Killian
I roll over onto my back.
The sigh leaving my lips is drowned out by the clap of thunder that shakes the foundation of my cottage.
The sound of the rain on my roof is hypnotic and—if I wasn’t so fucking wide awake—would pull me to sleep like a mother’s lullaby.
My hands fall across my bare chest, and my head turns to the side. The dull red lights of my alarm peer back at me through the darkness.
I figure it’s something like four or five in the morning.
I’m wrong.
It’s only midnight.
I’ve slept maybe an hour in total, but I feel as though I’ve slept for days. My brain is firing on all cylinders, and my body feels as though I could outrun a race horse.
I turn my head to the other side. My brow furrows at the sight of the empty pillow.
I don’t know why I had insisted on coming home alone. Maybe it was to ensure that there was still this distance between us and that this remained a purely professional, business-like pairing. Perhaps I just wanted to ensure that I got a good night’s sleep so that I could start fresh on my novel in the morning.
Whatever my motivations were, I’m wishing they’d been different. Well, my cock does, anyway.
I look down and see my cock poking from underneath the blankets around my waist. Had Rebecca been here—or if I’d been with her—then it would be a simple matter of waking her to enjoy another vigorous round of baby-making.
Of course, all of that is pointless thinking, since she’s neither here nor am I there. And I have no intention of strolling through the rain to knock on her door just to declare that I’m ready for more of her.
It is an enticing thought, but I feel as though it would be for the best not to. Waking her in the middle of night isn’t likely to get me the result I want.
My eyes wander up to look at the blank, lifeless ceiling.
If I lie here doing nothing, I will go out of my mind.
With my mind racing the way it is, and the ability to sleep feeling like some distant, far-off memory, I’m well on my way there already.
What I want, what I need couldn’t be clearer. But I can’t have it.
Maybe I could do the next best thing.
My eyes close, and instead of the black void of my mind, I see her face looking down at me with a smile. She’s lying beside me in the bed. She’s bare, and her body radiates with pent-up desire.
“Just relax, Killian,” Fantasy Rebecca whispers with a smile.
It’s vivid in my mind’s eye: the vision of her hand moving across my chest, the feeling of her hand—or rather mine—sliding down over my stomach.
My hand slips under the covers at my waist. My fingers gently caress the base of my cock. It twitches against my touch as if it were hers.
Swallowing hard, I throw back the blankets with my other hand.
The cool night air hits my bare body, and I feel a shiver along the base of my spine. My cock throbs against the sudden shift in temperature as if to stand—literally—defiant against the chill.
My palm slides up along the shaft of my cock before twisting and gripping it firmly. I start stroking slowly—as I imagine she would—and my lips part slightly at the sensation.
With each stroke, I tighten my grip, and my wrist twists and turns with each stroke.
The fantasy version of Rebecca in my mind’s eye sits up beside me, and her smile widens.
She begins to stroke with more purpose. Almost as if tugging at the base of my cock with each hand movement.
“Do you like that?” Her whispered voice echoes and fills my senses like a summer breeze.
My lips part wider to let a louder groan of approval escape.
A rush of precum washes over me like a glass that has been filled with too much water.
In my invented fantasy, I see Rebecca leaning over me and drooling down onto my cock with each stroke she makes.
Another moan escapes my lips, and my thighs twitch at the new sensation.
My other hand slides down to cup my balls within its grasp.
The gentle massage that follows—coupled with the firm strokes of my cock—has me teetering on the edge of wanting more and needing a release.
In the end, it’s the need that wins out as I stroke faster to catch that climax that sits just out of my grasp.
“That’s it, Killian. Let it all out for me,” the red-haired fantasy coos.
My breath gets caught in my throat as I feel my body cave in on itself. My head rises from the pillow, and my chin pins itself against my throat. My back pushes down toward the bed beneath me, and my knees quiver and shake.
And when I release, my breath lurches from my throat in a growl.
I collapse back against the bed.
My eyes open to the real world, and my head lulls to the side.
The space beside me is void of the red-headed beauty that I desire. And yet she still manages to send me to new heights.
I close my eyes again.
I couldn’t give a fuck about the mess all over my waist, stomach, and sheets. I just hope that sleep finds me and that I do not wake until the sun has returned from its sojourn to lands I’ll never know.
Only, the repose that I hoped would follow after such an intense release never comes.
Even a sexual release just isn’t enough anymore. Whatever I’m after, whatever I’m missing, it’s beyond anything I’ve ever known or understood.
Opening my eyes, I look over at my clock.
It’s about half-past midnight.
“This is going to be a long fucking night.”
I sit up and throw my feet over the ledge of the bed. The wood floor creaks in mild annoyance as I stand.
My first stop is the bathroom, where I clean the mess I made and dry myself off.
After strolling back to my bedroom, I grab a pair of red flannel pajama bottoms and pull them on.
My eyes fall to the bottle of Jameson on my nightstand behind my alarm as the elastic band of my pants snaps around my waist.
Without another thought, I walk over and pick up the bottle.
My eyes dance over the label, and my thoughts are taken over by vivid memories the last time that I had shared the taste of it with Rebecca.
“Fuck it.” I open the bottle and bring the bottle up to my mouth—only to stop before the glass touches my lips.
That distinctive smell of sweet barley and cereal that the Black Barrel blend is known for hits my nose first, and I’m taken back to that feeling of waking up alone all those years ago.
Before that final step of imbibing, I lower the bottle and look down at it with bitterness.
It’s like seeing the horrible ex-lover who left you for another—but still tempts you with their ever-present sexiness and mystique, because—no matter what they did to you—you still crave and desire them.
“It’s all fucking shite.”
After recapping the whiskey, I start toward the kitchen, bottle in hand.
There’s no way I’m going to keep the whiskey within eyesight, so I open my cupboard and place it up on the top shelf. I push it back away from the ledge for good measure before closing the cupboard back up.
I turn and lean back against the counter. My arms fold across my chest.
A sigh that embodies my frustration and annoyance is released with purpose.
Another clap of thunder catches my attention, and I let myself focus on the downpour outside.
A flash of lightning momentarily floods the interior of my cottage in vibrant purple light.
For a second, it feels like the fucking apocalypse.
But in that brief moment, a glint of metal catches my eye.
My typewriter.
It feels as though fate—the incredibly fickle lass that she is—is giving me a sign.
“Alright. I’ll play along with your little game.”
I sit down at my desk and switch on my desk lamp. My gaze falls to the blank sheet of paper already prepared for me.
I have no idea where I’m going to start—or where I’m going to go with it—but it’s better than twiddling my thumbs all night in boredom.
Clack.
The sound of the first type echoes through my cottage, loud enough to drown out the rain.
Click. Clack. Click, click. Clack.
Let’s see what I can come up with, then. Let’s put this marvelous fucking brain of mine to work.
I don’t think. I just type.
Letter after letter. Word after word. Sentence after sentence and so on and so forth.
I become so engrossed in my work that I don’t even hear the thunder anymore—even when it’s so loud it shakes the cottage. I don’t hear when the rain stops.
The hours fly by as if they were minutes—not that I’m keeping track—and soon, day has nearly passed me by.
As I lean back in my seat, my hands rub against my face. My eyes burn from fatigue.
I couldn’t give a fuck, though—not now.
I pull the last sheet from the typewriter and set it with the stack of others.
Around me are small hills and giant mountains of crumpled paper balls. It’s almost as if I’ve trapped myself in a papier-mâché relief map of the Swiss Alps.
My gaze cascades to the cupboard of hidden Jameson.
I’ve beaten my writer’s block—kicked it in the arse—and I deserve to be rewarded.
I wade through my paper mountains—destroying what would have been the Matterhorn—and grab the bottle of Jameson that I hid from myself.
“I am going to enjoy this. I have fucking earned this.”
After properly hyping myself up, I pour out a generous glass. For a rich, soothing moment, I let the glorious aroma fill my nose.
My mouth begins to water in anticipation of feeling that barrel char, oak, and plummy fruit flavor fill my taste buds once more.
I return to my desk and set the glass down. It’s not time to drink any of it yet.
I wait. The anticipation of it is part of what makes it so great. I just want it near so that I can toast to myself and my fucking brilliance.
An entire night—and fucking day—was spent working away at this book. And now I get to read it and be in awe at how magnificent the fruits of my labor turned out to be.
Only I’m wrong again—something that has been happening more since Rebecca hit me with her American-made behemoth of a vehicle.
I skim listlessly through the pages, looking for any glimmer of hope.
No luck.
“This is all fucking pish.”
Well, this is fucking frustrating. What an infuriating waste of fucking time that turned out to be.
I dump the stack of papers onto the floor, adding to the Swiss Paper Alps.
The glass of Jameson is mocking me with its presence.
Once more, it’s turned into that ex who taunts you at every turn.
My chair falls backwards as I stand and start towards the bedroom.
“Fuck this shite. I’m going to the damn pub.”