifts up and pushes his pants and underwear down to his knees.

When he settles, you finally get to have a look at what you’ve only felt up to this point, and the sight of him makes you feel weak. Because he’s sitting beneath you in his polo, and his hard cock is resting over the fabric still covering his belly.

He’s thick and uncut and twitching under your gaze, and you just know wrapping your hand around him would make you feel small by comparison. Your fingers itch to find out. You can also see a trail of hair disappearing under the hem of his shirt.

You're fighting with the urge to rip the offending piece of clothing up over his head to see just how far up it goes and whether or not it connects with that greying tuft of curls peeking out of the top when he wraps a hand around himself.

Your mind blanks.

You watch, dumbfound, as he begins stroking—working his length until the foreskin slides back to reveal the head, flushed and swollen and leaking in want of you.

The sudden stab of arousal in your core is dagger sharp, leaving you breathless.

“Fuck,” you rasp out, and it sounds as shaky as you feel, “I need you.”

His hand grasps at the base of his erection, keeping the foreskin drawn back and holding himself steady in invitation. When he meets your eyes, you see months of longing and need on his face. How he’s ached for this—would beg to have it if you asked.

You don't hesitate. You make sure your panties stay pulled to the side as you raise yourself to your knees. You wish you had taken them off, but you're far too impatient to stop now. How could you when he's right there, throbbing in his own fist and practically begging you to take him?

With one hand bunched in the fabric of your dress and one braced on his shoulder, you shift into position over him. His tip nudges against you, effortlessly gliding through your folds until he catches at your entrance. Exactly where you need him.

You lower onto him. There's a brief moment of resistance and adjustment at the unfamiliar angle. Then the head of his cock breeches your opening as you both let out twin gasps.

Slowly, you sink onto his length, your walls stretching around him as he fills you, inch by agonizing inch.

He makes it past the halfway point before his patience runs out. He grabs your hips, fingers and thumbs spearing into flesh, and pulls you the rest of the way down onto his cock.

The sound that leaves your mouth is almost as filthy as the one that leaves his.

He keeps you there, unmoving and fully sheathed while he twitches inside of you, and a sob of relief escapes his throat. His eyes are heavy lidded, those full lips are pouting and parted, and his brows are scrunched together in an expression akin to agony.

You're certain you’ll never forget the sight of him in that moment, undone by your cunt.

You drop the skirt of your dress so you can brace against his chest. The fabric falls back into place, hiding the evidence of where you're joined. It’s not unlike when you were just sitting in his lap, grinding over your clothes. Only this time you’re straddling his bare hips and stretched full of him.

You start to move.

The rain has stopped, but outside the drops still linger, glistening and clinging to every surface. Inside, the condensation is now fully coating the glass from your hot breath coming out in sharp pants as you ride his cock. It leaves the world beyond the cab opaque, only leaking through in the trails left by heavy beads of moisture.

He braces himself by planting his feet on the floor of the cab and leaning back against the headrest, using the pressure as extra leverage. Then he's lifting to meet your hips.

"I’ve dreamed of this," he moans as he ruts into you. He doesn't stop staring up into your face—taking in every expression and quiver and noise you make with those intense, blue eyes. His mouth falls open for a moment before he gasps out, “God, your cunt is so sweet.”

You’ve never felt so seen. Wanted. In that moment, you're so utterly sucked in by the gravity of him that you crash your lips against his, desperate to be closer.

His hands bite into your hips as he forces you to keep rocking onto him. You distantly realize the car is rocking with you—that anyone could see and know what's happening—but you can't bring yourself to care. Not when you have him whimpering and groaning into your mouth with his cock inside of you.

Everything about this is fast and messy, but the buildup alone has left both of you nearly frantic with need. You're not even sure how long you’ve been doing this. It's been hours since he kissed you. It's been minutes since he kissed you.

Your overworked thighs are burning, but you refuse to stop. Pressure is building and intensifying quickly inside your core, driving you on and beckoning you to keep moving until you find your release.

His grasp has gotten so tight that his fingers are nearly digging into bone, and he's no longer holding back every whimper or stutter that works its way to his throat. You know he's close, too.

A hand finds your thigh and disappears under the fabric of your dress. He clasps the bend of your hip, and then that thumb that drove you nearly mad earlier is rubbing circles over your clit. You're gutted by the sudden pleasure.

“Want you to come for me, love,” he murmurs up to you as he moves faster between your legs, his hips and thumb working together to destroy you. “Never wanted anything more.”

“Don't stop!” You gasp. You're trembling now. Your thighs are quivering against his hips and the movement has become hard to control, leaving your pace jerky and uneven as you rock over him. “Please!”

“Could never say no to you.” His voice is hoarse and strained as he struggles to hold himself back until you come undone first.

“Liam!” Your hands clutch at his shirt.

“That’s it. Let me see you.”

That last bit of friction is all you need to send warmth exploding through you, and then you’re coming on his cock. You throw your head back with a wail. It scrapes against the roof of the taxi, but you barely notice. Every part of you is consumed with that numbing relief. The way your stretched walls convulse around him. The sound that spills out of him.

If he wasn't holding you up and forcing you to keep moving out of desperation, you’d dissolve in his hands.

Every muscle in his body is taut, strained as he keeps driving into your still pulsing heat. There's ruin on his face when his hips begin to stutter beneath you. Then he slams you onto his cock with a moan and finally comes inside of you.

The throbbing warmth of it fills you with more than a physical gratification. Your heart skips a beat at the way he lethargically works through his orgasm, rocking deep within you. At how his face is now slackened with pleasure, that contentment only broken by the occasional hiss and a shudder from aftershocks—when the sensation of you becomes too much.

You could get addicted to this feeling.

Once both of you are spent and still, you sit there in his lap, gasping for air. His stomach rises and falls against yours while his thumb draws a mindless pattern near the bend in your hip. His touch is warm, even against the ambient heat of the taxi.

Sweat pools along your hairline and back and runs between your breasts. Your body is covered in it, and his skin is similarly glistening. As you’re watching, a drop rolls past the hollow of his throat before disappearing into that tantalizing mess of chest hair left uncovered by his undone top buttons. You wonder what it would be like to nuzzle into it and inhale the masculine scent of sweat and sex before dragging your tongue along his sternum to taste it.

“You okay?” He pants up at you, pulling you out of your daze.

You huff out a laugh as you nod. “Pretty fantastic, actually.”

“Yeah?” He smiles, still breathless.

“Yeah.”

You want to lay against him, snuggle your head under his chin, and stay like that for hours, relishing in this newfound connection. But now that the high is wearing off, you’re very aware you’ve just had sex in the driver's seat of a car. You didn't even move to the backseat or drive to a secluded parking lot! It's a position that’s not only quite public despite the opaque windows, but would require you to contort your body into an uncomfortable shape to do so. Which, regrettably, isn't very ideal for cuddling.

You hadn't been thinking that far ahead at the time.

You give him one last lingering kiss, reluctant to part from him, even as you know you have to at some point anyway. Then you lift yourself off of his lap while swallowing a whimper at both the loss and the surge of wetness between your legs now getting half caught in your askew underwear.

Climbing back into the passenger seat is a slow process because your legs are weak and wobbly, but he gives you a steady hand to lean into. One that engulfs your smaller hand as it wraps around you. You try not to imagine him holding you like this, fingers laced and palms kissing, or else you might not let go.

You both stop to laugh when you bump your head on the roof of the cab.

As you get settled and somewhat put back together, an awkward silence encompasses the taxi. It's not tense like when you got into the front seat. Rather, it's unsure in a different way. It's as if both of you want to say something, but you can't find the right words. Or maybe, without the haze of arousal, they don't come as easily despite the way they build and sit in the back of your throat.

Instead, you take a moment to survey the damage from your earlier fumbling. Thankfully, the takeout spill was minor with only a few of the noodles escaping the carton. He quickly picks them up, and you toss the containers back into the bag.

He rolls down the windows, letting the rain cooled air in to clear the fogged glass and the heavy musk of sex. It feels heavenly on your skin. You lean back in your seat, basking in the light breeze, the weightlessness in your chest, the burning in your thighs, and, most of all, the ache and damp between your legs.

You both still maintain that quiet the rest of the drive with only the low din of the radio in the background. None of the songs register, though, because your mind is too busy racing with thoughts of what happens next.

There's an unbidden hope blooming inside of you that this was more than just sex. You try to rein it in before it takes over and suffocates you with expectation because some part of you is still terrified you’ll end up heartbroken. But every time you glance over at him—take in the profile of his nose and lips, the strong curve of his jaw, the wisp of his eyelashes—you know it's far too late for that.

Instead, you sit there with your heart pounding, wishing you could read his mind and admiring the way the light dances across his face whenever you pass under a streetlight. You can tell when he catches you because he turns to give you a lopsided smile. One he used to shoot back at you in the reflection of his rearview mirror, and the full force of it makes your cheeks burn and your heart flutter before it's too much and you have to look away.

Each time that hope digs in a little more.

Eventually, he pulls the cab along the curb in front of your building. It's the same spot he’s parked in dozens of times, but it looks almost foreign now from the front seat. Or maybe it just feels that way because everything about this situation is so new.

He shuts off the engine, leaving the space in silence as he glances over at you.

This is where you usually part ways. Where you thank him for the ride and pay. Then you climb out, tell him you hope he has a lovely evening, and you leave.

None of that feels right, though. Not after what’s happened between you. More than that, you don't want to walk away as though nothing's changed. Because for you everything has.

So what do you do now? Do you thank him for the wonderful sex? Ask him to dinner? Do you kiss him goodnight and tell him you'll call him later? It's what you would do with anyone else, but with him it's not enough.

Now that you have him, you don't want to let go.

"Would you…" You trail off, suddenly timid. Even though your underwear and thighs are still smeared with this man's come, you know there's so much left unspoken between you. Things you want to give voice to so that the two of you can continue to move forward towards something more intimate and meaningful than car sex. However, doing so is another opportunity to get hurt if he doesn't feel the same way.

Except now you’ve opened your mouth and he's staring at you expectantly, waiting for you to continue. But more importantly: on his face you see that same look of hope reflected back at you.

He wants this, too.

Your anxiety evaporates.

"Would you like to come in?”

His smile is both relieved and tender. He nods.

That's how you end up in your bed with Liam on top of you, entrenched between your legs, cock buried inside of you, and taking you again.

It's different this time. Slower. While the fever and desperation are gone, there's a heavier need churning in their wake. Something between you that was left unsatisfied before.

Now you're wrapped up in each other—a calf tucked behind his knee, and your thigh gripping his hip where he's bent over you. One of his hands is stroking along your hair, and the other is squeezing your waist, holding you in place as his fingers dig divots into your flesh. Your own palms cradle his jaw, cupping him like water to your parched lips.

Through it all, his forehead is pressed to yours, and he gazes down into your eyes from beneath hungry lids. Even if you wanted to, you can't look away from that blue. You're held there, pinned to the bed from the weight of it because even the physical weight of him is nothing compared to the longing you see in those depths.

In the taxi, your closeness was a given. It was overwhelming in the small space, thick like the humidity of your breath, hanging in the air and pressing back in on you. Now it's suffocating in a different way. In the openness of your bedroom, it clings to you. Needy. Touch starved. Terrified that one of you will vanish at the slightest give.

The two of you are so close, you can feel his heavy breath on your face. You can hear the voiceless sounds he makes whenever he buries himself inside of you at just the right angle, each one right there and so loud in the silence.

It's different in that way, too: Neither of you has said a word since you took his hand and stumbled to your bedroom. No pleas or praise. Not when you tore each other's clothes off and finally saw what was waiting for you underneath—the hard panes and curves of him, tan lines and hair, a freckle on his chest, the way his cock hangs thick between his thighs and twitches in your hand. Not even when his fingers dragged over your still wet folds with a groan. Instead, your voices are replaced with sighs and moans and each slick press into your heat.

You don't think you could speak anyway.

He’s fucking you completely breathless. Not from the effort. Not from the way his core flexes and his back rounds every time he thrusts into you. Each steady plunge, a slide and drag of bodies—his chest hair across your nipples, his stomach against yours, his groin grinding into your clit in a maddening friction. No, it's the unmasked passion of it that leaves your heart pounding and your breath caught in your throat.

He fucks you like he watches you: with a sense of reverence. Like he can't believe he has the privilege.

Maybe fuck isn't the right word, then. Because the way his hand moves to cradle the back of your head, thumb grazing behind your ear, feels more like an act of worship than your desperate coupling in the driver's seat of his cab, takeout spilled across the center console.

You've never had sex like this before. Not even with the few people you've whispered I love yous to. The word for it hovers, nameless and heady in the inch of space between you. He breathes it out over your skin, and then you catch it and inhale it into your lungs. As it passes your lips, you can taste it on the tip of your tongue.

You're so close to figuring it out when he angles your head to the side, baring your neck to him and nuzzling his face into the exposed flesh, and your thoughts evaporate. He takes a moment to nose over your pulse, inhaling your scent and warmth with a moan. Then, finally, he’s placing hungry, open mouthed kisses along the column of your throat. It feels so much like he's trying to devour you, that you brace for a sinking of teeth which never comes.

Instead, the scratch of his beard sends a shiver through you, leaving you quivering and covered in goosebumps beneath him. It's too much—sensation, tension, emotion.

It's not enough.

You roll your hips to meet his rhythm, and he lets out a ragged groan—pain and pleasure spilling from his chest. His next plunge is deeper. Harder. Something sparks inside of you.

“Liam,” you gasp, breaking the silence.

Then he’s kissing you, his tongue chasing the sound of his own name into the wet heat of your mouth. So you offer it to him again, a plea for more.

He relents.

He grabs one of your legs and bends it towards your chest, folding you and opening you further to him. This new angle completely traps your clit in the friction of his thrusts.

You grasp at anything you can reach to ground yourself against the onslaught. One of your hands fists your sheet, bunching the fabric in a tight knuckled grip. The other curls through the trimmed hair at the base of his skull. But there isn't enough there to hold onto, and your fingers claw uselessly at his scalp.

The effect it has on him is immediate.

Your nails drag a moan and a full bodied shudder from him. Suddenly his pace becomes urgent, each thrust now punctuated by the joining of skin on skin and a slight shifting along the mattress.

You can feel how close he is from the way he’s tensing against the pleasure building inside of him. From the way he whimpers and clutches back at you, trying to hold on as well. To keep this going just a little longer.

Knowing that his loss of control, that sense of desperation, is because of you, sends you reeling. It isn't long before your legs are quaking against him and your chest is stuttering from your shallow gasps. Every rock of his hips coaxes you further from your control. You can feel your grasp of it slipping, pulling you off balance as you sink deeper into him.

You arch off the mattress—bending as if drawn to him—while every muscle in your body is locked in that moment between tension and release. Then one more moan from him as he rubs against your clit, and you finally break.

Your orgasm shatters white hot at your core, splintering up to churn in your gut and burn through your chest, before resonating outward along every one of your nerve endings, only to recede and start all over again.

As you come, the only thought in your lust fogged brain is him on top of you. Inside of you. The grip he has on your waist. So when your mouth falls open to suck air into your strangled lungs, on the exhale his name spills from your lips.

He looks wrecked by the sound. He buries himself into your fluttering cunt, needing to feel how your walls tighten and clench around him. You protest the sudden loss of friction before your body instinctively seeks it out. You mindlessly grind your hips up against him, riding out the last of your orgasm on his cock until he can't take it anymore.

He grabs you and fucks you, just as mindlessly grunting and rutting into you as he chases his own release. He stares down between you to where his body is joined with yours, watching the way his cock disappears into your folds, his expression stern with concentration. Under the light of the street lamp leaking through your window, sweat glistens on his forehead.

A deep rumble starts in his chest, something half caught between a growl and a whine. His pace quickly becomes erratic, and every time his hips meet yours, you can feel the way he's trembling. You know he's moments from letting go.

You bring your fingers to his chin and force his attention up until his eyes find yours. And god they're so blue, even unfocused in the dim streetlight. Though you're still dazed, you’ve never seen something so beautiful.

“Look at me, Liam,” you breathe out. “I want to see you.”

That's all it takes. His face crumples in agony, and he comes with a sob of relief. He manages a few final thrusts, shuddering and panting his way through each one, until he's finally spent. All the while, his cock twitches and throbs as he fills you for a second time.

You’ve done this once already tonight, but it was different then. The distance was still there while you untangled yourself from his lap, climbed back into the passenger seat, and adjusted your dress. In the way he quietly righted the container of noodles as you struggled to find the words to fill the silence.

This time you don't part.

Instead, he settles in close, pulls you to him, and lays his head on your shoulder with a sigh. In return, you kiss his hair, taking a moment to savor the scent of him—sweat and shampoo and lingering cigarette smoke—and the softness of the thick waves over your lips, before resting your cheek on the crown of his head.

There's nothing between you now. No car seat, no clothes, no more distance.

This is what was missing before in the taxi. This is what you both wanted—what you should have had instead—because this is so easy. As easy as laughter or smiles shared in his rearview mirror.

And it all feels so right. Even though you’ve made yourself vulnerable in his arms, the way he holds you and caresses your palm with his fingertips keeps any further uncertainty or doubt about what this is between you at bay. You know what this is.

You’ve spent months falling for this man, bit by bit. Every time you called him for a ride. Every glance, every simple gesture, every time he made you laugh or lean forward in your seat to find some way to be closer to him. It all sucked you in a little more each time, pulled you into depths you couldn't fathom—more than a crush or attraction or something as simple as affection—and it took you far too long to notice. Now your eyes and your chest burn with the realization.

As if he can sense what you're thinking, he pulls back to place a trail of feather light kisses along the side of your face. You close your eyes, letting the tenderness of it wash over you.

“Stay.” The wave of emotion chokes your voice to a whisper. It's a plea. A hope.

“There's nowhere I'd rather be, love,” he whispers back against your temple. Then he hugs you tight, and there's nowhere you’d rather be either than there in his arms, lulled to sleep by his steady heartbeat and his even breaths across your skin.

It's when he thinks you're asleep that Liam untangles himself, and then sneaks out of your bed and steps into the hallway, carefully shutting the door behind him.

At first you think he's gone to use the bathroom and doesn't want to wake you. Which is sweet! In fact, you're smiling over just how sweet and considerate he is—how content and blissful he’s made you feel—when you hear his voice from down the hall.

It sounds as if he's having a hushed conversation with someone, but that's impossible. There's no one else here. Is he talking to himself then?

You’ve never heard his voice sound like this before, either. He’s frustrated. Annoyed, almost. Nothing like the man that smiles at you from the front seat and asks about your day.

You nearly sit up and call out to him in confusion when—Oh. Wait. No. He’s on the phone, you realize.

At nearly half one in the morning.

He's being quiet enough that, if you were asleep, you probably would have slept through it. On top of that, his words are muffled by the door. So, even though you strain to listen, you don't catch everything he says.

You still hear plenty.

He makes up a story about driving someone…somewhere outside of the city. A request he couldn't say no to, apparently, but you miss his explanation as to why. It's not a big deal, he insists. It's not.

At the end of the call, he says he'll be home in the morning. That you catch.

Then silence falls over you once again.

None of that is true. Obviously. He’s standing naked in your hall, and he’s going to spend the night in your bed, decidedly not driving anywhere.

Which means he was lying on the phone.

You quickly piece together that means he lied to you, too. And the only reason he would have to lie at all, to keep you a secret, is if he isn't actually single. Which also means—

He made you the other woman.

Suddenly, the way he struggled with all of this makes perfect, horrible sense. It was never about you. He always wanted you. It was about his decision to say yes, to give in to what he wanted, despite the consequences and what it would mean.

You're still letting that sink in when he slips back into the room, and you have no idea what to do about it. You need a minute to fucking think. So you try to appear exactly as he left you: undisturbed, curled on your side, and facing the wall. Asleep.

On the inside, however, your heart is breaking.

It happens slowly. At first you're so numb from the shock, and the ache in your chest is so sharp, that the pain takes a moment to register. Like slicing your palm open with a knife and waiting for the wound to bleed. When it finally does, the agony leaves you breathless. You can feel it twisting in your gut, searing through your fingers, and clawing its way up your throat until you're choking on it. Your eyes sting from the pain.

Through it all, you focus on keeping your breathing deep and even to calm your frantic nerves and the trembling of your bottom lip.

He crawls quietly back into bed behind you, clearly believing you're still asleep and trying not to wake you. You try not to stiffen in response.

You're not even sure why you're faking anymore. Perhaps you're still working to get over the shock from the hurt and betrayal. Maybe you want to believe you misunderstood the conversation, even though you know you didn't. Or maybe you’re still trying to figure out what to even say to him.

He lied to you.

Worse, you thought you found something real and lasting with a man that made you smile and feel special—one you felt a connection to. In retrospect, you should have known it was too good to be true, but you wanted it to be. You wanted that so badly. Wanted him.

You feel like such an idiot.

What was this, then? Did he just use you for sex? Were all of those glances and smiles over the course of months faked just for this? How could he have faked even a moment of what you just experienced? The way he looked into your eyes as he… God, even remembering it causes your heart to flutter and heat to pool in your stomach, despite your emotional anguish. You swallow down a sob.

Instead of tucking back into bed, though, he sits there and watches you sleep. You can feel his heavy gaze on the side of your face and the way it lingers before trailing down the outline of your body under the blanket, oblivious to your inner grief or how you lay there bleeding. It lasts several long minutes—longer than you would have thought was possible to watch someone sleep. But it's as if he’s content at the sight of you.

Just when you're finally ready to open your eyes and confront him, to demand the truth, his hand reaches out to stroke over your temple and your cheek. His touch is delicate. He’s still being careful not to wake you as his fingertips ghost across your skin. Then he sighs and it sounds like your name. You didn't think a single breath could carry so much awe and longing.

You didn't think your name could ever sound like that.

He continues to explore and caress you further, gently mapping out the curve of your jaw and the shell of your ear��all while he thinks you're still sleeping. When you couldn't possibly know what he's doing and there's no need for a performance.

Which means he's doing it because he wants to touch you like this.

And every second of it is far more gentle than his voice was the entire time he was on the phone. The voice he didn't say “I love you” in before he hung up, you realize. You're not sure what it means, but it feels important to note.

Because maybe…maybe he wasn't faking anything. Not about how he feels, at least. Not about you.

As your thoughts race, you realize he never actually said he was single either, just that he couldn't get a date to the play or would have to go alone. Sure, the implication was there, and it was a fair assumption to make, but he never said the words out loud. You also wonder what else that means for the state of his relationship, and whether or not it makes any difference. Assuming he was telling the truth at all. Though something about the way he said it makes you believe that part, at least, wasn't a lie.

What are you doing? You know your mental gymnastics and excuses are pathetic. You should have some self respect! Hell, you should kick him out of your apartment and your life for what he's done! But…you just can't bring yourself to do it.

Despite everything, you're still caught in the gravity of him.

Finally, he lays down in the bed and wraps an arm around you, curling himself against your back. His hand splays across your belly, keeping you held to him as he scoots in closer. He's warm and solid, and you can't help but melt into him, skin on skin, as he snuggles into your neck. You love the way his nose instinctively finds all of the sensitive spots that make you gasp, as if he's done this before. As if he knows you.

You fit together perfectly.

You want to stay there, surrounded by him—to let him alleviate the pain he’s caused you and fall asleep for real. Instead, you roll over in his arms.

Your eyes are open now so you can look at him. After all of this, you need to see him in this new light and face the truth of him. You have to know if you can.

When your eyes meet his, there's an expression of yearning and hope on his face that's so profound, your heart aches again, but for a much different reason.

He’s looking at you as though he's a damned man and you're his salvation.

“Sorry if I woke you, love,” he whispers. He cups your jaw in his hand, and his thumb soothes over your cheek in apology.

It's not the apology you need. Not yet. You’ll get that in the morning. Then, afterwards, you’ll have the talk about where you go from here and how he's going to fix this.

Because, as he leans forward to kiss your forehead, his contented sigh warm on your skin, you realize you’ve already made a decision.

“It's okay, Liam,” you reply in a whisper. “I don't care, just as long as you come back to me.”

A/N: I left the play vague for Reader Insert/Choose Your Own Adventure purposes, but the one I had in mind for ME, because it's my absolute favorite, is The Importance of Being Earnest by Oscar Wilde (it was actually, in a strange way, also one of my inspirations while writing this). Which is about a man that leads a double life and pretends to be someone he isn't, only to discover at the end of the play that he essentially IS the man he's been pretending to be and has been all along without knowing. There are parts of Liam that are real and earnest, he just doesn't believe they're enough. He despises his life and the man he's become so much, is so desperate to escape them, that he can't imagine anyone else not feeling the same way about the real him. Except, in this story with this slightly different version of Liam (who's been removed from the events of the episode), that connection IS real. He never needed to lie to get Reader to laugh and fall for him or see a glimmer of the real him. But Liam is a sad, wet, desperate little shit of a man and does anyway. (He’s lucky he's hot.) Fingers crossed that he, too, learns the vital importance of being earnest. Also Earnest's eyes are blue. 😌

#liam black x reader #liam black x f!reader #the accused #andy serkis #fics

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