Page 77 of Liam
Liam produces a small notebook and pen from his pocket. “I thought we could approach this scientifically. Rate each dish on various factors—taste, texture, presentation. By the end of the night, we’ll have empirical data on the best food truck in the city.”
I feel a rush of affection for this man who not only accepts my quirks but embraces them. “Mr. Valeur, I believe you’re speaking my language.”
We spend the next two hours indulging in everything from gourmet tacos to artisanal ice cream, our laughter echoing in the twilight. I jot down notes between bites, each observation sparking a lively debate between us.
“You’re missing the key point,” I argue, leaning closer, waving a fry for emphasis. “The sauce-to-meat ratio has to account for the porosity of the bun. If the bun’s too absorbent, it throws everything off.”
Liam’s eyes gleam with amusement, his gaze flicking from my lips back to my eyes. “Oh? And what’s the exact formula for determining bun absorption, Dr. James?”
“You’re mocking me,” I say, narrowing my eyes.
Liam leans in closer. “Never. I’m just in awe of your thoroughness when it comes to food.”
My pulse skips as his low-spoken words hang in the air between us. I glance at the fry in my hand and press it against his chest, smushing the salty mess right into his shirt.
His jaw drops. “Oh, you’re asking for it now.”
Before I can react, he grabs a handful of fries and launches them at me, sending me shrieking as I dodge behind a nearby table. “Liam, no!”
“Oh, it’s on, James,” he growls, chasing me around the parking lot, both of us laughing like kids. We hurl bits of food at each other, his shirt smeared with condiments, the air between us electric.
By the time we collapse against his car, breathless and sticky, we’re a total mess. My hair is tangled, my clothes stained with sauce, and Liam is wiping a smear of ice cream off his chin, grinning like a madman.
“I can’t believe you dumped an entire container of coleslaw on me,” I gasp, leaning against him, still laughing.
Liam leans in, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from my face. “All’s fair in love and food fights.” His thumb grazes my cheek, wiping away a smudge of sauce. The spacebetween us is charged, the playful banter shifting into something deeper, something hotter.
His eyes darken, and for a moment, everything else falls away—the mess, the food, the world. It’s just him, his lips hovering so close to mine, the warmth of his body pressed against me.
I wipe another streak of ice cream from his cheek. “Can you make everyone disappear?” I ask, half teasing, half serious, my voice dropping to a whisper.
Liam smirks. “I’m good, but I’m not a magician, Dr. James.”
I sigh, but then there’s that familiar spark in his eyes, the one that always means trouble. He wraps my hand in his and pulls me toward one of the food trucks parked nearby.
“But I have an idea,” he adds.
Liam slips a wad of cash into the hand of the man working inside. “Take a break,” he says. The guy looks at us both, then shrugs, pocketing the money and stepping outside, leaving us alone in the dim, cramped truck.
The moment the door closes, it’s like a switch flips. Liam’s hands are on me, rough and insistent, pushing me back against the counter. I’m breathless as he crashes his lips into mine, every pent-up bit of tension exploding between us.
My fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, and his hands roam down my sides, gripping my hips, pulling me flush against him. I can barely think, barely breathe, as he presses me harder against the wall of the truck, his lips moving down my neck, his stubble scraping against my skin in the most delicious way.
I moan, my body aching for him, and he groans inresponse, his breath hot against my collarbone. His hands slide under my shirt, fingers splayed across my bare skin.
“God, Liam,” I gasp, my head spinning as he nips at my earlobe, his voice low in my ear. “Not a magician, huh?” I whisper against his lips.
He grins, breathless. “Not magic. Just chemistry.”
Liam’s hands move fast, pushing down my jeans, his fingers brushing against my skin, sending shivers of anticipation racing through me. I gasp as he opens his jeans, the sound of the zipper echoing in the small space.
And then he’s inside me—fast, unrestrained, all raw, pent-up need. There’s no prelude, no hesitation, just a fierce, consuming rhythm. I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him in closer, feeling the press of his body against every inch of mine. Each thrust is a rush of heat leaving me breathless, every nerve ignited as we move together, lost in the intensity.
The truck groans beneath us, rocking with the rhythm we’ve created. My nails dig into his shoulders, anchoring me as I arch into him, surrendering to the pulse of our bodies. His breath, ragged and desperate, mingles with mine, filling the small space with our urgency.
“Aleria,” he rasps, his voice rough, thick with need. His eyes lock onto mine, and in that gaze, it’s the same wild hunger that courses through me.
The trailer rattles with each thrust, the thin metal walls groaning under the force of our bodies colliding. The sound of our need fills the small, shadowed space—heavy breaths, stifled gasps, the raw slap of skin on skin.
