by Frankie Love
Maybe Conor has something here, otherwise, it’s a long way down the mountain, and I still need to get to my appointment.
I look at the watch on my wrist; it’s early, only eight in the morning. My tour starts at 10, so there's still plenty of time to shower, dress, eat, and get where I need to go.
I stand, the sheet wrapped around my naked body, and I wonder where Conor is. Maybe he’s one of those romantic men who make breakfast in bed for their lovers.
I’ve never actually had that sort of scenario happened. Julian. I know I need to stop thinking about that toxic, lying, a-hole, but he is now the barometer by which I measure every man.
I know Conor isn’t like Julian. When Conor and I had sex last night, he was like, literally having sex with me. Julian had sex on me. In me. To me.
Never with me.
Before last night, I didn’t think there was a difference.
Conor knew what to do with my body, and he didn’t just take me there, we went there together.
Already my pussy is wet again, imagining Conor between my legs, licking me and sucking me, as if I was the tastiest thing he’d ever had.
I bite my bottom lip and peer around the bookshelves that separate the bed from the rest of this one room … studio? I’m not seeing him anywhere. And I’m also realizing that, while Conor was made to seduce women, he doesn’t exactly have a house. This is more like ... what is this?
I look around with more discretion. And, um, I swear to God, this place is a barn.
There are a lot of competing images I have of Conor right now. There’s the sexual image of Conor bending me over and filling me up and then there’s my cocky-guy-at-the-bar image of Conor–– and those two things fit together. But trying to reconcile the barn-dweller with that?... It’s proving more difficult.
Stepping into the living space, I see that somehow these pieces actually fit. Only a man as cocky as him could score as often as he must, and only a man like that, who lives so flippantly could handle living in a place like this.
“Conor?” I ask stepping into the ... living room?
There’s a couch here, and it looks like it’s always been here. For, like, the last 100 years. And there’s a fire burning. Good sign, he wouldn’t have ditched me forever if he had a fire going. Or would he?
The truth is, I know nothing about him besides his face. His delicious face. His deliciously kissable face. And mouth. I need that mouth.
“Conor?” I ask again. Stepping out of the living room and I immediately step into the kitchen. Because the square footage we are talking about here is like roughly two hundred feet? It’s like suddenly I’m in a shitty Manhattan walk-up, and not the sprawling Irish mountainside.
There is a rickety old stove and a kettle. Okay, so there must be some sort of tea. Good sign. I look around, trying to find some sort of food. There’s a refrigerator. And a sink full of dirty dishes. Okay, not gonna get too judgmental there.
My own fridge, back home––before I got kicked out of the apartment that Julian owned––had basically only consisted of leftover take out. Take out menus on the fridge, and take out containers in the trash.
Feeling like it might be sorta presumptuous to open his fridge and start making myself something to eat––no matter how hungry I am. I decide to hold off and get dressed instead.
Maybe when I’m done, he’ll be back. If not... I guess I’ll let myself out and try not to take his disappearing act personally.
It’s not like I’m going to go outside wrapped in this sheet and start looking for him. Although, he did mention a romp in the woods. Maybe he’s out there waiting for me?
I shake my head, no. That’s not what he meant by that. Stop thinking like a crazy sex-crazed woman, Clover.
I walk to the front door––that’s all of four paces away, and grab my backpack. Hauling it over my shoulder awkwardly, I carry it to the bedroom area.
As I walk back across the barn, I realize this place is pretty charming. It’s unpretentious and well worn, but also unique. I smile, dropping the backpack on the bed, appreciating the quilt that fell to the floor––it looks hand stitched, and the braided rug on the floor looks handmade too. Nothing about this place reminds me of home, yet it feels so familiar.
Smiling to myself, I relax in the moment, something I haven’t done for three weeks. Traveling alone has forced me to keep my guard up. But now, I drop the sheet to the floor and begin looking for clothes.
I need underwear for starters because I’m sure I remember Conor ripping them off me last night like a savage mountain man.
Oh, my God, that sex was so fucking good.
Focus, Clover. In two hours, I need to be at the office of The Lucky Irishman Tour Company... and I still need to look up the address. I only knew, when I signed up online yesterday, that it was somewhere right outside of Dublin.
Finding what I need, I begin to shimmy into some underclothes. Before I pull them on, however, I hear the door open. And while bent over, my ass bare, I know he’s standing in the doorway. Getting a full moon.
“Wouldn’t mind waking up to that every day, darling.”
I turn on a dime, raising a finger in indignation over what––I’m not sure of. “Where were you?” I ask as if I am owed this information.
“Was getting some breakfast, lassie.”
Not sure I believe he really went out to get us food, I keep up my guard. “Lassie or darling? Which one is it?”
“Which would you prefer to be?” From behind his back, he pulls out a white paper sack.
“You drove all the way back to Dublin to get breakfast?” I remember the drive last night; it was 30 minutes, easy.
“I didn’t drive all the way back there. There’s a little place to stop and get a bite to eat, cup of coffee or tea, just down the way. The tourists like to go there. Traditional Irish fare.” He says this with a flourish.
“Well, thanks. I was on the verge of becoming hangry. And you don’t want to see that.”
“Hangry? And what’s that, dove?”
“Dove?”
Conor shrugs. “Trying to make sure I’m calling you the right thing. Haven’t decided yet.” He waves the bag in the air, tempting me. “You said you were hungry?”
“Not hungry, hangry. Angry and hungry at the same time. It’s a thing. And it’s something I suffer from. And something you’ll suffer from too if you don’t hand over that bag.”
Conor laughs and it’s like we’re back where we started. I’ve never had that with a man before––this level of ease. Especially, when I’m standing in front of one stark naked. My thighs and breasts are bigger than I’d like, but Conor doesn’t seem to notice that at all.
He’s staring at me as if I’m a work of art as if he paid money to walk into a museum and look at me.
I don’t know that I’ve ever felt like a masterpiece before.
Forget that, I know the answer. I know I haven’t. But standing here in front of Conor, for the first time in my life I feel like I’m something worth admiring.
And Conor, with his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbow, a knit cap on his head, and a white pastry bag not only tempting me but also making me feel special––I know the truth.
Conor is worth admiring, too.
7
Clover stands there looking more edible than the biscuits in my bag. Probably tastes much better too, considering Hildegard down the lane made them. She’s not exactly known for her baking or cooking. Or generosity.
The only thing she’s known for is the fact that she’s the one person on the road to Dublin serving anything to eat. And for a man like me who lives alone, and works alone, most days Hildegard is the only reason I eat all.
But now, after tasting Clover last night, I have a feeling she would satisfy me damn well every day.
Standing here before me now, her body bare, her eyes grazing over me with as much lust as I have for her, I thank my lucky stars for the hundredth time today that my brother and Sean happened to c
hoose her from the crowd.
The idea of winning her over for a week doesn’t feel like much of a challenge because, in this moment, I wouldn’t mind winning her over for much longer than that.
And that’s saying something for a man like me who has pushed away commitment and obligation for as long as I’ve lived on this green earth.
“So, are you gonna hand over the bag?” Clover asks, pursing her lips in a way that both seduces and teases.
“I’m undecided, sugar, I don’t think that’s what I want to taste right now.”
I drop the bag on the bed and wrap my arms around her warm body. My hands run over her bare ass as I draw her closer to me. She just shakes her head and laughs.
“I wasn’t joking about being hangry, Conor. Yes, you were amazing last night, but I can’t just forget about my health to sleep with you.”
“You’re telling me, doll, that you’d rather have that shoddy pastry instead of a mouth full of my cock?”
She jumps away from me, grabbing the pastry bag, opening it up and pulling out a few biscuits. “Yes, that’s what I’m saying. I need this biscuit in my mouth before I can even think about anything else.” She jams it past her lips recklessly. With a mouth full of Hildegard’s round cake, she asks, “Oh, and could you make me some tea?”
“Wow, I didn’t expect you to be so high maintenance, lassie.”
“I like that one best,” she says, crumbs falling on her bare breasts. She doesn’t make a move to brush them away, and once again I’m struck by how irreverent she is. How unorthodox.
And I mean that in the best way possible. Clover is unrestrained, untethered. I truly feel as if I’ve met my match.
“You like which one best?” I ask, not following.
“Lass. Lassie? The other ones: love, doll, darling? I don’t know... those feel tired. But when you say, lassie, it makes me feel...”
“Like an Irish woman?” I ask, stepping closer to where she’s perched at the edge of the bed, and spreading her knees so I can fit between them.
“Maybe that’s what it is.” She shakes her head. “But when you say it like that, it feels cheap. Don’t Irish men say lass to everyone.”
“Not true. Not every Irish man knows how to speak to a woman.” My forefinger lifts her chin, her eyes meet mine. “Besides, it’s an old word, not used every day.”
“But you, Conor, you like things more traditional? Because I didn’t really get that impression when I walked around the barn.”
I cock a brow. “You like my barn, lassie?”
“I don’t know what I think of your barn. But I do know what I think about you.”
“And what’s that?”
“Well, now that I’ve had my biscuit, I’m willing to put other things in my mouth.” She says with mock seriousness and I appreciate her candor.
She’s not playing games, she wants more of me, but she’s not going to keel over to get it. She is still her own woman.
This is all new territory for me. I’ve never been with a woman I wanted to go get breakfast for in the morning. A woman I wanted to keep in my bed for longer than a night.
Then again, I’ve never had stakes like this, where I needed her to stay put to get what I wanted.
“Then let’s get to it,” I tell her.
She nods, her eyes bright, the Irish sun streaming through the window gracing her with a halo of light. And even though the day outside is cold, inside the barn, where the fire blazes, it’s plenty warm.
It’s about to get a hell of a lot warmer.
“And then you’ll make me the tea, right?” A smile plays in the corner of her mouth and I know she’s teasing––but also, not.
“C’mere, lassie, then I promise I’ll make you some tea.”
She undoes my jeans and they fall to the floor, her fingers tug down the waistband of my boxers. My hard cock is ready for her.
And she is ready for it. She looks up at me, surprise on her face, her smile widening.
“Conor, do all Irishmen have cocks like this? Because last night it was dark and while I know how you felt inside me, I didn’t get a good look at you.”
“Not every Irishman is graced with this, but I’ve already told you, lassie, I’m one of the lucky ones.”
She sighs, licking her lips, her fingers wrapping around my length. She strokes me softly, her other hand cupping my balls, and the heat from the friction gets me hard as a rock.
“I don’t know, Conor. From where I’m sitting, I think I’m the lucky one.” She wraps her mouth around me, her lips suctioning around my length, and she begins to suck.
Her mouth is warm and her tongue slides across my skin. She’s sucking me hard, up and down, and her bobbing head makes me want to explode in her mouth. “Slow down,” I tell her, laughing. “I want this to last a wee bit.”
Her shoulders shake as she laughs, her eyes meeting mine, her mouth still full of me.
“Mmmhagargor,” she mumbles, but I can’t make out the words, and that makes me laugh too.
“I want to know what you’re saying, but no bother,” I tell her. “Just get back to it.”
My chest tightens as I feel her mouth around me, my cock hitting the back of her throat, her tits bouncing, moving as she bobs her head.
Who is this magical creature, my own little leprechaun, who showed up out of nowhere? Who is this nymph giving me a blowjob and making me laugh at the same time? I’ve never met a woman who makes me feel like this: bigger than myself.
Truth is, I usually feel damn big on my own. But with Clover’s mouth wrapped around me, sucking me until I’m ready to explode, my heart feels bigger than it ever has before. She has made space for herself inside of me, and she isn’t even trying to.
“Oh, oh yeah,” I groan as she sucks me harder.
Until she sucks me off completely.
My come rushes into her mouth and she looks up at me with those wide eyes, swallowing everything I have to give her.
Her fingers circle around the base of my cock making sure she has been given every drop. When I finish, she pulls away and wipes her lips with her middle finger, catching her breath as she does.
I look at her, cupping her cheek with my hand.
“Thank you, Clover.” It feels weird to say those words because I’ve never said them to a woman for getting me off before. Most of the time, the entire thing is their idea.
But with Clover, it feels different. With Clover, everything feels like she is giving me a gift.
“You know I was just doing it so you would make me some tea, right,” she says smiling, teasing me so easily.
“I know, and I don’t mind being used like that.”
“I don’t mind it either,” she admits as she stands and pulls on her panties, reaching for her bra.
“You have to get dressed so soon?” I ask, tugging up my own jeans, not wanting her to go.
“Actually, I have plans today. I’m not staying in Ireland for long. In fact, I’m leaving as soon as I get the one thing I came for.”
I grin, grabbing the pastry bag and walking to the kitchen. I fill the kettle with water and place it on the burner. “And what were you coming for? Because you came pretty good for me last night.”
She’s still in the bedroom getting dressed, but I hear her laugh.
“I have a tour today with The Lucky Irishman Tour Company.”
Her words cause me to stop in my tracks; she has a tour with me today?
“I came to Ireland to find a rainbow,” she explains. “I know it sounds weird but I was just wanting a change and decided to find a rainbow would be the first step in changing my luck around. But I’ve been here for three weeks and haven’t found one at all. I have a return ticket that I can use anytime I want, but I’m only staying until I find that damn rainbow. Then I need to figure out the rest of my life.”
I root around the cupboard and find some black tea, setting the teabags into mugs. While I wait for the kettle to boil, I consider her words, frowning as I
do.
“You came here for a rainbow? I’m pretty sure they have them back in the States, lassie.”
She comes out of the bedroom now, in jeans and a cream-colored jumper. She’s threading her hair into a braid as she explains, “But here’s the thing––everything was really going to shit at home, and it was kind of like a last-ditch effort to turn my luck around.”
“Things must’ve been going pretty badly if you came all the way to Ireland to find some good luck.”
“They were.” She leans against the kitchen island, pulling open the pastry bag. “I mean, not to get overly personal, but while I’ve always had bad luck, the last month things went from bad to terrible. I caught my then-boyfriend cheating on me––after he lied to me about it for a solid six months. P.S, men who lie are fucking douche canoes I don’t have time for.” She rolls her eyes, huffing, clearly triggered from the memory.
I clench my jaw, trying not to feel like the complete bastard I know I am.
“Anyways,” she continues. “Catching them meant we broke up, which means I lost my apartment. While mourning my new homelessness, I forgot to go to four shifts at work, which means I got fired from the coffee shop. And to top it off, I had a photography show that went terribly wrong. A reviewer said I need more life experience. So, here I am. Gaining life experience. Or at least,” she says with a defeated shrug, “I was trying to.”
“Don’t suppose any black cats were crossing your path as well?” I tease while pouring the boiling water into the mugs.
“It’s not funny,” she tells me, taking the bowl of sugar I offer. She adds two heaping teaspoons to hers and then looks around for some milk. Thinking one step ahead of her, I hand her a jug from the fridge.
“I don’t think you understand. I know you were joking last night about being lucky, but I am the unluckiest. Black cats have been my bread and butter. I’m always stepping under ladders, and constantly breaking mirrors. The things I want are always just barely out of my reach. Like this fucking rainbow.”
“Why a rainbow?”
“The way I’ve been operating hasn’t been working. I needed to do something totally different. Take a crazy risk. Take a chance.”
