by Chevon Gael
She kneaded his back with her fingers, gently scraped his skin with her nails, lapped his neck and chin like a hungry cat. The absurdity of the situation passed fleetingly—that she could react with such sexual ferocity to a man she had never met. But her heart knew him. Her physical body certainly craved him. And something else, something she couldn't readily identify, something far more primitive.
She belonged here. She knew that much. She felt alive here. It was the same lightness and excitement that filled her when she danced. When she donned her shoes, her feet always knew exactly what to do. And now, with this man splendid and naked above her, there were no motives to question, only a deep desire needing to be filled.
"Ah, my sweet Rhian. ‘Tis been so long, too long. To touch your skin again, to feel your lithe, warm body against mine. Surely it was worth an eternity of waiting."
She covered his lips with her fingers. “Hush now, my love. We are together now. Show me how much you've missed me. I must feel you inside me again, to truly know that you are here and this is not just another wonderful dream."
"Is this a dream?"
She felt him slide one hand over her backside and give her a hard squeeze.
"Or this?"
He reached between them and rubbed his erect cock against her swollen sex. She flinched and strained against him. The sensation was exquisite, a firestorm of need surged through her. Her inner muscles clenched hard, a hunger aching to latch on and greedily suckle the hard source of satisfaction.
"Wait no more,” she whispered.
His soft chuckle frustrated her. “Surely you will devour me."
She nipped his chin. “And you would choose another fate?"
"Surely not."
And with that he plunged into her. A stuttering sigh signaled his pleasure. Rhian savored the hard, hot length inside her. He moved fast, exciting her quickly. They labored slowly, so she could experience and rekindle the long-absent pleasure that had been theirs. He withdrew and entered slowly. The smooth, wide tip of his cock parted her flesh. He slid in, tentative and teasing, allowing her to feel the uneven ridge on the underside of his shaft. Deeper and deeper he probed until she felt the mild sting of her cervix denying any further access.
She hoisted her legs higher, determined to let him fill her. Suddenly his hands cradled her ass, squeezed the tender cheeks and with one smooth, quick roll, she was on top of him.
She smiled in delight as Seamus groaned beneath her. He reached up and cupped both her breasts. “That's a much better view. Your milky skin soft as silk and your hair bouncing off your shoulders like moonbeams off the evening mist."
Rhian sighed and wriggled her bottom against his groin. “I prefer this kind of bouncing.” She yelped as he thrust up deep inside her. Sensing his imminent release, she let her fingers graze the cleft of her vulva where her pulsing clit crested through her sensitive outer lips. Her lover brushed her hand away.
"Nay, let me. Such a ripe, wet little fruit begs me to test its firmness.” And with one hand firmly fondling her breast, he busied the other at kneading her clit until she was sure she would die if he didn't allow her to come.
And just when she thought she might beg him to bring the joyous torture to an end, she felt the forceful rush of fire deep inside her belly. She bucked wildly against his hips, sending rose petals flying in a furious pink rain. With a high pitched wail, she let him know he'd brought her pleasure to its conclusion.
Except it wasn't.
With one quick roll, he was atop her and slamming into her sated flesh. The initial fire still smoldered in her battered channel and the friction from his cock ignited a fresh flash of heat. He seemed to sense this and finally allowed himself to join in her pleasure. His fingers dug into her shoulders and he bit—a little too hard—on one of her nipples. But she hardly felt the pain as spasms of pleasure rocked her body. The man in her arms convulsed over her. Inside, hot cum bathed her tender flesh. For several minutes they lay locked together, breathing in the scent of crushed petals and the nectar of their own bodies.
For Rhian, it was as if time had stood still and they had never left this place. She knew it now. The familiar scents of this place, the feel of the soft grass and willow branches. The soft trickle of the nearby stream lulling them into drowsy repose.
Tir na nOg! She was home. Her shoulders tingled. Nascent wings, light as air fanned out on the bed beneath her. But no sooner had she accepted this dream for reality than a black cloud drifted across the horizon, effectively shutting out the sun. Their little nook was plunged into darkness. The ages fanned by her like pages in a book. The next time she opened her eyes, she saw the stark, fluorescent light above her on the ceiling of the dance studio. She was lying on the mat wearing her tights. Seamus sat beside her, cross-legged and holding her hand.
She blinked a couple of times. “Wha ... what just happened?” But she didn't really need—or want—an answer. The man beside her smiled tenderly. It was a lover's smile. Her own body told her the rest of the story.
Fact and fantasy clashed within her. Myth and mind came to a bridge they had to cross together. She squeezed his hand and Seamus snuggled down beside her.
She gazed into his eyes and studied his face for a moment. “Did we just..."
His raised an eyebrow and gave her a knowing grin.
"Oh ... shit! We did.” But she didn't protest when he dropped a kiss on her questioning mouth.
"Rhian ... Oh, my sweet, loving fae. Suppose I start from the beginning..."
* * * *
Fergus walked out of the local police office with Paddy in tow. Once out of public view, Fergus gave his son a hard swat.
"Oi! You knocked me hat off.” Paddy stooped to pick up his red, felt hat. He stopped and inspected the damage. Fergus gave him a miserable scowl. “You've no right to wear that hat, you damned half-breed bastard."
"And the feather's bent now.” Paddy picked at the drooping feather and pouted. “I'll need a new one. Pocket up, old man."
Fergus slapped away Paddy's outreached hand. “You'll get it when you've earned it. You were supposed to keep the girl away from the castle. Now look what's happened. I've no job and that focking shite of a cluricaun is loose. For half the time the world's seen the sun I've watched and waited and guarded that stone. Because someday, I knew she'd be back. I just didn't think it would take this long."
Paddy shrugged and continued to dust off his hat. “So I screwed the wrong one.” A lewd grin crossed his face. “I still say it was worth it."
But Fergus didn't have anything to smile about. He was an out-of-work leprechaun. With nothing to guard, no crock of gold, and no gainful employment, he was now an outcast amongst his own kind, as few in number as they were. Rare they were now, the old guard. Living under hedgerows and in hollowed-out tree trunks, serene with smoking their pipes and playing their fiddles. Venturing out for the odd bit of trickery to amuse themselves. A fresh cat and a barrel or two of whiskey and they were content as they had been when Finn MacCumhail and the men of the Fianna feasted at Tara. They shunned Fergus who chose to live among the mortals with their modern conveniences and soft living. And worse, for fornicating with one and producing the likes of Paddy.
"If it vexes you so, Father, then simply take a dagger and cut off his head. That is how you kill a cluricaun, isn't it?"
Fergus stopped in his tracks and turned to his son. “I'll be focked! You have been paying attention, boy. But we have to be crafty.” He rubbed the white stubble on his chin with a withered hand. “Aye. Who knows how strong his magic may be. The longer he's free, the stronger he'll become. We'll have to be quick about it while he's still weak."
Indeed. Even Una knew she could not have destroyed him. If it were that simple, then she would have done it and they'd not be in this fix. But then, killing Seamus would only have turned Darianna's warm heart to cold hatred for them all. If the fair-haired wench really carried the soul of the long-departed Darianna, then perhaps there was still a chance
to undo an ancient wrong. He thought long and hard, but one woeful glance at Paddy made any chance of a union unthinkable. That a fae princess would take a shiftless half-breed leprechaun was as inconsiderable as passing the chapel and hearing the statue of St. Patrick fart! Still, perhaps he could convince the fae to give up her passion for Seamus. Ah, but what a fine bit of trickery that would be.
"Father!"
Fergus responded with a grunt.
"I said I'm off to the pub. Are ye with me?"
Fergus shook his head and waved his son on his way. As Paddy passed into the shadow of the castle on his way to Flannigan's, a germ of an idea wormed its way into Fergus's thoughts. Something in what Paddy had said. Words that might be worthwhile after all. The idea spread like black plague spots on prawtees. He cast a hopeful glance up at the castle turrets, at the cold, hard walls over which he'd had domain for so long. His watch wasn't finished yet. He slipped his hand into his left pants pocket. His fingers wrapped around a single smooth coin. Still there. Still waiting. He knew of kindred folk in Dublin, a swordsman and a master at his craft. First thing in the morning—no—he shook his head. Tomorrow was Sunday and Father Ryan would expect to see them all in church. Monday morning. He could wait until Monday to send Paddy on his errand.
He reached into his jacket and retrieved his pipe. After teasing out a billow of smoke, he resumed his walk home decidedly in a much better mood. By this time next week, the last of the cluricaun would be dispatched to hell and his hands would be locked around the arse of that treacherous little fae. Then, by all the saints, he'd teach her a lesson she'd soon not forget!
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CHAPTER 7
Rhian paced the studio floor at a worried rate. Her pale, pink chiffon skirt flared out behind her as she turned. “I want to believe you, Seamus, I really do. Part of me knows everything you've told me is true. I feel it, in here.” She balled her fists and rested them on her stomach. She felt it all over, but then she didn't need to tell him that.
"And the dream. Do I need to tell you about the dream? I was there, with you. I can relate every detail, right down to the wet stain and how you lied to your friend."
Now he did have her. No one knew about that. She hadn't told Kat, the only person she would have turned to with such an intimate detail.
"Look to your heart, Rhian. And if you still don't understand, then look to the past. Look as far back as you can remember, a wee gossoom in a far away land with only your granny to guide you. Remember your days spent at pursuing the art of the fae dance, the nights at Granny's knee learning the lore and hearing the stories of the mother land of her birth. And of Tir na nOg."
"What's my granny got to do with this, and how do you now about her anyway?"
"All in good time."
Hardly a comforting answer.
"Okay, suppose I do believe you. Now what?"
"I don't know."
Rhian marched over to where Seamus sat. Arms akimbo, she glared down at him. “You mean to say that you spent an eternity locked in a stone, thinking about being free every second of every day and you don't have a plan? What am I supposed to do with you?"
"We marry, of course."
She stared at him open mouthed. “What?"
Seamus got to his feet and embraced her. “We marry. I'm the last of the cluricaun and you're a fae princess—"
"Hold it right there, mister. I might believe you are what you say you are, but I'm a different matter. My job is a dancing as a fairy princess. I think you might be a little confused.” Which wasn't the most convincing speech she'd ever given. Having his arms around her made believing him easier than facing reality. But reality had to prevail. There was too much resting on her shoulders right now. With that reminder she stumbled on a stop-gap solution, something to keep Seamus occupied while she dealt with her responsibilities.
"If you need a job as a dance teacher, I'm sure I can talk to Mrs. Buchanan."
A sudden frown sobered his expression. “No. that won't be necessary. I know Beulah quite well."
She blinked at him. “Of course you do.” She nodded at the realization. “You know everyone. You've watched them come and go, live and die. After all, you've had a great view of this village."
He seemed to look past her for a moment. “Yes,” he began softly, “I've seen quite a lot.” He turned and looked into her eyes. “I have responsibilities, too. Even one such as I has a path to follow."
Rhian stepped back and tried to understand his sudden change. Did cluricauns have mood swings? Was there such a thing as post-coital depression? And if so, wasn't that her department? Yes, it was. And judging by the turn their conversation had taken, Seamus was getting ready to do what came naturally. Rhian decided to take matters into her own hands. This was one dance divo who wasn't going to brag about his bang-and-bounce.
"Good idea. See that door over there? That will take you to your ... path or yellow brick road or whatever you have to follow. I have a show to put on. Nice audition, by the way.” She pushed past him to the corner where her gear still lay scattered. She removed her toe walkers and began to massage her feet. “If there are any more like you in your class, send them over. There's another practice tomorrow after—"
"Who are you talking to?"
Rhian paused and glanced into the mirror. She saw only Kat's reflection. Her friend wore a quizzical look of concern. Quickly Rhian scanned the room. They were alone. Perhaps she always had been. She grinned sheepishly. “I was talking to ... my feet.” She pointed to her big toe. “Blister. You're bad!"
"Uh huh. I was going to suggest we shop, but I think you need a shower and some sleep. And maybe some carbs. They say lack of carbs rots your brain."
Rhian wrung her hands and flexed her fingers. It was a familiar cool down exercise. Familiar was reassuring. Safe. Normal.
"Yeah, that works."
She locked up the studio while Kat stowed their workout gear in the tiny space behind the driver's seat. She drove them back to Mrs. Mac's. If Kat noticed her lack of conversation, she didn't say anything. Rhian was grateful. She needed the space to think. She let Kat off at Mrs. Mac's front door and parked the car. It was all getting to her—the touristy tales, the history, and the nostalgia of Granny's stories. While coming here and performing had always been her life's ambition, it would be a giant relief to finally get out of here and back to civilization. Back to Boston. Regular classes, traffic, and trying to keep warm in the winter when the heating system broke down. She'd had enough of Blarney and wee people. The only pot of gold she wanted to see was a first-class seat on a flight out of here.
She entered the house and her nose picked up the savory scent of a meat pie. Kat was busy in the kitchen modeling an Aran sweater she'd bought and flirting with Arthur, who sat at the large oak table peeling potatoes.
As soon as she opened the bedroom door her mouth dropped open. On the bed, sat the most gorgeous pair of ballet pointe shoes she'd ever seen. She didn't hesitate to examine them. Pale pink with long, silky ribbons. She ran her fingers over the soles. The leather was soft and stiff. The toes satiny smooth and molded to a point. The craftsmanship was excellence itself. She couldn't even see a seam. She pressed a silk ribbon to her face. The scent of crushed rose petals embraced her. There was a note attached to the ribbon. On cream-colored parchment paper was a single word written in black ink.
Believe.
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CHAPTER 8
It was a short admiration.
She heard the broken ring of a telephone, Mrs. Mac's voice, then Kat. Quickly Rhian wrapped the shoes in a piece of cloth and placed them in her shoe bag. She knew without a doubt who they were from. The right thing to do was find Seamus and return them.
The right thing to do fled with the sound of Kat's footsteps and her frantic call of, “Rhian! It's Danny McCulloch. I think you better talk to him.” Normally a summons from the Company's director wouldn't cause a panic. Something must be up.
She took the call and had to suffer Kat anxiously pacing behind her. When she finally hung up, Kat pounced on her.
"Is it bad news or really bad news?"
She looked at Kat and swallowed. “It's devastating. Jimmy shattered his ankle."
"Peckerhead! How the hell ... Oh, does it really matter?"
"Playing pub crawl host to some out of town friends who wanted to see the real Cheers bar.” Typical. She could just envision Jimmy stumbling half-drunk down a worn set of cement stairs to show off a cheesy, little dive which served overpriced, watered down beer, and cheap souvenirs.
"What should we do?"
"Nothing, for the moment. Moira and Danny are doing damage control. The real decision is, do I dance alone with some local talent as back up or go with Jimmy's second?"
Going with an understudy meant setting the show back several weeks. PBS didn't have that large a window. It would be a logistical and financial nightmare. It looked like she would be going home after all. The sooner the better. She looked up to find Mrs. Mac and Arthur staring at them from the hallway. It was more than anxiety on their faces. It was more like grief. Of course they would take an interest in what happened. They, along with the rest of the local residents. No benefit performance, no money. No money, no castle refurbishment. The continued disrepair would cause the government to close the attraction until they could afford to fund the project. The loss of the economy would devastate the community.
"Of course, we could always pray for a miracle that some local, fast-learning dance prodigy appears. You know, like in Dirty Dancing. I—what? Why are you smiling? ‘Cause if there's a punch line to all this, then I need to find out where I laugh. I ... Rhian. Rhian! Where are you going?"