Page 18 of Irish Fire and Forbidden Love
She called my name, her voice breaking with need, and I felt an overwhelming wave of connection. I was hers in a way that was indescribable, irrevocable. Her moans reached a crescendo, her body shuddering as she gave herself over to the sensations. I held her tightly as she convulsed around me, the heat and pressure sending me spiraling toward my own climax.
When it came, it was like a dam breaking, a flood of pleasure that left me breathless and spent. I buried myself in her, my body trembling with the force of it, as if the very foundation of my existence had shifted. She held me close, her hands tracing lazy patterns along my back, her breath mingling with mine in the stillness that followed.
Her gaze met mine then. There was something in them— a vulnerability, a depth of emotion that made my chest ache. It wasn’t just desire. It was something more, something I wasn’t sure either of us could name.
Her voice was a whisper, a thread of sound that pulled me from my reverie. “Earlier, when you left, I tried to find you, but you were gone.”
“I’m here now,” I said, though my memories were a haze. Flashes of a ripped shirt, a missing wallet, and shadows that refused to solidify into clarity flickered in my mind.
“You left me,” she said again, her tone softer, more distant. The warmth of her body began to fade, the room darkening around me. Panic surged as I clawed at the cushions, at Maeve, desperate to anchor myself to her, to this reality.
“I’m back now!” I cried, but she was gone.
The world dissolved into blackness, the softness of her couch replaced by the cold, hard earth. I coughed, shivering as the chill seeped into my bones. My head throbbed, and when I opened my eyes, I found myself lying in a desolate field. The sun wasgone, replaced by a big blue moon, and the faint rustle of wind through the grass was the only sound.
I was naked, save for my white boxer briefs, my body trembling as fragments of memory surged forward.
The boy.
The men.
My wallet.
Maeve. She had never let me back into her home, had she? For all she knew, I was still wandering the streets, talking to my brother about her pub.
My phone. I scrambled to my feet, scanning the field for any sign of it, of anything. But there was nothing— no phone, no belongings.
There was a light in the near distance, a light at the end of my tunnel. It belonged to a house, possibly the farmer who owned this land.
I stood on shaking legs, realizing just how bad my headache really was in that moment, how it pummeled my temples, making it difficult to see. I used to have migraines often as a kid, ones that broke me to the ground and forced me to sleep the pain away. While every part of me screamed to sleep, maybe even sleep right there on that cold soft dirt, I knew I had to get up. I had to get back to the city and tell Maeve how much she means to me. I’d lay everything down at her feet, including a vision of how we could save her pub without getting me or my family financially involved.
But my movements were pained at best. At worst, they were limping. Forcing me to cradle my head so I could focus on the path forward, reminding myself that it was just a little longer. That my steps were just that much closer to an end.
I leaned against the door frame, breathing deep, ragged breaths. When I found my bearings, I knocked on the door, threehard thumps against the wood, then after a moment of silence from inside, landed a fourth.
Not much longer after, a short man with a long white mustache answered the door. His beady eyes looked me up from head-to-toe, then he sighed. “I thought they were done with this stuff. Come on inside. I don’t reckon God’d forgive me for leaving you to die out in them fields tonight. The name’s Ian.”
“Rory,” I said.
“Pleasure,” he said, then muttered something else under his breath. He stepped to the right, allowing me access into his humble kitchen and living room combo.
There was a telephone on the counter. I could call the Anchoring Pig and ask for her. Maybe she’d even answer, lulled into the false security of the Irish phone number.
You’d be lucky to get more than a single word in, I reminded myself. But maybe if I left a message with Eliza, Maeve would be more apt to listen.
The Irishman interrupted my thoughts, “The bathroom’s on the right. Go on now, get yourself cleaned up, an’ I’ll find you something to wear.”
I thanked him, but I didn’t move immediately. My eyes had turned back to the phone. Back to the possibility that never would be possible. Then I noticed a clock. It was six p.m. But that would have meant I’d been knocked out for half the day. Had it really been that long?
“Waiting for a guided tour?” came Ian.
I shook my head. “Just surprised by the time.”
Maeve would be opening up her pub now if it wasn’t already. Tonight was open mic, but it was also the night that Frank was supposed to have landed. He was probably already in the area.
“Listen—” I started.
“We’re in Cork.” He watched my expression change, then said, “Yes, I’ll take you back, but you owe me a pint.”
