The Last Killiney

by J. Jay Kamp

  Chapter Eight

  ’Course I’m not lookin’, Paul thought, listening to the rustle of that dress slipping off. I’ve seen too much already, haven’t I?

  From where he lay behind the curtains, arms crossed behind his head, he could imagine the way she looked. All that straight, tangled hair would be strewn around her. Paul’s shirt, wrapping her up with swimming sleeves, would just about reach her knees, and from there he remembered her strong, slim legs. In the field, by the moonlight, he’d gotten more than a passing glimpse.

  Shaggin’ wish I hadn’t, he thought.

  Because when Ravenna climbed onto the mattress, he felt things—things he hadn’t known still survived inside him, not after all this time. The bed rocked familiarly. She burrowed into the blankets, and the feel of her snuggling, the sound of her breath so soft in the dark, these were temptations that tugged at him now with more force than he had ever expected. If only you’d let her sleep in the dress and not dared to touch her…for that’s when it’d come over him, hadn’t it? He’d touched her. He’d unhooked the thing. He’d not been able to control himself or the thoughts that’d plagued him ever since, and what would he do when he fell asleep? Did he dare trust himself?

  Thinking he shouldn’t, Paul lay still. For hours he listened to the rhythm of her breath until, certain she slept, he got out of bed. The fire had gone out by then. The room was ice cold. The air was so jarring that when he began stumbling about, tripping over rugs and chairs, he couldn’t keep from swearing out loud.

  A fire, he thought. What I need is some bleedin’ heat. Groping near the hearth, he tried to find something to throw on the coals; peat, kindling, even a candle to light with the dying embers would be better than nothing. At least with a candle, he’d find the coal box, and if he could just get the room warm enough, he might bundle up in his coat, maybe even sleep on the sofa with the panties scattered over him for extra insulation.

  So why didn’t you sleep there t’begin with? Paul cursed his own stupidity for climbing into bed with this waif of a girl even as he felt around the mantel for matches. What had he been thinking? I suppose about what happened in the field, yeah?

  And as if on cue, that moment replayed itself in his mind: His waking up, stunned and confused and sunk between her thighs, her lovely breasts a cradle of warmth, her fingers messing through his hair, and Lord, how he’d reacted. He’d actually felt himself harden, and this after two years of studied celibacy? With nothing save his wedding vows and guilt to divide them, what if she’d pulled him down and kissed him in that field? If she’d wrapped her legs around him tight, if she’d asked him, encouraged him…what would you have done then, Paul Henley?

  He didn’t want to think about that. Instead, he went on searching for candlesticks, feverishly now, until fumbling near the bed and over various pieces of furniture, at last he found the panties. Candles, coal box, even the coat which he vaguely remembered tossing on the floor, the really important things he couldn’t find to save his life—not unless he wanted to wake Ravenna in the process.

  He glanced back toward where she lay sleeping. If I get back in that bed, God knows what I’ll do.

  Yet without a fire, what else was there? To freeze because he didn’t have the self-control to resist this girl seemed completely absurd. Of course he could restrain himself. Ravenna was beautiful, yes, but it was dark. She was sleeping. She couldn’t beg him with those ink-black eyes, and with her being a virgin, how difficult could it be even when she woke? Just think about the wife if you’re gonna get ideas an’ that, tryin’ it on with Buddhist urchins.

  So with visions of Fiona firmly in mind, he found the bed. He climbed into it as stealthily as he could, causing Ravenna to stir, but only slightly. Good, Paul thought. Feeling her warmth through the sheets was nothing but a distraction anyway. He should be thinking about getting himself home. How the freckles on his face had rearranged themselves, where the scar under his chin had gone, these things he left to God, but he had to get back to Fiona, didn’t he? He missed her. He needed her, and with each moment he spent in this lunatic fantasy of a dismal, horrible, temptation-laden place—

  Suddenly, Ravenna moved.

  Curling toward him in the icy dark, sighing a little, she didn’t awaken, but when she slipped her leg up next to his, Paul’s heart quickened; other parts of him made themselves adamantly known.

  That he hadn’t dared get between the sheets with her, been so obstinate about keeping to his side of the bed and discouraged any whispering before they’d slept, all these precautions had been wise, he now saw. With nothing so much as a careless leg tossed in his direction, she’d stirred him to imagining uncomfortable things—waking her, talking to her, flirting with her until he heard that uncertain tremor to her voice, or whispering in her ear the way he’d never dreamed of whispering to his wife, erotically, playfully, maybe while running his mouth over the curves of her luscious little hip, dipping his tongue into the hollows behind her knees…

  Don’t, he told himself. Yet he couldn’t help it. Maybe it was because Fiona had pushed him so hard, but he found himself drifting dangerously, inching toward Ravenna with nothing but his own good senses to stop him.

  Where she slept so soundly beside him, she didn’t move when he sat up a little. He lowered his face down close to hers, wanting to feel her shallow breaths, taste them in his mouth, and as he measured the distance between their lips with each gentle sigh of sleep she uttered, he felt the heat spread through his groin, familiar as ever he remembered it. I haven’t kissed anyone in years, have I? And now here she was, inciting him, arousing him, and all without even opening her eyes.

  Fiona, damn it, Fiona, and he groaned, hoping her name would bring him around. It didn’t. He was lost, for already he was slipping his fingers into Ravenna’s, right under her chin, and he imagined tipping her face just enough to press her lips with the lightest kiss.

  But in the dark, he did nothing. He lay still beside her, for in a rush of understanding, he realized what was happening in this godforsaken place. However he’d gotten in bed with this girl, whoever had arranged it, only Fiona would reap the rewards because, after all, the wife was getting what she’d wanted, wasn’t she? Now Fiona will never take you seriously if you start kissing pretty girls, yeah? Then all your pining will be fer nothin’.

  And ushering in the expected pain, even welcoming it, he thought about the wife, that last glimpse of her climbing into the boyfriend’s car. How long would it take for Fiona to miss him? Two days? A week? Or have I really been replaced by that fellah Killiney?

  Cursing himself, Paul pulled his fingers out of Ravenna’s. He resisted her unwitting snuggling with all the strength he could muster even as his member ached between his legs and his hands clenched into fists, fighting to keep themselves from straying right back to her heart-shaped face.

  Sleep, he told himself. Go to sleep and maybe you’ll dream yourself out of this mess.