Killian
Rebecca is writhing beneath me. I can feel the muscles in her thighs twitching and flexing uncontrollably. My fingers softly graze over her stomach as if feeling the petals of a rose.
Her flesh is just as smooth and delicate as the most beautiful spring flower.
Her own hands run through my dark locks. I can feel her grip tighten and loosen like the ebb and flow of the Atlantic tides.
The moans from her lips sound like an angelic choir from the heavens on high—each one like a sensual call of a siren that pulls me further into the black abyss of the deepest ocean.
My tongue slides over and in between her wet pussy lips. I take my time as my flattened tongue moves over her.
It’s almost as if I’m tasting whiskey for the first time all over again. There’s no burn as I feel her juices slide down my throat, but it’s every bit as smooth as the reddish-golden nectar that I seek comfort in night after night.
Her back arches at the touch of my lips against her swollen clit. Her husky moans wash over me like a cool evening breeze off the lake in July.
Her fingers slide through my hair, then she grips my dark strands. It’s as if she’s clinging to the summit of Carrauntoohil itself. It feels as if she’s using me as an anchor to keep herself from being pulled to the sea.
I can feel her breath hitch, signaling to me that she’s at her limit and can no longer contain herself.
She whispers to me in between moans. I can’t make out the words—nor do I care—as my focus remains fixated on her approaching climax.
Thunder knocks against the sky in the distance in quick succession. It sounds almost as if the Creator himself is knocking on the gates of heaven.
I hear Rebecca calling out my name, but it sounds distant. It feels as though she’s calling out to me from far away, almost as if the wind is carrying her voice to me from some far-off land.
Rebecca’s body trembles again beneath me. Her firm grip sends a chill up my spine as the line between pain and pleasure twists and blurs.
Thunder knocks again. It’s louder than before.
The wind carries her voice across the world, across the universe, across the dimension of time and dimensions beyond, all the way to me.
Rebecca’s body goes stiff, and she lets out a moan that reverberates through me, in my heart and soul.
I’m ready—eager—to feel more of her flood my lips. It’s a taste I crave, though a craving I never knew existed until now.
God knocks once more.
Knocking. That’s it.
It isn’t thunder that I hear now. It’s the sound of knocking at a door that rings through the sky.
Rebecca’s voice calling to me is louder—closer—this time around.
“Killian? You there?”
My eyes snap open.
I’m greeted by a morning light that stings my eyes.
A soft groan escapes my lips as I sit up in my chair.
My head turns, my neck sore and stiff, and I look over my surroundings.
I’m home. Apparently, at my desk.
I have one hand wrapped around the bottle of Locke’s 8 Year—which I’ve evidently emptied—and my hand feels numb. A streak of drool glistens in the morning sun.
My tongue slips out and licks over my dry lips. I wipe away the drool on my hand and corner of my mouth with the sleeve of my shirt.
There’s another knock at the door.
“Killian, I know you’re in there. I can see Ida in her stable.”
My hand slides up over my face to rub the sleep out of my eyes.
There’s a small throbbing in my temples. Nothing that can’t be fixed with a morning shot of whiskey.
I look down at my typewriter and see an empty page sitting in it. Another groan escapes me.
My body protests as I stand from my chair. I reach to the sky and feel my body crack in relief.
Much better.
I stroll toward my door and open it to reveal Rebecca in mid-knock.
Any slumber or haze that was lingering disappears at her sight.
Her red hair flows down over her shoulders and shines in the morning sun like silk. Her sky-blue sun dress—dotted with white daisies—and ivory-white cardigan are a perfect pairing to match her fair skin.
My eyes wander down to her legs—her sun dress only reaching mid-thigh—and lose myself for a moment in the remembrance of being entwined within them.
The memory of last night—and the dream that she so rudely woke me from—fills my thoughts until she exaggeratedly clears her throat.
“Oh, right. Yes, come in.”
I stand out of the way and gesture for her to step inside.
My attention falls back to her legs as she walks past.
“Stop looking at my ass, Killian,” she says.
Does she have eyes in the back of her head or something?
“Am I that obvious?”
“Like a train wreck.”
Shrugging, I close the door.
I can’t help wondering if she’s here because she just wants to see me or if she wishes to discuss the arrangement that I proposed to her.
No matter the reason, I’m pleased that she’s here.
Nothing wrong with that, is there?
On a normal day, I would probably either be reading a favorite book to get some of the creative muse dancing about, or going on a ride with Ida, or sitting at my desk and click-clacking my head off it as I try to write.
I think it goes without saying that I’d be drinking no matter the activity chosen. There’s always room for some good whiskey to be added to any activity one may engage in.
But seeing her here before me, looking as agreeable and pleasant as she does, has me feeling as though a normal day would be a waste of my time.
I mean, I think you could say we’re friends at this point. Time with friends is good for the soul, and it helps my creativity in the long run.
And Rebecca’s not somebody I get to see very often.
To pass an opportunity to spend some quality time with such a quality person would be as tragic as a whiskey-free Ireland.
Both are thoughts I never wish to have again.
So, perhaps something special is in order—one that can be beneficial no matter her reason for showing up at my doorstep.
A spot as beautiful—maybe even more so—than anywhere else on all of the Emerald Isle.
“So, we need to talk.”
She sounds a touch apprehensive, almost a wee bit nervous.
Walking past her to the cupboard, I catch a glimpse of her expression, which confirms that, yes, she’s one nervous lass at the moment.
There’s a soft creaking when I open up the wooden door and pull a half-empty bottle of Bushmills.
I don’t bother pouring myself a glass—a pull directly from the bottle works just as well.
I swirl the pale-golden liquid about in my mouth. The bitter, stale morning taste that clings to my cheeks is washed away and replaced with the familiar and ever-pleasant taste of toasted almond, tree fruit, citrus, and caramel.
Whiskey is truly the fucking mouthwash of the gods.
I swallow the Bushmills with a smile.
One part mouthwash, one part morning pick-me-up.
It sometimes makes me wonder as to why Bushmills doesn’t advertise their 10-Year-Old as such.
“So. Talk? About last night?”
She gives me a nod.
“Well, that’s lovely, lass. And I know exactly where we can talk about it in more detail. There’s a lovely little spot here in the country that I’d love to take you. It’s perfect. You’ll love it. And we can take Ida to get there, so no falling off bikes or running over Irishmen.”
Her nervousness seems to slip away for a moment at my words. A shy smile threatens to pull at the corner of her lips.
It ties my stomach in a knot.
She clears her throat and puts on her best business face.
“That’s lovely and sweet, Killian. But I need to get this out first before we go anywhere or do anything else.”
Oh boy, she really does mean business this morning.
“Go on, love.”
“I want to go on with the agreement that we discussed last night.”
The knot in my stomach explodes. A wave of relief—and joy—washes over me.
“Splendid.”
Okay, rein in your excitement a bit there, boyo.
Okay—I am incredibly fucking relieved that she wants to go through with this. It’s a massive weight lifted from my shoulders.
I mean, that fucking deadline’s already wreaking fucking havoc with my stress levels.
“However, this is nothing more than a business arrangement between us.” She sounds like a lawyer in a boardroom, drawing up a legal contract. “This isn’t some commitment to each other. We aren’t a couple, this isn’t a relationship, and we’re not one big family. This is all business, nothing personal. No feelings. No complications.”
Her words ring around in my skull. There’s still that soft throbbing in my temples that seems to bang louder as I dwell on her statement.
I take another drink of the whiskey to dull the annoyance before it blossoms into the flower of a fucking debilitating headache.
There’s a sense of relief when I hear her demands. The last time we were together has been amazing—so marvelous and wondrous it’s taken on mythological status among all the events in my life.
So, when it ended, I felt as though I had been caught in the eruption of Mount Vesuvius at Pompeii.
And it’s like part of me is still there, my face frozen in fear and sadness, preserved for all eternity.
An acknowledgment that the very real pain of abandonment and loss is not worth even a moment of some whimsical fucking fantasy of romance.
It was as much an affirmation then as it is now that I’m better off not letting myself get caught up in nonsense like that.
And if I can say so myself, I’m doing pretty fucking well on my own. Fuck it—there’s no point in that type of moping with a bottle in my hands. I make good use of it with another tip of the wrist.
The next drink washes over my tongue and burns down the back of my throat. It washes away the lump that, for a moment, felt caught within.
“Rebecca, it’s like you’re reading my mind.” I smile brightly and step toward her with an outstretched hand.
“So, we have a deal?” she asks.
“We have a deal.”
She takes my hand in hers, and we seal the arrangement with a gentleman’s handshake.