Summer at Castle Stone. Lynn Hulsman Marie
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awakened at 5:30 a.m. and the house was still. There was no danger of Des getting up soon, and surely Auntie Fiona slept past dawn. I padded quietly into the kitchen and looked for a coffee maker. No luck. I couldn’t remember a day since I was fifteen that I hadn’t started my morning with a cup of coffee. There was, however, an electric tea kettle. I’d always considered these a waste of space. Funny how everyone in Ireland has one and no one in America does. Who couldn’t heat water on the stove? Why bother with a kettle? When the water boiled before I could even put a teabag in a mug, I had my answer. I went for the milk in the fridge, even though I never drank milk in tea at home. It was like I was on autopilot, being called by the song of the lost souls of the Irish people who’d always put milk in their tea. It felt weird, but I had to admit that the tiny pint-sized plastic jug, and the unapologetic way it called whole milk “full fat” charmed me.
Not only did I not start my day with my usual cup of coffee, I couldn’t check my phone or email because I wasn’t set up for that yet. It dawned on me that I had no idea what to do about phone service. If I just tried to use my phone, each call might cost a mint, and I couldn’t afford to throw money around. I’d left so fast and without a thought about practical matters. Worse yet, my brilliant brain couldn’t figure things out because it wasn’t my playing field. I was not the master of my universe. But then, had I ever been?
It wasn’t quite six o’clock and I had nothing to do. I was itching to call Tom O’Grady, but I didn’t know how to use the phone. I felt vulnerable; like if there was a disaster, I wouldn’t know the drill. “No, Shayla!” I told myself, nipping it in the bud. Go out and get some fresh air and this idea will seem better when the sun comes up. I crept up the stairs, still in my pajamas, and quietly brushed my teeth. I heard the front door open and some jingling keys being put on a hook. I heard Des clear his throat and I slipped through the bathroom door, intending to race back to my room before he saw me. Which would have been the best possible thing. Obviously. Instead, what happened was this: With Des’s high energy and long stride, he was up the staircase, and standing in front of me before I could think. His blue eyes lit up the dark like a couple of headlights and I was frozen. I couldn’t look away.
Before I could take a breath, his mouth was on mine, and my arms were wrapped around his neck, me standing on tippy-toe, gasping for air. His lips were firm and insistent. I tried to whisper “no,” but the thought of waking Auntie Fiona quieted my voice. I signaled with my body that we should stop, that it was too risky, we’d get caught. He met every bend of my neck and every jolt of my hips like a tango master. Every touch, every push and grind made me forget why I wanted to stop.
He tasted like fresh beer and spearmint gum; it was the taste of being wild with a boy at a club. I was only wearing a thin t-shirt and no bra. His hand kneaded my breast and I leaned into it. He picked me up at the waist, me straddling his long frame sloppily, and he dragged me into his room, the closest one to the bathroom.
“Oh,” he moaned, “Shayla, I am going to give it to you like you have never had it before.” Just like that. No discussion. No request for permission. My mind was sizzling and my body melted. No man had ever talked to me like that before. All my other lovers had gone out of their way to be chivalrous, real 21st-century men, determined to prove how sensitive they were. It was clear that Des planned to take what he wanted. His attitude electrified me and I was right behind him. I couldn’t stop now if I wanted to. I wasn’t leaving this tangle till my tension got relieved.
He lay me back on the bed and peeled my shirt up. He scraped the stubble of his beard up my belly and covered my nipple with his mouth, circling his tongue and humming with pleasure. It lit me on fire. Then, pulling his head up and panting into his mouth, I reached down to undo the snap on his jeans. I popped it open and tugged at the zipper, all the while wrapping my legs around his pelvis, trying to grind into his hardness.
He untangled my greedy fingers from his hair and pulled my shirt up over my head, only stopping our hungry kiss long enough to pull the collar past our mouths. With the skill of a magician, he used one of his hands and his knee to strip off my jogging pants and panties while keeping me drunk with kisses and teasing my aching breasts. I didn’t recognize myself, I was so out of control. When he shifted to wriggle his jeans past his slim hips, I actually pouted and humphed. A second was too long to wait for contact. I was long past having manners. What we had here was a matter of need, not want. Slowing down would be like trying to turn a cruise ship around.
The feeling of his hot skin pressed against me from my ankles to my cheek set off something primal. I grabbed the length of him with my whole hand and stroked it to the tip. Uncircumsized. The newness of it drove me wild.
“Now,” I demanded, forgetting to whisper.
“Oh, God, Shayla, yes, yes,” he chanted again and again as he ripped open a condom packet with his teeth and reached down to roll it on. I swung up on top of him, balancing myself by digging the heels of my hands into his pubic bone like it was the horn of a saddle. I loved that part of a man. Especially a tall, skinny one like Des.
I lowered myself down, taking him in all at once, not bothering to tease. By the way he used his fingers, I could tell Des had been around the block a time or two, and with women, not just girls. I slid up and down, taking full advantage of the fact that I’d claimed the top position, and ground into that bone, taking him deeper and deeper. “Oh dear fuck, Shayla,” he whispered. “That is delicious.”
At that point, I closed my eyes, and went into a kind of trance, nearly forgetting that Des was there. Up to this point in my life, I had never, never taken what I wanted so aggressively. I was Super Woman, capable of anything. From that point forward, it was all hands, and mouth, and pounding. I worked hard and got what I came for. I changed my movement to near stillness, and was rewarded by electric pulsing from where I was sitting.
“Shayla,” he moaned.
“Shh!” I warned him. “Ah-ah-ah-ah!” I cried out, forgetting utterly about keeping this secret from Auntie Fiona. I couldn’t have stayed quiet if I’d tried.
Oh. My. God. I felt so loose, so calm. I flopped over onto his chest, and listened to my own heartbeat for a few seconds. He didn’t say a thing. Like I said, he was good at this. Way better at it than I would have given him credit for. I rewarded him with a firm kiss on the mouth. He was still inside me, “Lie back,” I told him, “here comes yours.”
I left Des sleeping, washed up, and quietly pulled on some clothes. There was no hairdryer to be found, let alone a curling iron or a pair of straightening tongs. God, I hated dealing with all this hair. What happened to the days of wash-and-wear? Deep down, I knew Maggie was right about how a 20-something’s coiffure was supposed to look in the city, but I didn’t have the time nor the patience to maintain an amazing style that was meant to look effortless. I ran a comb through it, but it was not interested in being tamed. The clock said 7 a.m. I threw my wallet and new journal and pen into a tote. There were keys on the hooks by the door. I had to lock the door behind myself. I found the right one on the third try and set out walking in the pre-dawn glow, hoping that this was a safe neighborhood. I could smell salt water, so I tried to use my lizard brain to find the seafront. Auntie Fiona had said it was about a kilometer away. “About a mile,” I thought. Then I questioned myself. The half-assed attempts to teach us the metric system in school hadn’t really stuck. I walked blindly on, hoping I’d get where I wanted to go sooner or later.
I sat down on a flat rock and gazed out at the horizon. Breathtaking was the only fitting word for it. I pulled out my journal and wrote:
Dear Mags, It’s hard to believe I’m in Ireland sitting on a seawall, watching the sun rise. The blazing orange and pink of the sun is illuminating everything, but leaving the edges soft. I wish I could show it to you. Sunrises, like dreams and falling in love, mean so much to the person they’re happening to, and always pale in the description. There are plumes of smoke rising from the chimneys of the clean-lined houses, scenting the air. It doesn’t smell like the smoke from houses upstate. It’s earthier than woodsmoke, and mixed with the sea breeze, it calls to mind both dried blood and babies being born. It’s not unpleasant, though. The only word I can think of to describe it is organic.