Chapter 1: Sparks in the Garrison
The Garrison was alive with the raw, smoky pulse of Small Heath, the air thick with the scent of whiskey and sweat. Esme Shelby Lee, with her sharp Romani edge and a gaze that could cut glass, leaned against the bar, her dark eyes scanning the room like a predator. Her lips, painted a daring crimson, curled into a smirk as she caught sight of John Shelby, all swagger and sin, pushing through the crowd. He wore his cap low, his broad shoulders rolling with every step, a man who owned every inch of the ground he walked on.
'Oi, Esme, y’ lookin’ like trouble tonight,' John drawled, his Brummie accent rough as gravel, sliding up beside her. His eyes raked over her, lingering on the curve of her hips in that tight black dress. 'What’s a lass like you doin’ in a shithole like this?'
Esme laughed, a low, throaty sound that sent a shiver down his spine. 'I’m here to drink, John boy, not to nursemaid your sorry arse. But if y’ keep starin’ at me like that, I might just have to slap that pretty face o’ yours.' She took a swig of her pint, her gaze never leaving his, daring him to push further.
John grinned, all teeth and mischief, leaning in close enough that she could smell the tobacco on his breath. 'Slap me? Nah, love, I reckon y’d rather ride me. I’ve seen the way y’ look at me when y’ think I ain’t watchin’.'
Her eyes narrowed, but there was a spark of heat in them, a challenge. 'Y’ think y’ can handle me, Shelby? I ain’t one o’ your little barmaids to fawn over y’ cock. I’d break y’ in half before y’ could even get hard.' Her words were sharp, but her voice dipped low, dripping with a dangerous promise.
John’s laugh was a bark, raw and hungry. 'Oh, I’m already hard, darlin’. Been thinkin’ ‘bout that fiery pussy o’ yours all bloody day. Bet y’ wet just hearin’ me say it, ain’t y’?' He stepped closer, his hand brushing her thigh under the bar, bold as brass.
Esme didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. Instead, she grabbed his wrist, her grip iron-tight, and leaned in until their lips were a whisper apart. 'Y’ wanna play, John? Then let’s play. But I ain’t no prize to be won. Y’ want me, y’ better be ready to bleed for it.' Her breath was hot against his skin, her words a blade wrapped in velvet.
The tension between them crackled like a live wire, the noise of the pub fading into a dull roar. John’s hand slid higher, fingers digging into her thigh, and Esme’s smirk widened, her own heat rising. She could feel the pulse of him, the raw need in his touch, and damn if it didn’t make her ache. She wasn’t about to let him know that, though—not yet.
'Outside,' she hissed, shoving him back with a force that made him stumble, her eyes blazing. 'Now. Unless y’ too scared to handle a real woman.'
John’s grin was feral as he adjusted his cap, his cock straining against his trousers, already anticipating the fight—and the fuck—that awaited. 'Lead the way, love. I’ve been dyin’ to see that ass o’ yours up close.'
They pushed through the crowd, the air between them electric, charged with lust and danger. As they stumbled into the alley behind the Garrison, the cold night air hit their skin, but neither felt it. Esme turned, slamming John against the brick wall with a strength that made him groan, her hands already tugging at his belt. Their breaths came fast, panting, the promise of something explosive hanging heavy between them.
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