“Don’t do it!” she hollers against the rain and wind.
I slowly paint her face with mud. Her neck, her chest. My fingers move under the bikini top and with my mud caked fingers I play with her nipples.
“You bastard!” she says at first, trying to kick her legs. But it only takes one of my thighs to stop that.
Her protest weakens as her nipples respond. I feel her grind and let her roll on top of me. I’m no fool. Now her sweet wet pussy is right atop my dick. That thin strip of fabric barely hides anything. I pull it back and look at her for the first time.
“How beautiful. Like a flower blooming in the mud,” I call, running my finger over her lips.
I know she can’t hear me, but her hand cups mine and she presses it against her.
“I’m wet,” she mouths.
There are rain drops dripping from her hair and face and really every part of her. But I’m certain that’s not what she’s talking about.
I take ahold of her arms. “Let’s quit fucking around. I need to be inside you,” I say loud enough for her to hear.
We’ve been in this room for two days. Or has it been two hours? No maid service, only food, sleep and conversation interrupted our lovemaking. Even before my dick found its home in her tight pussy I was lost. Once I had a taste of her I was a goner.
I’ve come to the conclusion that double beds are greatly underrated. Also narrow nondescript showers and windowless boxy rooms with generic bedding. And worn carpets. They’re right for making love on when you break the bed frame. We laid the blanket and pillows down and it’s made a fine bed.
Something has happened to me in the last forty-eight hours. It’s the greatest surprise of my life and without a doubt the most frightening one too.
What if she doesn’t feel the same?
Her greatest joy is her independence. What if that requires I let her go?
And as I lay here watching her sleep it strikes me how little I know about the woman. I can’t even guess how she’d react if I have the balls to tell her how I feel.
I thought I knew myself. I’m logical and not one to make quick decisions. And yet I can’t deny what has happened is unforgettable. It’s indelibly written in my soul. But I won’t say the words that push to be heard.
Not yet.
Not even to myself.
Awake for an hour, I’ve been going over the pros and cons. Just like I’ve done my entire life. Every big decision has been weighed, because I’m not a spur of the moment, fly by the seat of my pants man. Life is too important to be taken lightly. But my chance is now. I may not get another.
My list. So far I have twelve pros and one con. And that one is in some ways a pro. She likes being alone. I do too. But it may be a stronger pull for Zarah. She didn’t marry, rarely travels with companions, never yearned for children. Are those choices written in stone? Or are they all because she hasn’t met the right man? Is it me?
She stirs and the sight of her stretching stops the tape playing in my head.
“Good morning, handsome,” she says with the sleepy voice I’m already addicted to.
“It’s not a good morning at all,” I answer, kissing the top of her head.
“I know.”
“Do we have to leave our nest so soon? Is it an absolute necessity you fly back tonight?”
She buries her face against my chest.
“Stay. I don’t want you to go,” I murmur.
She doesn’t say no or yes. She’s thinking.
“You should be with me at the wedding. These people are special in my life. Giovanni and Claudia. Come with me please.”
The corners of her mouth lift in a little smile. I give it my best shot.
“Plus it’s in the Tuscany countryside. The wedding is at their farmhouse. There are beautiful gardens and there’s going to be wonderful music and dancing. They’re the most interesting couple,” I say tracing the shape of her shoulder with my fingers. “Deeply in love at seventy years old. They met in their twenties, but life interrupted their love story. They got another chance though.”
“Must have been their destiny.” She sighs.
“You’ll come with me then?”
She lifts her head and gazes in my eyes. “To paraphrase a line from one of my favorite films, you had me at stay.”
5
Zarah
“You play the violin? I want to hear,” I say trailing my fingers over the top of his hand.
“Not anymore. I’m pretty sure Giovanni’s ears bled the two years he was giving me lessons.”
Driving through the green hills of Tuscany has been awesome. I wouldn’t be surprised if heaven turned out looking like this. I’d be okay with that. As long as I could have the same company.
The last half hour has been a tangle of turns. We’re going further from the main road as the Ferrari winds up a particularly riotous hill. Everywhere giant sunflowers put on a show, lifting to the sun.
“This is it,” Fig says turning onto the gravel road that leads us through two rows of tall skinny cypress trees.
I can tell he’s excited to see his friends. When he talked about Giovanni and how close they’ve been for twenty-five years, it was touching. He spoke of the constant support and interest he felt from the man who taught him the violin. That turned into a real friendship when Fig became a man.
“How old were you when you took lessons?”
He pauses for a few moments then nods his chin. “I think about nine or ten. Look, Zarah!”
Up ahead, nestled in the hillside, sits the sixteenth-century farmhouse. It’s like a setting from a movie. Some sort of enchanted dwelling.
As we edge up to the front yard, I see the surrounding silvery olive grove.
“This is magical,” I say leaning forward to get a better look.
“I knew you’d find the beauty,” he says softly.
He leans over and I get a kiss. And with it an intense look, like he’s just realized a great truth.
“What?” I say low.
He snaps out of whatever is holding his attention. With a kind of embarrassment. It’s as if I witnessed something I wasn’t supposed to.
“No, nothing, nothing. This place! It’s fantastico.”
He says the words, but I know something powerful just happened. Or is it only wishful thinking on my part? I follow his lead, turn away, and try to distract myself from my own thoughts. Because they’re starting to build into a truth I’m not going to be able to ignore much longer. I want him in my life. Permanently.
Anchoring the side of the house is a lush wisteria-draped pergola that runs from corner to corner. And the wide, uncovered, stone floored terrace. A farmhouse dining table, chairs and ottomans await visitors. I imagine unhurried meals spent enjoying good wine and even better friends.
“Oh! There they are!” Fig says bringing the car to a stop, silencing the crackle of gravel under the tires.
Our hosts are coming to greet us, and I hear their muffled voices. One’s in Italian, the other in English … both talking at once. What a stunning couple. They make seventy seem doable. Like there’s nothing to fear.
His skin is bronzed from the sun, and a movie star smile and straight white teeth brighten his face. The fact he wears stacked bracelets on one wrist and rolled-up sleeves on his loose white shirt makes him look very cool. The woman is exotically attractive. Wearing a long flowing print dress and earrings that brush her shoulders like a chic hippie. Lovely gray hair falls in waves down her back. They hold hands.
Fig shuts off the engine and we climb out to the open arms of Giovanni and Claudia.
“Figaro!”
Giovanni greets his friend with glistening eyes. And when I glance at Fig, his are shimmering with tears too.
“You’re the first ones here!” Claudia says.
The two men hug and kiss each other’s cheek with ease. They don’t let go quickly. There’s none of the embarrassment of affection I see so often in other cultures, including my own.
>
Fig turns and holds out his hand to me as I walk around the car and join them.
“And who is this beautiful girl?” Giovanni says, eyes twinkling.
Fig beams. “This is Zarah…. Zarah I’d like you to meet my dear friends Giovanni and Claudia. The happy bride and groom.”
“We’re glad you’ll be joining us, Zarah! It’s just wonderful!” Claudia says enfolding me in an embrace.
She smells like an exotic flower.
“Thank you. Your property is stunning.”
Giovanni reaches for me. “Don’t forget Giovanni. I want a hug too.”
“Welcome to Nido d’Amorre. You know what that translates to?”
“I’m afraid my Italian isn’t very good. But I did get the Love part.”
“The Love Nest. Maybe it will be that for you.”
Fig and I exchange glances. He’s nibbling on his bottom lip and I’m grinning like an embarrassed schoolgirl.
We’re a small group, maybe twenty-five. The stars shine brightly in the black sky, and an atmosphere of love hangs heavy in the air. To be among such happy people for two days has been a gift. Everyone here is sharing in the joy of the union that just took place under the full moon, next to the wisteria-draped pergola.
Now we sit at the long farmhouse table enjoying the last of an indescribable Italian feast, and one of many glasses of champagne.
Giovanni plays the final notes of the violin solo he performed for his bride. There’s not a dry eye as the applause and whistles sound. All the feeling he has for her was said in one heartfelt instrumental. They embrace.
Setting down his instrument, our attention is pulled by the clinking of Claudia’s knife on her champagne flute as she stands and looks in the eyes of her beloved.
“My love. I want to tell our story to our dearest friends.” She turns to the guests. “For those who don’t know, Giovanni and I first met in nineteen sixty-seven. I was an eighteen-year-old tourist backpacking through Italy. He was a twenty-one-year-old violinist working on the score to Fellini’s “Romeo and Juliet” in a studio in Rome.”
The guests are smiling, and Fig just squeezed my hand when he gazed at my face.
“We met in a café and within a couple of days we fell in love. True love. We were inseparable for the three weeks. Although we spent our time mostly in bed!” Everyone chuckles. “I’m certain it was love even then. But we were young, and in the eternal city where fairy tales happen regularly. He wanted me to stay. I doubted my own heart. After all, I had just begun my life plan. I’d travel the world while I was young. It would be glorious.”
She pauses and looks to her left and right, into the faces of the guests.
“And it was. I got my dream. I saw the world. But all along the way, I thought of what I had left behind.”
She takes Giovanni’s chin in her hand.
“What I didn’t know then, and for many years after, was all along the world existed right here.”
Giovanni kisses her hand, and tears shine in both their eyes.
“So I raise my glass to you, my darling. Knowing never again will I travel any other world.”
Giovanni stands and takes her in a tight embrace. My hand covers my mouth and the sobs that want to escape. Fig is wiping tears from his cheeks. We’re not alone.
“I have just one thing to say,” Giovanni announces. He looks into his bride’s eyes. “We’re together. I forget the rest,” he says waving the very idea away.
They kiss. Whistles and applause. The music starts.
Four hours later, Fig and I are still dancing. But now we’re alone under the stars and it’s a new day. The guests have trickled away; the bride and groom have gone to their marriage bed. Mostly we sway, holding tightly to each other. My head rests on his chest, and he’s holding my right hand over his heart. Funny how every song tonight was about us. This one, ll Volo’s, “I Can’t Help Falling In Love”, especially.
His lips touch the shell of my ear. “Some things are meant to be,” he whispers.
My heart skips a beat with the thought he may be feeling what I am. I look into his eyes.
“I believe that too.”
Our dancing slows to a stop. But in its place I feel like every cell in my body is being reborn.
“I love you,” he says clear and certain.
This moment. This is the one I’d choose to relive over and over if ever a god asks.
And then I say the truest thing I’ve ever said. “I love you too, Fig. I do without a doubt.”
His expression reflects mine. Pure untethered joy. And with it comes happy tears.
“You’ve made a believer of me. It’s you. Now I know it always has been,” he says.
Nestling my face against his chest, I kiss the place over his heart. I feel his strong hands on my shoulders. Then he lifts my chin and looks into my eyes.
“Beautiful girl with the silver hair, I want to go with you on the greatest adventure of our lives. Will you marry me, Zarah?”
My body is tingling. My face feels the flush rise. And my heart. My heart.
I lift my arms around his neck and thread my fingers through his hair. Right before I kiss him, I smile.
“Yes. A thousand times yes. I guess I always wanted you to do that.”
* * *
The End
Untitled
Want to see more of these characters? You can find them here:
Sexceptional
About the Author
Leslie Pike lives in Orange County, California, with her husband Don, and their Pom-Poo, Mr. Big. Before writing her first novel, Leslie worked as a screenwriter on episodic television. She’s traveled the world with her Stuntman/Stunt Coordinator/Second Unit Director husband. They’ve been on movie sets from Africa to Israel, from New York to Los Angeles. Some of Leslie’s favorite things include calligraphy, long walks with her friends and afternoons at the movies.
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Catching Irish
An excerpt
By New York Times Bestselling author
Katy Regnery
The Summerhaven Trio
Fighting Irish
Smiling Irish
Loving Irish
Catching Irish
* * *
Amazon * Apple * Barnes & Noble * Kobo
____________________
CATCHING IRISH
(excerpt)
Copyright © 2018 by Katharine Gilliam Regnery
Permission is given to Adriana Locke to publish this excerpt in her free anthology, available at freeromancecollections.com from June 15, 2018 through August 15, 2018.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever, except by Adriana Locke.
Please visit my website at www.katyregnery.com
Full First Edition: forthcoming, August 20, 2018
Katy Regnery
CATCHING IRISH: a novella / 10K excerpt / by Katy Regnery
Cover created by Marianne Nowicki
ISBN: 978-1-944810-31-3
____________________
Created with Vellum
1
Table of Contents
2
Tate Jennings wasn’t looking for love.
For romance? Sure.
For a weekend fling? Yes, please.
But love? Blech. No. No, thank you.
Which sort of sucked because love had a hard-on for Tate.
For as long as she could remember, men had declared their undying devotion for her in that very specific, very dreaded three-word combination. And for as long as Tate could remember, it had made her blood run cold to hear it.
Take for instances, Donald “Duc
k” Taylor, who, in the fourth grade, had surprised her at recess with a bouquet of dandelions and his promise to love her “until dead.” Tate took that as her cue to play ‘possum. She collapsed to the ground and pretended she was dead so Duck’s love would find a quick end.
In ninth grade, she recalled a sad episode starring Theodore “Tugboat” Musser, who’d asked her to the Homecoming dance by decorating a poster heart-shaped board with the words, “I love you, Tate! I will…Will you?” He’d stood on top of the cafeteria table beside hers, staring down at her, his eyes wide and eager, his smile uncomfortably hopeful.
Just as she was about to mutter, “I won’t,” she inhaled a bite of chicken nugget and started choking on it. Her friend, Dixie Larue, who was studying to be an EMT, had performed the Heimlich maneuver on Tate with a bit too much enthusiasm, breaking one of her ribs in the process. The chicken nugget sailed across the table, landing in a wad on Tugboat’s sneaker, and Tate spent the night in the hospital, where the doctor gave her a long list of things she was forbidden to do, including, thank goodness, dancing.
After screwing around with Landon “Bam Bam” Fletcher off and on for most of her junior and senior years at Marathon High School, he’d turned to her one hot, soupy night in the back of his pick-up and whispered, “Tate, darlin’, I know you don’t want to hear it, but I can’t hold it inside anymore…I love you.”
She’d blinked at him in anger, sat up on the scratchy woolen blanket where they’d just had sex, and reached for her dress. After she pulled it over her head, she looked into the startled eyes of her now-ex boyfriend.
Going to the Chapel Page 12