Forbidden Alliances // Alfie Solomons Peaky Blinders

(50) Sin

*edited 03/10/23*

Can I just say, I'm disappointed this wasn't written in chapter 69. Enjoy, you whores.

"Imagine their faces, right?" He tilted his head with a partial smirk strung out on his lips. "Imagine their faces when they 'ear a woman is running with the Peaky Blinders."

"Those who do never see another day to gossip," she spoke with the same threatening tone as Alfie. "Besides," she paused with a glint of mischief glistening in her darkening gaze. "I won't be with them for very long if my brothers suspect my time here in London to be a tad too long to be strictly for business."

"So wot are yous 'ere for right now?" The room seemed to close in on the two of them as they were suddenly close enough to feel the other's breath against their cheek. "Business or pleasure?"

He was only two or three inches taller than her, but he seemed to be much more daunting than he ever was before. 

She sculpted the shape of his eyes to memory and relished in the color of the blue within them. If she looked even further, she was capable of seeing herself in the reflection of his growing pupil, and she could see that she was staring back at him with the same amount of intense restraint as he was.

"Well that depends on you," she whispered, feeling as if they were so close, she was feeling ill at the thought of his dismissal. She thought that perhaps if she spoke softly enough, she would earn herself permission to move even closer.

His hands were suddenly on her spine and his breath hitched in his throat. His eyes never left hers as he took her into his palms. He was terrified. He was so scared she would reject him, humiliate him, deny him, hurt him, kill him...

"Well, you ain't sliced my fingers off yet..." he exhorted, daring her to prove him wrong so the tension willing him to tears would be cut in one sense or another. He swallowed hard, causing Freya's eyes to slip from his gaze to his mouth, then up to meet his stare again.

"No," she whispered slowly. "I want your fingers to do much more than decorate the outside of my body, Mr. Solomons." The words slipped from her mouth, out of an unknown part of her brain which she was even surprised to hear.

Before anything else could happen, she tilted her head and connected her lips to his. He felt warm against her skin and he tasted of the alcohol they consumed. She had tasted it and yet she couldn't get enough of him. He still tasted of burned sugar. He would be something she would always crave; always something her sweet tooth demanded.

He was addicting, consuming, and dripped with fervor. His lips were smooth and full against her mouth, his skin feeling dry and human as she ran her hand up the side of his cheek. The brush of his beard was soft and the cacoethes thoughts to gently tug at it drove her insane.

Then her hands moved to peel his top hat free from his head. She gently molded her delicate fingers against his temples as she grabbed for the sides of his face, feeling every nerve ending in her body ache to reach for his.

His breathing became rapid as they were so close to one another and the sound of his pleasure made kissing him all the more reckless.

Her hand moved from the side of his face to the nape of his neck before touching something tough and cool.

Her hand traced the brimless edge of his cap, snapping her from the utter consumption of his taste, and pulled away with a sharp gasp. Her eyes bolted open and she met with a crossed and ecstasy-driven look within his begging gaze.

"Wot's wrong, Love?" His hands were planted on her hips again but her hands lay against his chest, feeling as the rise and fall against them ran like something musical. The rhythm of him—of his existence—filled her with a growing need to know and feel more of him. But she was conflicted about making this man oppose the principles of his religion. The reminder he wore on the top of his head now served as a reminder to her as to why she couldn't have him; not in the ways she wanted.