Chapter 21
Elise's POV
"What are you doing here?" He leaned against the doorframe, his voice dropping half a tone lower than usual.
"Hmm?"
"I mean," he stepped inside and pushed the door shut behind him with a backward motion, "you came here alone without even telling me."
"You weren't watching anyway."
The moment those words left my mouth, I regretted them.
Because they were too blunt. Too unlike me.
Liam froze for a second.
Then he smiled.
"Are you upset?"
"No."
"Liar." He walked toward me, his steps slightly unsteady. "Every time you say 'no,' it actually means 'yes.'"
He stopped right in front of me and looked down at me.
The smell of alcohol wafted from him, mixed with cologne and a faint trace of sweat.
How much had he drunk?
Quite a bit.
But he wasn't completely wasted.
He was in that delicate state between sobriety and intoxication—bold enough, yet not entirely out of control.
"Elise." He said my name.
"Yeah."
"You're jealous."
Not a question.
A statement.
I looked up at him.
"You're jealous because of Isabella."
"I said I'm not—"
"You drank six glasses of champagne." He cut me off, a hint of amusement in his voice. "You don't drink. You usually only have half a glass of sparkling water. But tonight you downed six glasses in one go."
He reached out and wiped the corner of my mouth with his thumb—a bit of red lipstick I'd accidentally smudged when touching up earlier.
"It's because of Isabella."
I looked at him.
His eyes seemed especially bright under the warm yellow bathroom lights, his gray irises reflecting my face.
He was standing too close.
Close enough for me to see the curve of his eyelashes, the small mole on the bridge of his nose, and the line at the corner of his mouth that had softened even more with alcohol.
"No," I said.
"Then what is it?"
"Because I'm in a bad mood."
"Why are you in a bad mood?"
"Because I drank six glasses of champagne and my stomach hurts."
Liam stared at me for a few seconds.
Then he laughed.
Not a mocking laugh.
It was the kind of laugh tinged with helplessness, a touch of heartache, and a bit of not knowing how to handle the situation.
He sighed, wrapped his arm around my waist, and pulled me closer.
My lower back hit the marble countertop of the sink, the cool temperature seeping through the silk fabric of my dress.
"You," he said in a low voice, pressing his forehead against mine, "are so stubborn."
His nose brushed against mine.
His breath was full of alcohol.
"Liam—"
"Hmm?"
"How much did you drink?"
"Not much. Four glasses. Maybe five. Can't remember."
His fingers tightened slightly around my waist.
"But enough to do certain things."
Before I could react, his lips came down on mine.
Not a kiss.
A bite.
He bit my lower lip.
His teeth pressed lightly against my lips with an undeniable force.
My mind buzzed.
The alcohol made everything sluggish—my thoughts, my judgment, and my instinctive resistance.
His lips lingered on mine for less than a second before moving to the corner of my mouth, my chin, my neck.
"You're crazy," my voice was shaking. "This is a women's restroom—"
"Locked."
He said.
I heard the sound of the door lock turning behind me.
He had locked it the moment he came in.
"Let me go—"
"No."
His hand slid from my waist to my back, his fingers tracing up along my spine until they stopped at the nape of my neck.
He squeezed the back of my neck.
Not hard, but that sense of control made my whole body go weak.
Not from fear.
Not from resistance.
It was the alcohol mixed with the fragility left over from that night, grinding all my defenses into dust.
Isabella.
Her face floated into my mind again.
The dark green dress, the emerald earrings, that innate nobility and elegance.
That half-tone drop in Liam's voice when he spoke to her.
That quiet expression on his face when he stood behind her.
Three seconds.
Only three seconds.
But in those three seconds, he belonged to her.
Not to me.
This thought was like a needle, piercing precisely at my most vulnerable spot.
"Look at me."
Liam's voice pulled me back.
His fingers lifted my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze.
"Don't think about anything else."
His voice carried the roughness of alcohol, low and dangerous.
"You're mine. What you're thinking, what you're seeing, what you're feeling—it can only be me."
His lips pressed down on mine again.
This time it was a real kiss.
A kiss that tasted of alcohol, burning hot, as if he wanted to swallow me whole.
My back pressed against the cold marble of the sink, his body pressing against me from the front, his scorching body heat burning through the fabric against my skin.
One hand gripped the back of my neck, the other clamped on my waist, pinning me firmly between him and the countertop.
My hands unconsciously clutched his shirt.
Clutched tightly.
Knuckles white.
Not pushing him away.
Pulling him closer.
Closer still.
Because in this moment, I needed some kind of confirmation.
I needed proof—proof that I was still needed. Proof that in the presence of someone as radiant as Isabella, I hadn't been completely replaced.
Even if this confirmation was laughably cheap.
Even if it was only because of alcohol.
Liam felt my response.
His kiss deepened, his tongue prying open my lips and teeth with invasive plunder.
His hand slid down from my waist, moving upward along the hem of my dress.
The moment his fingertips touched the silk fabric, I shivered.
"Are you cold?" His lips pressed against my earlobe, his voice hoarse like sandpaper.
I didn't answer.
Because my brain could no longer form words.
The alcohol, the lack of oxygen, and the heat from his body burned all rationality into blank whiteness.
Liam's breathing grew heavier.
He lifted the hem of my dress, his fingers directly touching my thigh.
The moment his cool fingertips met my warm skin, goosebumps rose all over my body.
"Elise." He whispered my name in a low voice, as if chanting some kind of spell.
He lifted me up and set me on the sink countertop.
The marble surface was so cold I gasped, but the body heat he immediately covered me with melted that chill away.
He stood between my legs, looking down at me from above.
His eyes were dark red—the color burned out by alcohol and desire.
"You know," he said, one hand braced against the mirror beside me, the other hooking the strap of my dress and slowly pulling it down, "when you wore this dress tonight, I wanted to pin you against a wall."
The strap slipped down.
The black silk fabric slid from my shoulder, exposing my collarbone and most of my shoulder.
I looked at him.
He looked at me too.
The bathroom light fell on his face, light and shadow interplaying, making his features appear deeper than usual.
I knew I should stop.
This was a public restroom. There were dozens of people at the reception outside. Someone could knock on the door at any moment.
But I didn't want to stop.
Not because I wanted him.
But because I needed him.
I needed him to tell me in this way—you are mine.
Even if only for tonight. Even if only for this moment.
Liam's fingers slid down along my collarbone, his fingertips carrying rough calluses that scraped across delicate skin.
His eyes never left my face.
"You're beautiful," he said in a low voice.
This sentence, coming from Liam's mouth, shouldn't have made my heart flutter.
He said things like this all the time—"You look good today," "This suits you," "This makeup works for you"—those words light and casual, like loose change tossed out carelessly.
But today was different.
Today, when he said these words, there was something in his voice I'd never heard before.
It was genuine.
Genuine enough that I almost believed it.
I raised my hand and hooked it around his neck.
Pulled him closer.