All I Want is You_A Second Chance Romance

by Carter Blake

  The briefest possible internal struggle ensues, and ultimately, the drink wins. I close my eyes and click my tongue.

  Fucking brilliant.

  Light. Fluffy. Fruity.

  It was a real stroke of genius to clear Rebecca out of her whiskey. If she’s going to have a baby, she really shouldn’t be consuming any fucking alcohol.

  Vague memories surface of reading something about alcohol and pregnancy not mixing. Best I start looking after her interests.

  So, she may not have agreed yet, but heck, the way she came on me before and stared at my cock, she’s just about there.

  It’s only a matter of time, as far as I can tell.

  I won’t rub my hands together just yet, but I’d bet Ida on it; she’ll be here in the morning, ready to agree.

  I down the next glass of whiskey and start to pace the room.

  Not only are my taste buds on fire, my entire body is also burning brightly. She ignited a flame of passion, and boy did I have to struggle against the greedier parts of myself to walk away from her.

  My thoughts drift to Jameson. It’s strange, but Jameson and Rebecca are like night and day, sun and rain, the yin and the yang—they go hand in hand.

  I’m sure I’ve got a bottle somewhere.

  Quickly, I stride over to my cabinet where I stash all the good stuff. And there it is, right at the back.

  It’s a bottle of Jameson, and not just any bottle. It’s the bottle from the year of the conference—the year we met.

  With shaking fingers, I put the bottle down.

  Shall I?

  I shake my head.

  No fucking way.

  I vowed not to get hurt again. If I drink this stuff, I’m drinking to something that’s not there.

  I mean, sure, we’ve had a real fucking hot time together real fucking recently. But I don’t need a fucking repeat of what happened last time.

  If I hand myself over entirely—hand my heart over and everything—there’s very little fucking chance it’ll turn out well.

  One broken heart in a lifetime is plenty, thank you very much.

  Instead of the Jameson, I can drink something else. Plenty of alcohol around in this wee cottage.

  Who am I kidding? Fucking Bushmills it is. That’s one Irish whiskey that’s never done me wrong.

  Maybe I should get a job in fucking advertising.

  By the time I’ve had a few, my nerves are a little calmer and my thinking’s a little foggier.

  That still didn’t seem to help one fucking bit.

  This is no fucking good. What the fuck am I doing here alone in my cottage?

  If I stay here any longer by myself, I’ll be doomed to fucking be here forever.

  No—forget it.

  I can’t be thinking like that any longer.

  It’s that type of thinking that leads to trouble—every fucking time.

  I’m just fine here on my own.

  As for Becks, she’s about to agree to enter into an arrangement with me—an arrangement which will involve a lot of no-strings-attached fucking.

  Not bad. It’s like a “friends with benefits” type of situation.

  It’s much less risky than getting into all sorts of fucking heart-risking trouble.

  With a sigh, I open the front door and breathe in the cool night air.

  There’s a strange clicking sound somewhere close by, and I need to go and investigate. It’s coming from the back of the house.

  It doesn’t take me long to work out what’s going on. Ida’s managed to open her stable door and is walking around the backyard.

  In the process, she’s knocking over various bits and pieces. A garden rake bites the dust, a bucket gets kicked, and bottles in the recycling container are tipped over.

  “What’re you doing?” I think my speech may be a little slurred.

  Ida stops and looks at me.

  “Don’t you give me that accusing look, young lady.” I point my finger at her. For some reason, there seems to be two of her. “I’m not the one who’s out of my stable.”

  The world is spinning a bit as well. Is it going counterclockwise or clockwise? Too fucking hard to tell.

  Which fucking way is which again?

  My horse nudges me, and I nearly lose my balance.

  “Giving me a sobriety test, are you? Newsflash, missy: I’m not drunk.”

  Her look speaks volumes.

  One of those volumes begins with the words: You’ve had way too many, my friend, to have an independent opinion on any matter.

  “You don’t know what it’s like to have your fucking heart broken,” I grumble, kicking the bucket she knocked over.

  She snorts and stomps with her right hoof, which I interpret to mean: That just goes to show how little you know about me and other living creatures, you selfish solipsist.

  Ida’s vocabulary might be more extensive than I realized.

  I can’t let myself be intimidated. No, sir.

  “Don’t you take that tone with me, missy. I still feed you and look after you. A little respect is the least you can show me.”

  In response, Ida turns away from me, leaving me to stare at her backside.

  “How very mature of you, Ida. I’m just about finished with this conversation.”

  Not fair, I know, but she’s making me mad.

  Ida pays me no mind and just walks away.

  “Don’t you treat me like I’m invisible, you…” I’m searching for the right words, but they fail me.

  Aren’t I supposed to be a fucking writer?

  I mean, I should be able to wield words any which way I want, any time I want. And yet right here, right now, I can’t think of a fucking suitable thing to say.

  “Come back here at once, you temperamental harridan.”

  Ida stops.

  Maybe I should lower my voice.

  With Ida’s behind still pointing in my direction, I walk up to her and grab her by the halter. She pulls her head away.

  It’s not like her to hold a grudge.

  “Okay.” I pat her on the neck. “Maybe you do know what it’s like to have your heart broken. All the more reason for you to be sympathetic to my current state.”

  Another snort, this time a softer one. I’m sure it says: Broken hearts suck, my friend. But we get over them.

  “I know, I know. But I don’t want it to happen again. She’s not going to do it again. I’m going to make sure of it.”

  Her soft nose nuzzles into me. I’m pretty sure she’s saying: Falling in love is about taking a chance. It’s like galloping up to a jump and wondering what will happen.

  “Really?” I start leading her back to the stable. “I thought it was something about jumping off a cliff and either floating on the back of a cloud or hitting the ground with an almighty thud.”

  She shakes her head violently, nearly knocking me off my feet. I think she means to say: You fool. Horses don’t think in human terms. Horses have their own analogies.

  Fair point.

  “Bottom line, Ida, I don’t want to go through fucking heartbreak again, ever.”

  Ida nods.

  Of course. Who does? Life’s about taking a chance, and well, maybe fucking up. Then you pick yourself up again and find something else to take a chance on. But if you don’t take a chance, well, what’s the point of being alive?

  “Ida,” I begin, and rouse on the gentle giant, “I never knew you were one to use profanity.”

  This time, her snort has bits of snot flying into my face.

  “Lovely,” I mumble and push her into the stable.

  I grab an armful of hay.

  “You want to share a drink with me?”

  She gives a definite shake of the head and a stomp of her left hoof in case I was in any doubt as to what she was trying to tell me.

  “It’s not that bad, really,” I start, but I stop when I look into her eyes.

  Destroying your body by drinking yourself stupid won’t fix anything. It doesn’t fix he
artache or any of the other shit you think it fixes.

  I throw the hay into her stable.

  “I know, Ida,” I mumble and stare at her for a bit longer. “I know. But what else am I going to do? What else do I have going, really?”

  Rebecca

  Perky tits, check. Defined waistline, check. Nice round ass, double check.

  I’m standing in front of the full-length mirror in the bedroom of my cottage, naked as the day I was born.

  It seems strange that this is actually happening.

  It’s been a long time since I’ve stripped myself bare and had the confidence to really take a good look at myself. In some respects, I’m surprised by what I see.

  In others, not so much.

  Like these little dimples on my thighs.

  I rub light circles over my skin as I casually explore and rediscover my feminine figure.

  I’ve been avoiding mirrors since my divorce—maybe even before that, if I’m being brutally honest.

  My relationship with reflective surfaces wasn’t always problematic. Using a mirror like this to see myself—to get a good idea of what I actually looked like during a moment of my life—used to be a fairly regular practice for me.

  I was never exactly in love with myself, but for most of my life, I was quite okay with looking in a damn mirror, at least.

  That only began to change over the last few years.

  Being with my ex-husband slowly chipped away at my confidence until I started shying away from mirrors altogether.

  Hell, even picture frames and pan lids were my arch-nemeses. Anything with a reflection was off-limits.

  It’s hard to explain what it felt like to see my reflection at the time—to see what was happening.

  Mainly, I got tired of seeing the bruises. I got tired of having to tell myself this was the last time he’d lay his fucking hands on me.

  The beginning of my relationship with Dickhead wasn’t like that. I’d even go as far as to say he was kind, polite, and considerate.

  I may go so far as to use the word gentle.

  After the wedding, things took a dramatic turn.

  The monster revealed himself so readily that I barely even noticed at first.

  Jealousy and possessiveness started to take hold in ways that were so intense that none of it seemed real.

  And that was a real fucking problem because I recognized nothing about the situation of my marriage at first.

  The toxicity was so pervasive it was like I was blind to it.

  He hated the fact that I had lost my virginity to another man.

  Now it still seems unreal. And unbelievable.

  But it was my reality. And all I can do about it now is resolve to never put myself in that position again.

  The physical marks may be long gone, but I still see a ghost of them when I glance at my ribs in the mirror. The black-and-blue marks, which over time faded to ugly shades of green and yellow, still haunt me.

  Those images are embedded in my mind. One of my biggest fears is that they’ll never go away.

  That I’ll never be free.

  I want to claim me for myself again. I want to abandon the fear, pain, and self-loathing that took up three years of my life.

  Now I suppose I should be grateful that it did end in reality, even if the marks are still there in my mind.

  The past few days here have been peaceful, serene, and a bit exciting.

  I turn and cock my head to the side, inspecting my neck. This brings forth a rush of heat as I remember the way Killian ran his lips and tongue down it last night.

  Dickhead never touched me as sensually as Killian does. The only times he ever really touched me were when he hit me.

  Sex wasn’t a big part of our lives. I had been tainted by Killian, after all, and Dickhead was thoroughly disgusted by that. He didn’t seem to desire me much.

  And even when he did, there was no spark. I literally felt nothing for him toward the end, and it was a chore just to even lay there.

  He was rough, and he’d come so quickly—not that he gave a shit. One thrust, two thrusts, three thrusts, done.

  I would blink, and it’d be over.

  Orgasms? As if. He couldn’t pleasure a woman if his life depended on it.

  But it’s different with Killian. Not just now. It was different then, too.

  Killian really has the magic touch.

  All he has to do is look at me with his sexy, deep-blue eyes and my heart skips a beat.

  It almost feels like fate that our paths have crossed again.

  I find myself wondering what it would’ve been like if Killian and I had more than just one night together. Would it have made a difference?

  Would we be married now, with children of our own?

  My thoughts are going in circles now.

  Stop it, Rebecca.

  I sigh and turn my attention back to the mirror. I lift my tits and let them drop before running my hands down my sides.

  The woman looking back at me wears a pensive expression.

  I’m doing exactly what I said I wouldn’t. I can’t continue to give my ex this continued power over me. Our marriage is finally over, and I’ve escaped from the nightmare.

  Why should I let my past keep me from moving forward?

  Am I ready for a new relationship? Probably not at this point, but that doesn’t mean I never will be.

  It might be with Killian, or it might be with some man that I’ve yet to meet.

  I don’t know what the future holds.

  What I do know, however, is that I’m ready to be a mom. I’ve been ready for years.

  I can see it so vividly in my mind. A little girl with my red hair or a boy with Killian’s amazing blue eyes. The thought brings a smile to my face.

  I have so much love to give. They wouldn’t want for anything, especially not love and attention.

  Maybe Killian’s idea isn’t as far off the charts as I thought it was.

  Maybe having a baby is exactly what the doctor ordered.

  Well, the author, anyway.

  I think I’ve finally made up my mind, and not just because I want Killian’s cock so bad I can taste it.

  Killian

  Rebecca is writhing beneath me. I can feel the muscles in her thighs twitching and flexing uncontrollably. My fingers softly graze over her stomach as if feeling the petals of a rose.

  Her flesh is just as smooth and delicate as the most beautiful spring flower.

  Her own hands run through my dark locks. I can feel her grip tighten and loosen like the ebb and flow of the Atlantic tides.

  The moans from her lips sound like an angelic choir from the heavens on high—each one like a sensual call of a siren that pulls me further into the black abyss of the deepest ocean.

  My tongue slides over and in between her wet pussy lips. I take my time as my flattened tongue moves over her.

  It’s almost as if I’m tasting whiskey for the first time all over again. There’s no burn as I feel her juices slide down my throat, but it’s every bit as smooth as the reddish-golden nectar that I seek comfort in night after night.

  Her back arches at the touch of my lips against her swollen clit. Her husky moans wash over me like a cool evening breeze off the lake in July.

  Her fingers slide through my hair, then she grips my dark strands. It’s as if she’s clinging to the summit of Carrauntoohil itself. It feels as if she’s using me as an anchor to keep herself from being pulled to the sea.

  I can feel her breath hitch, signaling to me that she’s at her limit and can no longer contain herself.

  She whispers to me in between moans. I can’t make out the words—nor do I care—as my focus remains fixated on her approaching climax.

  Thunder knocks against the sky in the distance in quick succession. It sounds almost as if the Creator himself is knocking on the gates of heaven.

  I hear Rebecca calling out my name, but it sounds distant. It feels as though she’s calling out to me from far
away, almost as if the wind is carrying her voice to me from some far-off land.

  Rebecca’s body trembles again beneath me. Her firm grip sends a chill up my spine as the line between pain and pleasure twists and blurs.

  Thunder knocks again. It’s louder than before.

  The wind carries her voice across the world, across the universe, across the dimension of time and dimensions beyond, all the way to me.

  Rebecca’s body goes stiff, and she lets out a moan that reverberates through me, in my heart and soul.

  I’m ready—eager—to feel more of her flood my lips. It’s a taste I crave, though a craving I never knew existed until now.

  God knocks once more.

  Knocking. That’s it.

  It isn’t thunder that I hear now. It’s the sound of knocking at a door that rings through the sky.

  Rebecca’s voice calling to me is louder—closer—this time around.

  “Killian? You there?”

  My eyes snap open.

  I’m greeted by a morning light that stings my eyes.

  A soft groan escapes my lips as I sit up in my chair.

  My head turns, my neck sore and stiff, and I look over my surroundings.

  I’m home. Apparently, at my desk.

  I have one hand wrapped around the bottle of Locke’s 8 Year—which I’ve evidently emptied—and my hand feels numb. A streak of drool glistens in the morning sun.

  My tongue slips out and licks over my dry lips. I wipe away the drool on my hand and corner of my mouth with the sleeve of my shirt.

  There’s another knock at the door.

  “Killian, I know you’re in there. I can see Ida in her stable.”

  My hand slides up over my face to rub the sleep out of my eyes.

  There’s a small throbbing in my temples. Nothing that can’t be fixed with a morning shot of whiskey.

  I look down at my typewriter and see an empty page sitting in it. Another groan escapes me.

  My body protests as I stand from my chair. I reach to the sky and feel my body crack in relief.

  Much better.

  I stroll toward my door and open it to reveal Rebecca in mid-knock.

  Any slumber or haze that was lingering disappears at her sight.