Page 5 of Girl in the Water
He led the way to the back door. He’d been to the alley before. For a quick retch, a quick fight, a quick fuck. The alley didn’t encourage lingering. At least now, with the cold, the stench was a little more bearable than in summer.
As soon as the metal door banged closed behind them, she moved in for a kiss.
He put a hand on her head and pushed her down, her hair sticky with some spray stuff, and she glanced up as if ready to protest.
He paused. Waited her out. If she balked, they were done. He was happy either way.
But as soon as he took his hand off her hair, she undid his belt and tugged down his zipper, then she latched on to him with a suction that could give Dyson a run for their money.
He liked a little more technique, but she did the trick. Soon he was close, but one of her back teeth had a sharp edge on the inside, and it kept rubbing against him.
He pulled her up by her shoulders.
She licked her lips with a haughty little snicker. “I bet you didn’t getthatin the army.”
He wasn’t here to talk. He pushed her against the wall and yanked her skirt up. Except the damn skirt was too tight, so he grabbed harder and ripped the stupid thing.
“Hey! Do you have any idea how much that cost?”
But by that time, he had a rubber on his dick, and he shoved into her.
He gave it to her rough, didn’t care if the bricks scraped her ass. Coming into a bar like this, walking up to a guy like him, she’d been looking for rough. Rough and dangerous, something to give the sex an edge.
She proved him right when she moaned, her eyes rolling back in her head. “Oh. Oh yes.”
He banged her harder to keep her quiet.
Christ.She squealed loud enough to be heard on Mars.
Fuck that.He let it go. Came.
She didn’t.
When he pulled out, she turned eagerly to face the wall, bent forward and braced herself with her hands, pushed out her ass. She thought they were just switching positions.
What she thought was her problem.
Ian tossed the rubber into the open Dumpster, belted his pants, then walked away.
“Hey,” she called after him. “What the hell? Hey!”
He kept on walking and didn’t look back.
The night was cold, but he didn’t mind. He’d seen colder in the Afghan mountains.
He stepped back into the bar through the front, grabbed his bottle, and left enough money to cover it, plus tip.
“See you tomorrow, boyo,” Dean said without a note of judgment.
Dean Shanahan was an Irishman who didn’t drink, didn’t play the ponies, and didn’t fight. No joke, a bleedin’ Buddhist. If Shanahan’s patrons could overlook him turning into the Dalai Lama, he stood prepared to overlook just about anything from them. Which was why Ian liked the place.
He grunted his good-bye, then booked the hell out of there.
He walked the six blocks to his apartment building, saw Sharon on the street again—bony and jumpy-eyed.
He looked at her. She looked at him.
He’d known her long enough not to need conversation. Her new man had left her, the kids needed to eat.
