by Gage Grayson
The more I think about it, the worse it gets.
“Come on, Killian. You can do this. You’re Killian fucking Walsh. You’re one of the greats. No, the greatest. Better than Oscar Wilde or James Joyce or Bono. You can write circles around them.”
Maybe I’ve gone and finally lost it. Here I am, walking around my cottage and talking to myself like an idiot.
While sober.
I stop pacing.
I turn toward my cupboard. I know what I have hidden there.
Even without seeing it, I can hear it like a siren’s call.
It’s like the most seductive woman you’ve ever known beckoning you to lay with her—to lose yourself in her warmth and loving embrace.
I don’t even realize that I’ve given in until I’m opening the cupboard and looking at the bottle of unopened Jameson.
I reach out with hunger. My fingers wrap around the neck of the bottle as if I’m taking my lover by the hand.
I grab a glass with the other and put them both down on the counter before me.
The pale-gold nectar of the gods calls out to me.
A voice in the back of my mind speaks to me from the depths of my subconscious and tells me to give in.
I’ve gone the day without drinking a drop. I’ve been telling myself over and over that it’s just another distraction. Another complication.
I crack open the bottle.
That soft barrel char, sweet barley, and cereal smell—Lucky Charms, I think—fills my nose.
It’s as soothing as slipping into a hot bath after a long day of working in the field.
I’m about halfway to filling my glass when I stop. I can feel that lump in my throat from earlier in the morning. That ball of fucking darkness.
It’s not even the good kind that fuels your writing. Not mine, anyway.
I peer into the amber libation as it sits in the glass. It’s calm and still like the lake sitting under a full moon. It’s the opposite of my own state of being.
I feel like a storm raging over the Atlantic. Wild, uncontrollable, and without direction.
Slowly, I set the bottle down.
My hand comes to my face. My thumb and middle finger rest against my temples. My eyes are closed.
For once, I’m greeted by the black void and not the sight of her looking back at me.
What are you doing, Killian?
My hand moves from my face to push the bottle away from me.
I look at the half-filled glass, and I pour the contents down the sink.
You know an Irishman is having issues when he pours perfectly good whiskey down the fucking sink.
A clap of thunder rings overhead. A flash of lightning strikes the sky. Mother Nature is rather dramatically poetic in her timing, I’ll give her that.
I remind myself that I don’t want any complications or distractions...that I don’t want her. But if only that made it true.
I leave my kitchen for the bathroom. I run some warm water into the sink and splash it against my face.
I look up into the mirror at my freshly shaven face, and soon I’m looking myself in the eyes. Droplets of water slide down upon my flesh unhindered into the sink below to regroup with the rushing water from which they came.
“What the fuck are you doing, Killian?”
I wait for my reflection to answer. I almost wish it would so that I would know what I’m doing.
“Get your shite together, boyo.”
Still no response.
I shut off the water and grab my hand towel to pat my face dry.
I don’t want her. I don’t.
All I’m feeling is just the whiskey talking. It’s all just bullshit complications.
I lie to myself again because that’s what I always do.
I tell myself that I’m better off alone. I tell myself that I’d only end up disappointing anyone who’d be with me—not that anyone would fucking want to because I don’t fucking deserve it!
It’s how I cope.
But it’s not helping. Not anymore.
It’s not easy for me to demonstrate what a big honking deal that is.
For as long as I can remember, when I was at my lowest, angriest, saddest, or even at my most fucking disillusioned, all I had to do was call myself a fucking piece of shite that doesn’t deserve anything good.
It’s because it was comforting.
It’s what I was used to.
It was probably the first thing that was ever said to me, and it was fucking said repeatedly.
It was comforting—because I believed it.
Part of me did—a large part of me. Maybe all of me.
But right now, it’s not working. For the first time in a long fucking time, the thought does nothing for me.
I feel like I don’t have the time to wallow in how much of a piece of shite I think I am. And that’s fucking new. But I don’t even have time to consider that.
There’s only one thing I feel like I have time for, and every second I wait is a second I’m fucking wasting. It’s been most of my life so far—a lot of fucking seconds.
I can’t afford another hour, another minute...
The only reason I can afford another second is because it’ll take me a few to get over there.
I can’t just let this all come to end like before. I refuse to let the only good thing I’ve known slip through my fingers.
“Not again.”
38
Rebecca
Rain clinks against the glass windows of the cottage. Muted, yet loud.
It’s still appropriately dark and miserable outside.
Trying to brighten my mood, I stare at the flower painting hanging to the left of a window. It’s simple in form, complex in tone. A bouquet of reds, yellows, whites, and oranges.
Dissimilar colors jumbled together, like everything I’ve gone through over the past few days.
There’s no way of knowing which color is going to come next or when it’s going to come next. You could argue that means there’s no point in stressing about it.
A sharp knock on the front door resonates through the cottage.
Who the hell would be out in this weather?
I shake my head on my way over to the front door, which creaks as I swing it open.
It’s Killian.
He’s absolutely drenched, his black turtleneck and charcoal grey suit jacket all soaked.
He grips a vase of flowers in both of his hands. The flowers are gorgeous. Drops of rain sprinkle on the petals and fall to the ground in Miniature Rivers.
“Killian? What are you doing here?”
“I’m sorry. So sorry, Rebecca. I’ve been a fucking asshole. I’ve been a huge asshole. Please let me explain why.”
I step aside after a pregnant second.
“You want to explain inside where you won’t keep getting soaked?” I ask.
“Yes, please,” he says with a chuckle.
Killian walks past me and I close the door. I lean back against it, feeling the cold wood through the wool sweater I’m wearing. Arms crossed over my chest, I wait for him to explain.
We stand in the entry way in complete silence.
“Okay. Here it goes,” Killian starts. “I’ve had a rivalry with Brian for years now. A few years back, when I thought I was in love with the woman I had been seeing for a while, she told me she was in love with Brian, not me. I was devastated. Now I know that relationship wouldn’t have worked because we were both complete messes—emotionally and mentally. I’m still a mess, but I’m trying to fix that. I want to be a better man, and I want to be a better man because of you, Rebecca.”
I don’t say anything. I don’t want to interrupt him. Actually, I want to find the dumbass woman who broke his heart.
Who the hell would leave Killian? Brian is not without his charms, but no one compares to Killian.
Maybe I’m just biased.
“That’s why I acted like such an ass. I saw you laughing and smiling with Brian, and he was too cl
ose to you for my liking, love. All the resentment and jealousy I have for him reared its head, and I took it out on you.”
“Killian, I wasn’t giving Brian any ideas that I was interested in him. I was just being polite,” I whisper.
“I know. I know. I’m not implying you led him on or anything. It was my own issues that caused the problem—and that’s my problem, not yours. You’re damn perfect, Rebecca, and I want to be a better man for you. Even though we’ve only known each other for a short time, you’ve been the best thing to ever come into my life and the brightest ray of sunshine I’ve ever seen.”
Killian starts to sound desperate by the end. His eyes are on me. Intent.
“Rebecca, I don’t want what we have to be over—all because of my own bullshit,” he states.
My eyes start to tear up. No man has ever made me feel the way Killian does. No man has ever told me the things he had just expressed.
Damn emotions. Is it too early to blame the hormones? I’ve heard they can be a bitch.
I blink the moisture away and take a deep breath.
“I don’t want this to be over either, Killian,” I whisper. “Even if I wasn’t pregnant, I wouldn’t want what we have to be over.”
Killian goes still as a statue. Shock covers his face. The vase of flowers he’s holding drops to the floor like a spent bullet, and glass shatters in every direction.
Water splashes onto my feet. Flowers spread out on the floor. Some land on top of Killian’s shoes.
I can’t tell if he’s experiencing good shock or bad shock at the moment.
Telling him right now wasn’t the plan. It just slipped out.
Damn pregnancy hormones again. I don’t care if it’s too early to use that excuse.
I’m pregnant. I can do whatever I want.
I don’t say anything else. It’s like dealing with a scared animal; don’t move, don’t say anything or else you’ll scare it even more. It just needs a minute to assess the situation and make a decision on how to act.
“I love you,” he suddenly blurts out.
Now it’s my turn to stare silently in shock.
I didn’t expect him to say that.
I told him the truth about not wanting to end this, but I didn’t imagine he would fall in love with me.
I hoped for it. I just hadn’t been thinking about it.
This man is everything to me—and since he showed up at my front door, I’m starting to realize the same is true for him. I’m everything for him, and he loves me.
Killian doesn’t wait long for me to let his statement sink in.
“I know it may be hard for you to believe, but I’m sure of it. I’ve never been surer of anything in my life, Rebecca. I love you. I’ve never felt this way about anybody. Never loved anyone as much as I love you. No one holds a candle to you.”
He’s rambling now. Doesn’t he realize I feel the same way?
Did I realize that?
Killian is still talking.
“Did I say I was sure of this? Of us? Because I’ve never been surer of anything in my goddamn life. I love—”
“I love you, too,” I blurt out, interrupting him. “I’m in love with you, Killian. You’re the best thing that has ever happened to me, too. What we have between us—I don’t want it to end. I don’t want to lose you and your love. And I want you in my life. In our baby’s life.”
Killian slowly starts to smile with each statement I make. By the end, he has a shit-eating grin on his face.
Suddenly, he’s rushing toward me, the pieces of glass crunching under his shoes.
I pull myself away from the front door I’m still leaning against and meet him halfway.
My arms go around his neck, and I bury my face into his chest.
Killian wraps his arms around my waist and squeezes me close.
It feels amazing to be in his arms. I don’t even care if he’s getting my clothes wet.
He twirls us around, and I laugh.
We stop moving, then look deeply into each other’s eyes. Our lips crash against each other’s.
Groans come out from both of us.
God, I missed him.
Our tongues battle for control.
Killian softens the kiss. His teeth nip my bottom lip playfully, then our foreheads touch.
“I love you, Rebecca.”
“I love you, too,” I whisper and smile. “Take me to bed now.”
“I need to dry off first,” he replies.
“No, you don’t. You just need to get these damn clothes off.”
He looks at me with a cocky grin.
“Clothes off. Got it,” he growls. “I’m about to make you as wet as I am.”
I stand on my tiptoes and bring my mouth to his ear.
“I already am,” I whisper. “If you’d hurry up in getting me to bed and getting into my pants, you’d know this.”
“Goddamn, Rebecca,” he growls.
Laughter fills the cottage as we rush into the bedroom.
39
Rebecca
We’re still laughing like teenagers on prom night when we stumble into the bedroom.
I peel his wet jacket from his shoulders and let it drop to the floor as our lips fasten together tightly in a kiss that feels like it may never end—nor should it.
The back of my knees hit the bed, and before I know it, I’m pulled from his lips by gravity.
I bounce gently against the mattress and sit up. I look at Killian—the man I can now fucking admit means everything to me—with a smile.
And he’s so fucking hot. I can say that now. To myself, and out loud.
“Holy fuck, Killian. You’re so fucking hot it’s making me so fucking hot.”
“That’s because you’re so fucking hot already, love.”
“Oh god, I want you to fuck me—and hurry up, I can’t wait!”
“Oh, I’m fucking trying. Believe me, you implausibly sexy fucking vixen.”
He lifts his turtleneck up from his body and I savor the sight. His body glistens from the rain that soaked through his shirt.
I start to slide down my leggings and get them down to my knees before I feel him grab my legs and lift them up off the floor.
He kneels before me, and I can feel his lips against the back of my legs.
I bite my lower lip as I feel his kisses moving lower and lower.
I inhale sharply when I feel his lips kissing me through my wet panties.
I wasn’t exaggerating in the least when I told him I was already as wet as he had been from being out in the rain.
I can feel the tip of his tongue sliding between my wet lips through the black satin fabric.
It’s not the first time I’ve felt him between my thighs, but this time, it feels far more intense. It’s almost as if I’m experiencing him for the first time.
And maybe I am. Maybe this is the first time that I’ll have the real Killian—all of him.
Maybe this is the time for both of us to stop any pretense of holding back and just tear down the fucking walls for each other.
His tongue reaches my clit and flicks it.
My head tilts back, and hoarse, almost feral moans escape my lips.
The feeling of the wet satin and the pressure of his stiff tongue sends a quick jolt down my spine that makes my legs shudder in his grip.
He feels so fucking good, and he knows just how to get a rise out of me—which he should by now, after this week.
“Tease,” I whisper through a long exhale.
“Your point, lass?”
I feel his lips wrap around my clit, and he sucks on it forcibly.
That bolt of lightning strikes again.
I bite down on my lip after an even wilder moan.
I’ve forgotten what my point was—or if I even had one, to begin with.
I’m released from the embrace of his lips.
I almost whimper in impatience, but his lips and tongue are quickly replaced with his thumb massaging my clit instead aga
inst the black fabric.
His tongue instead pushes itself into me on the other side.
My breath catches in my chest as I lick my lips.
It’s fucking torture what he’s doing. But it’s an unbelievably fucking amazing torture that may end up making my brain melt and evaporate in a haze of anticipated pleasure.
My hips begin to move on their own accord, grinding into his tongue and thumb.
At the rate he’s going, I might come a hundred fucking times just from his teasing.
As I’m finally adjusting into Killian’s vastly pleasing groove, I’m hit with this new sensation. I barely register my wet panties being pulled to the side by his prying fingers when I feel his moist lips against my bare pussy.
He kisses up until I feel them against my swollen clit, and then he takes it into his mouth and suckles.
I fall back against the bed. My hands grab fistfuls of the blanket, and a loud groan leaves my lips to fill the room.
His fingers graze my wet flesh in a playful, tantalizing fashion—which seems to be his thing right now—for what feels like forever. Then, they slip inside me where they belong.
My eyes roll into the back of head.
Every muscle and fiber of my body tightens.
I don’t even recognize the noise that comes from my lips as I feel this explosion in my core that courses through my body.
The orgasm’s been building, but the immense force of it hits me from out of nowhere.
The intensity and power are unprecedented for me—I’ve never even fucking imagined anything could feel this way.
My knuckles turn white as I cling to the blankets like they’re my anchor to the mortal plane.
My body loosens, and my thighs tremble in his hands. To his credit, he holds them firm against the uncontrollable writhing.
Fuck, this man is amazing.
“Get your fucking clothes off now,” I almost growl my order at him.
“Anxious are we, lass?”
He laughs, and it almost makes me smile—but there’s just a bit too much of the wild beast possessing me at the moment.
I sit up and take Killian’s face in my hands.
Our lips meet, and it starts a wildfire of want and passion that could burn the world to cinders.
