Mismatched (34 page)

“Do you remember your parents at all?” I ask.

“Bits, I suppose.” He pauses for a moment, the wine glass midway to his lips. “Ye know, sometimes when I’m out on the waves, early in the morning or around dusk, I get pictures of them floatin’ through my head, like home movies. My mum’s auburn hair, her laugh… or I see my dad getting out of the car and scooping me into his arms and I’m laughing uncontrollably.” He shakes his head as though to clear it. “False memories, probably.”

I reach out and place my hand over his. “Still, whatever they are, they’re what you have left of your parents.”

“I suppose it’s made me more cautious about people. I’m not prepared to let important people into my life if they’re not serious about the relationship. And I mean both men and women. I have known
Donal and
Siobhán my whole life. They
are
my family.” He looks off into the middle distance.

I’m about to say something, but I don’t know what yet, something to let him know that I’m not toying with him—not anymore anyway, but he beats me to it.

“I’m a live-in-the-moment kinda guy, Erin. The past is the past. Maybe they are real memories, maybe they’re not. It doesn’t matter much. Life is now. This moment.”

I take my hand away, a little abashed but not understanding why. Should I be reading between the lines here? Is he telling me that things between us have changed since Ireland and that there’s no longer anything there? I don’t know and he doesn’t elaborate.

We settle the bill and head back out into the street. I try to shake the feeling that our ship has sailed and that whatever spark was there before has been extinguished by money and lawyers and threats of lawsuits. Or, put more simply, by
me
.

“Let’s do a Duck Tour!” suggests Michaél, giving no indication that he’s suffering like I am.

“What? Really?” I consider the big pink vehicle that takes tourists round the city as they wave and honk at real Bostonians. This is not included in my top ten pick. I was initiated into Bostonian life by Ridlee, a bonafide Bostonian, and she
never
recommended tourist gimmicks. Discover it like a local, she advised, and that’s what I’m trying to pass on to Michaél. “Nah, that’s lame,” I say digging at some imaginary hole in the ground with the toe of my Converse.

“What, Erin — are ye too cool or something?”

He’s needling me. I take the bait, eager to shake the feeling of dismay that’s followed me out into the street. “Right! Race ye!” I take off sprinting and join the line for Duck Tour tickets with Michaél hot on my heels.

We find a seat near the back and settle in. Our tour guide is cool, and it’s a relief to not have to talk for the next hour or so. I’m giving myself a good talking to as I sit down beside Michaél, trying to convince myself to enjoy our friendship for what it is
now.
Friendship. Nothing more, nothing less
.

I suppose I should be grateful that he even still wants to be friends after my behavior over the last few weeks. I haven’t been my best self since his arrival in Boston. Not to say that he’s behaved any better. He did his due diligence and checked out the bar before he came here. He knew exactly what shape The Pot O’Gold was in and he came anyway. He knew he didn’t have a legal leg to stand on, and yet he threatened that he did. Neither of us has been fair to the other.
 

I stare out at the monuments passing by and think of all the ways I resisted his ideas and the myriad ways I tried to make him feel so uncomfortable so he’d just leave. It was a knee-jerk reaction to what I perceived to be a threat to all I’ve worked for. All that mattered to me was the bar. And while I still stand by that, I look across the water and realize that I have been singleminded to a fault. Sure, it’s important for me to be strong and independent and to make my own way in the world, but what’s the point of any of it if I can’t share my life with someone else?
 

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, time for something a bit special!” announces Kip, our guide. We’re heading for the water and the Duck doesn’t seem to be stopping. With great fanfare we splash into the Charles River and begin to sail.

Somehow I’d never realized that this was part of the tour. I scream and grab onto Michaél’s sleeve as a blast of cold water hits me. He wraps his arm around me and rubs my freezing arms warm. I snuggle into him, but he pulls away to take one of the blankets that are being passed around by Kip. He tucks it around both our laps but he doesn’t put his arm around me again. I smile my thanks. It’s beautiful to be out on the river; the air is clear and I feel the anger and frustration I’ve been carrying around lately being swept away. I pick at a thread on the blanket that covers us both. I am hyper aware of his leg touching mine but he seems to be elsewhere, gazing off into space.
I guess that’s it for us then. Good friends. No benefits.
As though hearing my thoughts he turns and smiles at me. No kiss. No little touch. Just a friendly smile. I have to make a massive effort to make my own smile big ‘cause right now I’m feelin’ kinda small.
 

We arrive home in time for dinner and I’m beat. I’m beat from acting like the best best friend a guy could ever want and from not giving into the lusty desire that is literally eating me up. I can’t go on like this. We have to have it out or he has to leave. Now.

“So, Michaél. What’s the deal?”

He looks up from the Sunday roast dinner I have just set down in front of him, compliments of our new chef, Aaron. Yet another one of Michaél’s initiatives that has gone down a treat with the punters. It’s late and we’re eating dinner in the apartment. It’s time to clear the air.

“Deal?” he asks, all innocence.

“There’s something I don’t understand.” I push my food around my plate.

He just smiles.

Okay, he’s not going to make this easy for me. I soldier on, searching for the right words. I know that I’ve been a class-A bitch these past few weeks but what did he expect? Is he fucking with me for fun?

“I know for a fact that you have no interest in acquiring half the bar, and I also know that you knew that all those threats about fraud and misrepresentation were bullshit.” I look up at him. “So, what I’d like to know is why you put me through hell these last few weeks?”

He laughs. He actually laughs!

I put down my fork and give him a hard stare. “I don’t find any of this funny, Michaél. The bar is my livelihood— my future.”

“I’m sorry, Erin. Ye’re just so cute when ye’re serious.”

“Are you
mocking
me?”

He realizes that he’s gone too far. Standing up, he comes round to my side of the breakfast bar and takes my two hands in his, forcing me to stand up too. He’s all serious now.

“No, I’m not mocking ye. I’ve travelled three thousand miles to be with ye with some bogus excuse about acquiring half yer bar, fabricating stories so that ye’d have to keep me around. And, while I know that it perhaps hasn’t been all that much fun for ye, I’ve loved spending each day in yer company. Ye’re a feisty, determined, hard-working young businesswoman, who maybe needs to take more days off.”

This, I was not expecting. I’m left flabbergasted. Speechless. Agog. I stare back at him stupidly.

He takes my silence as a need for more explication. “Don’t ye know that I’m in love with ye, Erin O’Neill? I have been since that first night, when ye bought me that pint and
sang
to me. This charade with the bar, an
expensive
charade I might add, was to allow ye the time to fall in love with me. I told ye; I don’t take my relationships lightly, especially not the important ones. And ye’re very important to me.” With that he bends his head and his lips hover gently over mine, as if awaiting permission.

I kiss him back, softly at first and then with more fervor. We play with one another’s lips, teasing, exploring, before allowing our tongues to meet, tasting and savouring each other. I snake my arms up around his neck.

Reaching up, he runs his finger along my breastbone, brushing the straps of my bra. Slowly, he twists each button of my blouse, releasing it from its tiny hole, until my shirt eventually falls open.

I quiver in anticipation.

He studies me and smiles. Then he reaches up and caresses my breasts through the lacy fabric of my bra. My nipples are hard, and he fingers them playfully, sending spikes of desire from my breasts to my groin. I groan with pleasure, leaning into him and feeling the outline of his hard-on against my thigh. I turn around and rub my ass against his groin, soft at first, then harder. It’s his turn to groan.

“I have wanted this for so long,” he says lifting me up into his arms and carrying me toward my room.

I don’t stop kissing him as we move from the sitting room to my bedroom. It’s just too good to stop. He lays me gently down on the bed and removes my shoes and socks. Then he reaches for my belt and unbuckles it. I help him by shimmying out of my jeans and taking off my blouse, so that I’m lying there in only my bra and panties.

He removes his own shirt and jeans. Sliding out of his boxers, he kicks them to one side and stands before me, his cock like a ship’s mast.

“Yer wish is my command, my darlin’. Would ye like it hard or do ye feel like some gentle lovemaking this evening?” He speaks in a strong Irish accent that makes me giggle.

“I have been gagging for this for
weeks!
Do you even have to ask? I would definitely like the hard option, please.”

He reaches for one of the silk scarves that I have draped over the headboard. A wave of electricity goes through me as he weaves the scarf around my wrists, attaching it to the bed.

Standing up again, he goes over and opens my underwear drawer, riffling around until he finds what he’s looking for. Carefully, he ties pantyhose around my head as a blindfold. I giggle and squirm a little in anticipation. These kinds of games are new to me.

“Time to let someone else drive for a bit, darlin’. I’m going to make ye scream,” he whispers, biting my earlobe. He begins an exploration of my body with his tongue. Blind, I feel every lick and probe all the more intensely. Each time he places a finger or a hand on my body, all my attention is focused there. My body becomes a hotbed of liquid pleasure, and every inch of me has become an erogenous zone.

I shudder when he touches my wrists with the tips of his fingers, then his tongue. The inside of my arms are even more sensitive. It is as though he can anticipate everything I want, even before I know that I want it, and he gives it to me.

Soon, as promised, I am begging for mercy. He teases me with his tongue, licking and biting the fabric of my bra, which he moves over just enough to expose the nipples. Inching his way down my torso he nuzzles and licks my skin, occasionally biting lightly. I writhe around as much as I can, but I feel the scarf tighten around my wrists. I pull harder, the ecstasy mounting.

Just when I think that he will stop downtown to give me the relief I so desperately need, he keeps going and buries his mouth between my legs instead, kissing and licking the inner flesh of my thighs. I wriggle in ecstasy and try desperately to free my hands and grab his head, to pull him deeper inside me.

That is all I want now. To have him inside me. I moan. I beg for him to take me. He comes back up alongside me and I can feel his breath in my ear.

“But we’re just getting started,” he whispers, while his fingers play inside my opening.

“Please, Michaél,” I groan. He inserts one finger. Then another.

“There. Is that what ye want?” he murmurs, flicking and sucking my nipples. He removes my bra and frees my breasts. Touching, playing with featherlight fingers he teases me for what feels like a very long time before he starts to rub and pinch my nipples, all the while the fingers of his other hand work their magic massaging my clit.

I try to hold myself back but I can’t. The rush is taking over my body and I feel as though I might explode in ecstasy.
How does he know my body like this?
I come for the first time and it is magnificent. I’m reminded of the crest of the wave I rode back in Ireland, but this wave is of mythological proportions. My hips thrash against the bed. “Michaél! Michaél! Michaél!” I yell, forgetting about the world beyond these walls.

“Ye like that, darlin’?” He rips my panties off me completely and climbs on top of me. He kisses me hard on the mouth as he enters me. He lifts his lips and begins to move rhythmically inside me. My orgasm wanes and just as I feel I can breathe again, another begins to build in tandem with his movements.

I turn my head into his arm that I cannot see but can feel alongside my face. I kiss and lick and nip at what skin of his I can with a hunger I have never felt for anyone before.

He puts more of his weight onto my body, and I pull my legs up so that he can go deeper. The sensation is overwhelming and I grind my hips toward him, trying to drive him in deeper. I bite down on his shoulder, ravenously, about to burst with unspent passion. I can feel myself getting close to climax again.

“Oh, Jesus, yes!” he gasps as his body convulses in rhythmic spasms.

I too am riding the wave, and at the same moment I splinter into a thousands glittering stars. We twist and arch into each other and after a few moments of bliss he collapses gently on top of me. He removes my blindfold, kisses me, and smiles.

I smile back. “Soooo happy.”

He laughs. “Definitely worth waiting for.” He reaches up and unties my wrists, which he kisses. “Not too tight?”

“Just right.”

I snuggle into the crook of his arm and enjoy the feeling of floating through space with this beautiful man. At some point we both fall asleep, my bum nestled into his crotch and his arms encircling me. I enjoy a dreamless sleep.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

RIDLEE

TODAY WAS SUPPOSED TO BE my day to sleep in, but no; of course that’s not going to happen. Erin’s up at six in the morning, so I should be too, according to her.

“No, I can’t call you back,” she whines. “I need answers now and I’m awake.”