by Alison Tyler
“Because I know how you feel about Rowan Atkinson.”
“Especially in the Elizabethan series. Oh, honey, that codpiece.”
She missed Erik, but she certainly had enough to occupy her with Finn in the corner of the room. There was no stage; the band had mostly just grabbed nearby chairs. Yet somehow they all seemed higher than the rest of the room, the music advancing them onto an unseen but very real stage.
They finished the next set with an air, a sweet sad song that made Phoebe forget about her drink. The notes curled through the air, burrowed under her skin, clouded her throat with beautiful despair.
Finn stroked the bow across the strings as if he stroked a woman, and his only thought, his only care, his only goal was to coax and tease from her the most exquisite sounds. A raven wing of hair fell across his brow as he concentrated, eyes half-lidded.
Then he set the fiddle aside and began to sing. His pure, strong tenor filled in the spaces made by the other instruments, until the pub was wrapped like a body in a linen shroud. It was as if, for a few moments, they existed only within the song.
When it ended, first there was silence. Even the locals, who presumably had heard the song before, seemed frozen by the music’s spell. Then the clapping started, and the whistles and cheers, and Finn took a deep, theatrical bow that took nothing away from his performance. When she could move again, Phoebe took a long draft of her Guinness.
She looked up from it to find Finn, all gloriously lanky length of him, standing before her. She shivered, deep inside, at the smell of his spicy aftershave piercing through the scent of the peat fire, at his proximity.
“I hear you’re wanting to talk to me,” he said.
She smiled. “Did Harry send you over?”
“That he did.” Finn easily rested a hip on the small round table between the chairs. “But your friend also put in a word before he left.”
“Erik talked to you?”
“Aye. He told me that you fancied me.”
Phoebe blushed. “Well, you do have a way with that fiddle of yours,” she said, hoping to diffuse the subject. But Finn’s eyes, twilight-blue and perceptive, held hers. There was a hint of amusement in their depths—and also a hint of desire. She was sure of it.
She caught her breath.
“Thank you,” Finn said. “Although I’d be sorely disappointed if the only thing about me that interested you was my fiddle.”
He had the typical Irish accent, where the “th” became a “t” or “d”: “Altough I’d be sorely disappointed if de only ting about me dat interested you was me fiddle.”
She loved it. She absolutely loved it.
“Well, that and your research on how The Broken Fiddle got its name,” she said.
She really did care about that. But she also found herself leaning forward, revealing a bit more cleavage, putting a hand on his knee.
He put his hand over hers. She could feel the calluses on his fingertips from his fiddle playing. She imagined what those gifted, swift fingers, those rough pads, would feel like on her breasts, between her legs, and excitement skimmed through her, pooling at her groin.
“And why are you so interested in that?” he asked.
It took her a moment to realize he wasn’t talking about sex. She told him about the book. He looked impressed.
“You’ll be putting our little town on the map.”
“It would be nice if more people could appreciate the sign—and come here to appreciate your music,” she said.
Before he could reply, the squeeze-box player shouted, “Finn! Leave the bird be and get your arse back over here.”
Finn squeezed her hand, then reluctantly stood. “We’ve got one more set to play,” he said. “Will you be waiting for me afterward? I’ll tell you all about the sign.”
The way he said it somehow sounded like a promise of an assignation, of stolen kisses and much, much more.
“I’ll be waiting,” Phoebe promised.
She found out from Harry what whiskey Finn drank, and had a shot waiting for him after he stowed his fiddle in its case and got through the crowd of people, all of whom wanted to clap him on the back and say hello.
He grinned at the sight of the drink, tossed it back and said, “I see I already told you the price of the story was a single malt and a kiss.”
Phoebe raised an eyebrow. “The whiskey’s the down payment,” she said. She leaned closer, feeling the heat of him beneath his linen shirt, indigo like his eyes. “The kiss, though—well, I’ll pay you that after I’ve heard the story and agree it’s worth the cost.”
He laughed softly. “Is that so? Then I’ll have to make it worth your while.” He held out his hand. “Walk with me, girl, and I’ll tell you the tale of a fiddle and a heart both cleft in twain.”
Despite the late hour, the sky hadn’t achieved full blackness. At the height of summer, this far north, it never got past the velvet-blue of deep twilight. When she was a girl, Phoebe had believed that time of evening to be when the fairies came out. Here in Ireland, she could almost believe it again.
There was little light pollution from Arderra, and glittering stars blanketed the sky. A moon just past full gave enough light for Phoebe to see where to put her feet as Finn led her through the pub’s back garden (pointing out a corner of tangled overgrowth, beneath which was a holy well, he said) and up the hill beyond. She was glad for her sturdy hiking boots and jeans as they tromped through thigh-high grass and vines and occasional bramble.
They crested the hill, and once again, she caught her breath. Maybe she had been transported to fairyland.
Below them, in the cup of the hills, lay a small, still lake, black as night but with a path of shimmering white laid down by the moon. Darker shapes against the gorse looked to be the ruins of a small building, possibly an ancient tower.
When they got to the bottom of the slope, it was as if the village no longer existed. Any noise from the departing pub-goers had vanished. A pair of crickets serenaded each other, or perhaps they were flirting. Beyond that, there was just the sound of hers and Finn’s breathing and the brush of their feet through the undergrowth.
Irish roses, wild and untamed, tangled around the broken stones, their heady scent making Phoebe light-headed. Or maybe it was Finn’s warm, strong hand resting on the small of her back, guiding her through the rough terrain.
He led her to a hip-high wall that was relatively flat.
“I’m going t’ tell you a story now,” Finn said, and Phoebe automatically settled herself into a comfortable position on the stones. She knew what Irish storytelling was like. They could be here till dawn.
She wondered if the lake had the popular legend that many did, that anyone who survived a full night on its shores would either go mad or become an amazing poet. If so, she crossed her fingers for the latter.
“Many years ago—no one’s quite sure of how many, but they all agree that it was quite a few and then some—there was the small village of Arderra here, smaller than it is now. Farms and the like scattered around it. The pub was here, but it had a different name then, one no one remembers now.”
Finn was slipping into the story, his voice rising and falling in a tale-teller’s lilt. “There was a fiddle player, too, and his name is lost, as well. He was the best fiddle player anyone had ever heard. His talent was known beyond the bounds of Arderra, and that was saying something back then. These ruins are of the little house he had here by the lake.
“Of course he had a sweetheart, and it’s said her name was Róisín. That means rose, and given the abundance of roses here, it’s not a surprise that she’d be named for that. She was a wild Irish rose, you see, with the red hair and skin soft as petals.”
Phoebe thought of the woman on the pub sign, and tried not to be distracted by how close Finn was sitting to her, so close that his arm brushed hers as he gestured.
“Our fiddler, well, he loved his Róisín truly,” he went on. “She was beautiful and kind and strong and
wise, and she had a voice that could bring grown men to tears.”
She should remember that phrase for the book. It was nice to hear of a woman with brains and strength and talent, as well as looks.
“But like many men, he had a streak of pride and a streak of foolishness, and the mix of the two never ends well. His fiddle playing was renowned, but he wanted more. He wanted true fame; he wanted the world—he wanted the whole of Eire, anyway, to know his name. So he sat out here and he played his fiddle and he wished with all his heart, but more than that, he swore aloud that he’d do anything to have that fame. I doubt he had to call on the fair folk by name, because any oath like that would attract them like cats to fresh cream.”
Phoebe thought of cats lapping cream, and her lapping at Finn’s cock, a mental image so strong it rocked her to her core. She could see his strong profile in the moonlight as he gazed out over the water, lost in his tale.
“It was a water fae—one of the Glaistig, maybe, or an Asrai. It’s hard to say now, for we’ve lost that connection with the faerie folk. She rose right out of the lake there.” Finn pointed. A fish leaped, splashing the surface, and Phoebe jumped. She laughed at her own nervousness, but then Finn put an arm around her, and she stopped laughing.
He dug a flask out of his hip pocket, not a knotwork-decorated one like the kind she’d seen in gift shops, but plain silver. She wondered how he’d shoehorned it into those jeans. He offered it to her, and she drank. The whiskey danced like fire in her veins.
Finn took a swig and continued.
“Whatever she was, she was lovely beyond reason, dark as night just as Róisín was bright as day. She promised the fiddler his heart’s desire, but there was a price, as there always is with the fae. One night with her was all she asked, one night from Midsummer’s Eve to Midsummer’s Morn, and in his foolish desire to fiddle to the world—or at least all of Eire—the fiddler thought it wasn’t that bad of a price.”
“I’m guessing Róisín thought differently,” Phoebe murmured.
“That she did,” Finn said, his warm breath fanning across her cheek. “She and the fiddler were to be wed, and she chose Midsummer’s Day. He thought that might not be the best of ideas, and somehow she got it out of him why he hesitated so.
“So on Midsummer’s Eve, she stole down to the lake, and she confronted the water fae right in front of the fiddler, claiming him as hers. The fae woman countered, and offered her a challenge. Róisín loved her fiddler above all else, and she wouldn’t let him be lost to the faerie folk.”
Probably not the smartest thing, Phoebe mused. But many people did foolish things for love, and even for lust.
“He would fiddle, the fae said, and she and Róisín would sing. The better singer would win. How the contest was to be judged we no longer know. But Róisín accepted, and the fae took her to the center of the lake, where she’d bespelled a rock for them to sit upon. It’s said they sang until the sky began to turn light again.”
Finn sighed. “Róisín’s voice was so sweet that it called the sun to rise, it’s said. But it took her last breath, and her last strength. She hadn’t anything left, and when the fae woman left, taking the rock with her, Róisín didn’t have the energy to make it back to shore. The fiddler swam out to her, but it was too late. Their fingers touched as she sank, and then she was gone.
“The fiddler, it’s said, played one more song, a song for Róisín, and it went something like this.”
Finn drew in a breath, and sang. The lyrics were in Gaelic, but it didn’t matter. His voice carried the tune pure and smooth, and over it she thought she could hear the original fiddle strains, what the fiddler would have played before the words were added. The tune soared and wept; it was choked with despair and desperate with love.
“And then he smashed his fiddle on that very rock you can see, there at the edge of the lake,” Finn said when he finished, “and he never played again.”
Phoebe took a deep breath, feeling as if she’d been holding her breath for the whole song.
“There was another song, though,” Finn said, almost as a casual afterthought, although Phoebe knew better. “He’d written one for the water sprite, too, for their Midsummer’s Eve meeting.”
He stood before her to sing this one. His blue eyes turned black and deep in the darkness of the night, but always on her.
This song was in no way melancholy. No, Phoebe realized with a tremor of arousal, this one was all about desire. About the wanting of a wild fae, about the need to have her, just for one night. About passion and ecstasy beyond mortal comprehension.
The music pierced her straight between her legs. Wild, wanton music for a wild, wanton lover, and her nipples peaked to an almost painful hardness, her sex growing wet.
It wasn’t the potent whiskey, or the resonance of the wild Irish music through her veins, although those things, and the moonlight and the heady scent of roses, all added to the spell that seemed to settle over her like a silken net. Finn’s voice was a charm, and she reached for his magic with both hands.
But none of that was an excuse; she was in full control, and she knew exactly what she was doing when he finished singing and she slid her hands up under his coat, cupped his shoulder blades and drew him closer, watching until the last moment as his head tipped toward hers, soft hair brushing her cheek.
A whiskey and a kiss, the price of a story well told.
It wasn’t enough. His lips were cool, but warmed swiftly as they kissed. Phoebe met his tongue with hers, tasting whiskey, drinking in the final notes of the song.
Finn murmured something about going to her room, or his, but she didn’t want to wait that long, and told him.
“Then we’ll have to thank the fiddler for letting us use his home,” Finn said, and stripped off his long black coat to lay it on the grass near the wild Irish roses.
She plucked his shirt buttons open and ran her tongue along his smooth, hairless chest, sucking gently at his nipples and making him tremble and arch into her, his hands stroking her hair.
Kneeling, facing each other, he stripped off his shirt and then hers. He cupped her naked breasts in his hands, bit gently on her neck as he tugged and tweaked her nipples. She felt as though taut fiddle strings connected from her breasts to her clit as his fingers sent vibrations of pleasure streaking through her.
He lay back, encouraged her to straddle his face, murmuring encouragement for her to play with her own breasts, to feel the night around them. His tongue was as talented as his fingers, playing her like a fine instrument, respecting her but at the same time urging her to give him everything.
And she sang, releasing her own music to the night as she came, her thighs tensed around his face and her hips bucking in his hands.
She crawled down his body to take his penis, long and smooth and hard like the rest of him, into her mouth. She circled him with her fist and her mouth and coaxed sweet beads of moisture from the tip of him, honey to go with the whiskey they’d already shared.
She could tell he was getting close, but then he gently drew her away, urging her onto her hands and knees in front of him. He bent low, his hair brushing her back, her skin so sensitized that another small tremor rocked her before he slowly sank the length of his cock into her.
Callused fingers strummed a melody on her clit while he carried the rhythm on his steady thrusts into her.
Their song moved steadily toward a crescendo.
Blood pounded in her ears, beating like the bodhran played in the ceilidh. Her orgasm soared on the strains of wild music.
On the cusp of the dawn, he reached for her hand. “We should be getting back.”
She knew better than to suggest they wait to see the sunrise.
They sold the book, and Erik’s photographs and Phoebe’s text received much praise. Phoebe arranged for the publisher to send a copy to Harry at the pub. She wanted to send one to Finn, but she didn’t even know his last name.
“Send it to Finn, care of The Broken Fiddle
, in Arderra, Ireland,” she said. “It’ll get to him.”
Care of the broken fiddle. How appropriate. He was the one who cared for the legend, kept it alive.
And on the day the book was launched, Erik gave her a picture he’d taken of Finn, wild and sexy and fiddling.
The Cougar of Cobble Hill
Sophia Valenti
A crisp morning breeze streamed in through the window, the cool gusts of air causing the curtains to billow and part, allowing streaks of sunlight to flash across my rumpled bed. I breathed in deeply and smiled, gradually awakening to a reality that was far better than any dream could ever be.
Behind me, I felt the mattress shift. I rolled over to face the tasty morsel next to me, who was still fast asleep. Jake was lying on his stomach, both arms wrapped around a pillow. The sheet had slipped off him during the night, revealing his muscular arms and back, as well as his tight little ass that still bore faint stripes from well-placed strokes of his own leather belt.
Only a few short hours ago, I’d seen his chocolate-brown eyes wide with lust and anticipation before he lavished my stilettos with kisses. At my direction, his pouty lips traveled upward, and he nestled his face between my trembling thighs to tongue my aching sex. I wrapped my fingers in his hair and crushed his face against me. Jake had just the right touch, not too hard, not too soft. With unceasing devotion, he lapped at my pulsing button until he turned my slow-burning desire into a raging inferno of pleasure.
But at that moment, in the bright morning sun, my bad boy looked blissful, nearly angelic. His black hair was so perfectly mussed, it looked as though a stylist had snuck into the room in the middle of the night to primp and pose him just for me.
“Good morning, Cassie,” said Rick, startling me from my reverie. He spoke in a hushed whisper, so as not to wake his friend. Rick was leaning against the door frame, wearing nothing but his drawstring pajama bottoms. My eyes lingered on his six-pack abs as he approached the bed with a mug of fresh-brewed coffee. I sat up and took the drink from him. I nodded my thanks, and he smiled and left the room.