EILEEN

Brendan and I fall into a routine. Most afternoons, he shows up at the spring with several books and a snack he managed to cajole out of his mother. We pass the afternoon quietly reading, shoulder to shoulder, legs intertwined no matter the heat, or reading out loud to one another. Other afternoons, he tutors me in Irish history. That is my favorite. He is so impassioned when explaining the warriors of Ireland's mythic past, and fiery when he talks about Oliver Cromwell and the grief the Civil War brought down on the Irish.

While Brendan knows tons about history, just as my grandfather said, he doesn't know much about poetry or literature. Or at least he claims he doesn't. I thought my heart would stop when he asked me to help him with it. I could listen to him speak all day long, his sing-song accent as soft and soothing as a caress. Or better yet, just watch him while he reads and thinks. I love how his inky hair flops into his eyes, his pale, strong fingers, the ones that haunt my dreams, brush it out of his way. The way his brow furrows when he comes across something in a passage he doesn't quite agree with, because, make no mistake, Brendan understands most everything; he just doesn't necessarily agree with it all. He mesmerizes me.

One especially hot afternoon, I stood and unbuttoned my blouse. I thought he was going to have a heart attack—until I stripped it off and revealed a rather awful one-piece bathing suit from my high school gym class. It’s navy blue and stretched out and utterly unflattering. A huge grin shattered his serious, conflicted expression, and he made it a race as he stripped down to his boxer shorts. We tied, slicing through the water together. I reveled in the feel of the water on my skin and Brendan brushing against me as we swam and frolicked in the spring.

I giggled. "The look on your face. You thought I was naked, didn't you?"

"I don't know what I thought. I know what I hoped, but I'll never tell you what that is." He threw a devastating smile my way and, with a splash, gave chase.

I fled his grasp, managing to slip out of his reach every time he got close. When I finally let him catch me, his touch burned my skin despite the cool spring water. We froze, panting from our merry chase, my hands on his shoulders, his on my bare back. I was lost in his velvety dark eyes.

As the days have gone on, I find myself craving his company. His nearness. His sexy intellect. Brendan is a quiet, fiery soul who feels deeply for the people of his village and his family and me, I think. The more time I spend with him, the more he haunts my dreams. I long for him to possess me the way I have dreamt of and more.

His claim of not knowing poetry doesn't last long. As we talk about William Butler Yeats  he recites from memory, his voice soft and low. His Irish lilt roughens to a burr, weaving a hypnotic spell:

Had I the heaven's embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light;
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

He leans in, and his lips are on mine with the closing words of the poem, feather light and tentative. I answer his lips with my own, just as softly. When his hand comes to the side of my face, his fingers weave through my hair possessively. I lean in and kiss him with more intensity, letting everything I had been feeling over the past few weeks pour into that kiss. He answer my silent prayer of desperation with hunger and need. The kiss turns insistent and searching. He flicks at my lips with his tongue, looking for a way in. I gasp, and it is all the welcome he needs. I cling to him as he kisses me, hanging on for dear life. It goes on forever and ever and I hope it will never end.

When we finally come up for air, I blurt, "That was my first kiss."

He looks at me incredulously. "I can do better."

We attack each other with fervor, Brendan angling his body over mine and leaning me back into the soft grass. He wraps his arms around me, his beautiful fingers protecting the back of my head as the kiss grows more frantic with a rhythm all its own. Our bodies aren’t exactly intertwined but next to one another.

He’s careful not to put his weight on me, and as we languidly explore, I'm conscious of the warm weight of his body curled over mine. Especially a certain part of his body, which seems to have a life of its own. Now I understand what Mo and her friends were talking about. Brandon's cock is unmistakably hard against my thigh. All I can think is, "Just roll over onto me, please. I want to take your weight. I want to feel all of you. Grind me into the earth." In that moment, I just want to lose myself in him. He invited me into his thoughts and I want to invite him into my body.

We kiss for what seems like hours until Brendan and I come out of our haze, breathless and drugged. The sun is dropping below the tree line. We will barely make it home before dark.

"Same time tomorrow?"

Brendan replies, "I'll get away as soon as I can. Don't forget we have a date tomorrow with Shakespeare."

I want to be ahead of my literature class come fall, so we've been reading together. We gather our things, leave some fruit and bread for the fae, and make our way back. Brendan walks alongside Sidhe and me, holding my hand. We get to the pasture fence before he splits off to walk the rest of the way home, his silhouette stark against the sinking sun.