SmallTownDuke

by Forbes, Sara

  “What if Clancy is a mass murderer?”

  “Then he’s just lost his plot, his garage, his house, and his livelihood, hasn’t he?” Seamus says with menace that I have to admit is kind of thrilling.

  “That’ll be a consolation if I’m dead.”

  “Yes, it would be,” he says, the menace in his voice deepening. “Gotta go do this so.”

  “Wait—why did you call?” I ask.

  There’s a pause. “Eh, I wanted to know if you fancied a cocktail.”

  I smile through the rain coursing down my cheeks. “Maybe another time?”

  “Got it.”

  Five minutes later, a text with a reg number pops up on my phone. Another five minutes after that, a black BMW with the same reg zooms up to me.

  The driver rolls down the window. “Cliona Stephenson?” he asks.

  I nod.

  “Arthur Clancy. Seamus Callaghan sent me.”

  I nod again and sink into the warm dry car and greet the driver—a mid-thirties man who looks nothing like a mass murderer.

  Now this is real power. I still don’t really understand how Seamus finagled this.

  Before we reach the garage, Deidre calls me to say she left Lorcan at Ellen’s and is already on the bus to Dublin.

  I sink back against the seat.

  “Good news?” asks Clancy affably.

  “Yes,” I say and give an abbreviated version of the story.

  Not only does Arthur Clancy fuel up my car for me—free of charge—he offers me supper with his wife who looks to be about six months pregnant. I politely decline saying I want to get back to my kid. I truly don’t want to impose on them any longer because they have been unspeakably kind.

  They nod knowingly.

  But my kid will be asleep in Ellen’s house. What I’m going to do when I get back is take Seamus up on that cocktail.

  11

  SEAMUS

  I glance at the time. Nine-thirty. Cliona left Clancy’s at eight. She should be getting into Ballytirrel around about now. Should I call her to check? No, that would that be too much. Calling her for the drink was bad enough seeing as she was only just here yesterday. But I want more of that heady feeling that I had when she was sitting at the bar, watching me make her a cocktail.

  I call her anyway. But her phone is dead. So maybe she’s still on the road. Or at home, charging her battery.

  I need to know.

  I’ll take a spin over to her place and check if her car’s there. If it’s not, I’ll swing by the manor because that’s the only other place I can imagine her going.

  I look around reception. Niall went AWOL earlier. I try his number, but he doesn’t pick up after twenty rings. Enda is in Limerick for the night. Why is nobody ever on duty when they’re supposed to be? How did they survive when I wasn’t here?

  Da is upstairs and I know he’s been self-medicating, so I’m not putting him anywhere near the front desk. I don’t want to haul a temp in on short notice, not in this weather. There’s only one thing for it. I take out the dusty sign “Reception Closed. Call this number.” I write my number underneath.

  This isn’t five-star hotel behavior. It isn’t even two-star behavior. If a guest comes along and needs something and is forced to call my cellphone, they’re going to remember that and write up something snippy on the travelers’ websites, complete with a one or two-star review. This will bring down my average to four stars faster than you can say “fallen from grace”.

  But fuck it. Cliona’s been standing on the side of a road in the rain and for all I know, she’s caught a cold. Deirdre has that anatomy exam tomorrow that her future depends on. The Stephenson women could really catch a break tonight and I’m going to be the one to give it to them.

  I storm out the door, into my jeep, and head off down the road toward Cliona’s place.

  The rain pelts down, and even with the wipers going full blast, it’s hard to see. This type of downpour isn’t unusual, but I got out of the habit of being prepared for them. The weather in San Francisco was much more predictable. Here, even the locals can get caught out. People have died in heavy thunderstorms, washed over cliffs, swallowed by the sea.

  Why am I thinking like this?

  I drive up her driveway just in time to see her getting out of her car. She starts then peers through the semi-darkness at me. “Seamus? What are you doing here?”

  “Sorry,” I say walking up to her. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I just wanted to check Clancy didn’t murder you. I would have been responsible if so.”

  She smiles and spreads her arms. “As you can see, still alive.”

  “But wet.”

  She nods.

  “Did Deirdre get off to Dublin OK?”

  “Yes, she did. Thanks to you.”

  “Next time, she should go with Sean Lannigan. He drives up for supplies twice a week.”

  She laughs. “Indeed? That’s good to know.”

  “Um, where’s Lorcan? Didn’t you collect him yet?”

  “He fell asleep over in the manor. I just Ieft him there. He’s bunked up in his old room and very happy according to Ellen.” She sighs wistfully.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Oh, nothing.” She locks her car door. “Thanks for today. That Clancy fellow appeared like magic.”

  “Glad to help. Anytime. Next time, call me.”

  “I wouldn’t like to abuse your good nature and generosity.”

  “You can abuse me any time you want.”

  We lock gazes.

  I look skyward. “Look, it’s clearing up. It’s actually balmy, like a San Francisco night.”

  Her eyes are aglow with curiosity. “What would you do on a San Francisco night?”

  “I’d go for a walk by the piers. I’d pick a pier number and start out from there, just strolling, people watching, seal watching, looking out over the bay, to the bridge, to Alcatraz.”

  “Well, we’ve only got two piers. A small footbridge. And no prison. But we do have seals. Let’s go to the local pier.”

  “Serious?” I ask with more surprise than intended.

  She shrugs. “Look, I never get time off. Lorcan’s asleep and happy. My sister’s safely off in Dublin.”

  I can scarcely breathe, it’s so tempting.

  But my hotel.

  On the other hand, nobody’s rung yet.

  “Yes,” I hear myself saying. “I would love that. Although let’s drive there in case there’s another shower.”

  “In your car then,” she says. “I’m just about fed up of this thing.” She kicks the wheel of her Audi.

  “Careful there,” I say laughing. “Come on, hop in. My fuel tank’s full.”

  She swats me playfully before climbing into my jeep.

  I’m a happy man.

  *

  “Yes, I like walking,” she says when we’re setting out on the west pier. “When I have comfortable shoes.” She smiles down at her sturdy boots. “I always have these with me to put on after client meetings.”

  “I miss the pink bows though,” I say.

  “Huh, you do have a fetish after all.”

  “Only when it’s your feet.”

  She slaps my arm and it feels so good. I’m grinning like a schoolboy.

  A gusty breeze immediately whips at our hair and clothes, pressing the cotton of her shirt against her breasts, mussing up her hair. She looks wild and bewitching, truly like she belongs here on the docks. We’ve reached my spot on the pier. Should I tell her or not? Would it sound like bragging? Then again, maybe it’s time to reveal some of my cards because I may never get the chance again.

  “That’s my boat,” I say nodding down at the Hunter 430.

  “You have a boat?”

  “Bought her when I returned from San Francisco.”

  It’s a beautiful sail boat. Pleasing lines, luxurious details, not flashy, but powerful.

  Cliona chuckles. “I know this’ll probably make me sound like a gold-digger, but you
did pretty well for yourself in San Francisco.”

  I take her hand and spin her around so she’s facing me. I pull her in closer. “If you were a gold-digger wouldn’t you be trying a bit harder to get into my pants?”

  “Seamus Callaghan!” she splutters, pressing her hand against my chest. I grab her and pull her into my arms. It ignites the fire in her eyes.

  “If things were going so well over there, why’d you come back?” she says breathlessly, her chin tilted up, lips trembling, her eyes scanning my face.

  I dip my face closer so that there’s only a few centimeters between us. “It was nice for sure, but it wasn’t home.”

  “So, you’re a home bird?” Her fingers edge tentatively up my arm toward my shoulder, sending my heart into overdrive. “Or are you just going to take off again?”

  “That depends,” I say.

  My gaze travels to her lips. And then I feel my last resistance toppling. I melt. My hands cup around her waist, relishing how small she seems in my hands. I steady her while the wind whips around us. We’ve formed a cocoon of warmth and trust, standing here. As I lean over her I feel strong, like I’m her protector from the big, bad world.

  “Seamus,” she gasps. “Wait…What are we doing?”

  “This,” I say, and I close the final gap between us, capturing her parted lips with my mouth. Her lips are soft and heavenly, and after the first moment of shock and hesitation, she opens for me. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for and It couldn’t be better.

  This feels like coming home. It’s my past, my present, my future, all in one perfect moment. I’m blissing out. And yet, there’s a raging need inside of me dictating my actions, bypassing any semblance of a brain that I ever had.

  Her mouth is warm, supple and hungry—so, so hungry, like she’s waited years for this, and I know how that feels. I spread my fingers over her jaw positioning her before embarking on a whole new kiss that’s greedier and more demanding than before. But she can take it. If her clutches are anything to go by, we’re getting heated at the same rate and we are not going to be able to stand here for much longer.

  Our tongues meet again and we press and dart into each other, communicating what we can’t say in words, because there simply are no words for this.

  She shivers violently.

  I raise my head. My hair is whipping against her face getting entangled with her own. “My boat. Let’s get under deck.”

  She nods. I take her hand and we skitter along the pier until we reach the embarking point for my boat. I climb down the slick, narrow, concrete steps first.

  “Careful, it’s slippery,” I say, holding her arm as she steps down.

  She clutches on tight. “If I fall, we fall together.”

  “You got that right,” I say.

  Now she’s on board, looking around. “Do I get a tour?”

  I press a light kiss to her lips. “Come on, I’ll show you the bottom deck.”

  It’s all my pea-sized brain can think of. I have a fully furnished bedroom below. I lead the way down a tiny staircase to the bedroom with its beautifully fitted bed and portholes either side, with the green water lapping against it. I’ve rarely used it. When I sial alone I tend to dock at night and get a hotel.

  “It’s perfcet.” she gasps.

  When she turns, I steady her in my arms. “No, you’re perfect,” I tilt her chin up and kiss her. She moans and molds herself against me, making me hard in seconds.

  I can’t do this and not want to take things further. That level of self-control is beyond me. My hands itch to explore her body, to pull off that coat, that cardigan, that blouse, that skirt, and get to the skin.

  “I want this, but do you?” I ask her.

  “Hey.” She yanks my blazer lapels, drawing me closer to her face. “Whose idea was it to come here? Mine.”

  “Good point.”

  I kiss her again but his time my hands are free. I tunnel between the layers of wool coat, soft cashmere cardigan until…heaven…her smooth, warm skin. She gasps as I caress with my fingertips across her midriff, down into the hem of her skirt, around her hips.

  Her mouth is biting into mine as we fumble frantically with buttons and clasps. She’s as deperate as I am. I undo her blouse, unhook her bra. She unbuttons my blazer and shirt. We fling these garments to the ground and I take her by her naked waist and pull her down on top of me on the bed.

  She shimmers in the moonlight drifting in the porthole window. The blueish light falling on her breasts creates nature’s most glorious shapes, designed to drive a man mad. I’s all too good. I don’t know where I want to start. My heart’s about to burst. Another part of me, too.

  Then, hiking her skirt up, she straddles me, pressing her hands down on my shoulders, kissing me. I let her enjoy the dominant position for as long as it lasts because it’s not going to be long. The gentle bobbng of the boat under us causes her breasts to swing toward my face. She teases me by leaning even close.

  I slide my hands under her hiked up shirt, take a firm grip of her hips and flip her over so she’s under me. She lets out a squeal.

  “I could look at you all night like this.” I say to her flushed, upturned face. I unbutton the top button of her skirt. “But I have other things to do.” I tug at the second button. I’s ne of those skirts that looks demure from far away but which unbuttons completely in the front.

  She lays her hand gently on my feverish fingers. “By the way, I have no condoms.”

  I smile to quench the anguish in her tone. “Me neither. We’ll improvise.”

  Right now, I just want to see her come undone for me, to gasp my name, to finally let go. I want to see her fireworks explode.

  Once the damn buttons are open, I peel the skirt away from her thighs, revealing her white lace panties. I trace their decorative edges, down to the apex, loving how she bucks her hips in the air at my slightest touch against her most sensitive area. I’m also loving how soaking wet she is for me.

  Her head bashes from side to side against he pillows when I press on her mound with three fingers, rubbing over and back. She grips the duvet cover tightly in her fists. This is a woman who needs to be released from her prison before we can go any further.

  I watch, fascinated, as I pull down the knickers over her quivering thighs, down, down over her knees to the point where I can whip them off. She’s got a smattering of dark blond hair covering her most intimate zone and I like that. Begone the porn craze of baldness, it’s not for me.

  I place my fingers back where they were, only this time, I locate the edge of her clit, stroking with featherlight touches. Her body tenses up when I touch the magic spot and a yelp escapes her.

  “It’s OK, Cliona,” I whisper. “I’ll take care of you.” I gently push away her hand that flew in for self-protection. I grab her other hand hovering nearby and pin down both by her side.

  Then I do nothing, just watching her chest rise and fall, her breasts stiffen tautly, nipples pink and hard. I’m savoring this moment.

  She cranes her neck, looking down her body, at what I’m doing. Then she flops her head back and bucks her hips toward me. It’s surrender. She wants it. But I want to hear it from her lips. Her body wants it, but does her mind?

  “What do you want, Cliona?” I ask.

  Our gazes lock. Her eyes are huge, glassy, vulnerable…and aroused.

  “I want…you,” she says. The truth rings out in her determined, almost angry, tone. “I don’t care. I want you. I want this.”

  “Well, you got me.” I lower my head and plant a kiss on the gentle curve of her abdomen. She goes very still. Then I press her knees wider apart and make a slow trail with my tongue from her bikini line to her pussy lips, sliding along the edges with the tip of my tongue, millimeter by millimeter. Along the way, I press into her velvety skin, and caress, seeing what makes her clench.

  It’s so quiet here in the boat, so intimate, as if we’re the only two people in the world. Her rapid breaths fill the
cozy space. Every nuance conveys to me exactly how she likes it, and precisely what she wants more of. I obey the signals, tracing the folds of her labia, tasting her creamy wetness, laving her with my tongue.

  Then I make my tongue hard and I probe her clit, softly, then pressing with intensity. She lets out a little “oh” sound every time I dart in. It drives me wild, imagining what noises my cock would wrench from her pretty mouth. I begin to thrust as if it were my cock. She starts to tremble. Her hands grapple at the base of my neck, at my hair, and she digs her nails in, which are luckily blunt.

  My whole universe homes in on the desire to make her come. It feels like this was what I was born to do.

  She whimpers and relinquishes her death grip on my neck, flopping her hands either side of her as she bucks up and down with her hips. The bed squeaks and the boat seems to be rocking even more than its usual gentle bobbing.

  She’s thrashing against the mattress. I take her hips and pin her down so she can’t move. Then I resume sucking her clit and plunging in with my tongue, as deep as I can into her hot, pulsating core.

  “Oh Christ,” she wails as she seeks her release. I feel the power in her legs and butt straining against my grasp. Her chin jerks back and then her body lifts in a final stiff arc as the orgasm courses through her. I feel that glorious tightening of all her muscles. The moment lasts for at least twenty seconds and then she lets out a grunt, flops down and seeks me with woozy eyes.

  “Holy crap.”

  “Yeah,” I say laughing. “You were amazing”

  “I didn’t do anything” she scolds. “It was all you.”

  “You did,” I say. “You trusted me. You let go. You said to hell with everything. That wasn’t easy. Don’t argue the point, because I know otherwise.”

  She eyelids droop to half open and she smiles. “Oh, you know what? I’m done with caring. All I’ve done for seven years is cared and cared and cared. Everyone thinks the worst of me anyway.”

  A shiver of cold hits me. “Is being with me so bad for your reputation?” I ask. I can’t help the edge of bitterness that creeps into my tone.