Page 52 of The Scald Crow

“Do ye think?” Playing hard to get was not my forte, and hiding my smile was nearly impossible.

The crowd grew. I scanned the perimeter, gazing over the bobbing heads—people talking over one another, laughing and shouting. A bottleneck of so many worried me. This was a night out for so many. That was home.

“Okay, I’ll play your game, O’Donnell. Why are you here?” She rolled her eyes and smiled at me alone.

“Like I said, I’m supporting the fundraiser.” My thoughts ran riot, my obsession growing by the minute.

“Why doesn’t Saoirse like you?” She planted her hand on her hip and studied me.

“We have history.” The conversation with the witch seemed a long time ago.

Concern grew in Calla’s gaze.

“Sounds like you accused her of sorcery. Take my advice, buttercup. Kiss and makeup. You want a mad witch talking shit about you?” She lifted an eyebrow, sizing me up for a fight I couldn’t win.

“What are you doing after the show?” I smiled, throwing my masculine charms her way.

Another wave entered the pub, adding to the deafening roar. Some escaped the melee, finding refuge in the long hall. Others stood their ground, claiming the real estate close to the bar. Shoulder to shoulder, they closed in on one another. It was claustrophobic, the atmosphere suffocating.

“Are you asking me out?” She lifted her chin.

“You owe me a raincheck,” I held her gaze.

“A raincheck? And what did you have in mind?” Her eyelashes fluttered.

“A moonlit stroll on the strand?” I drew the pad of my thumb along the curve of her jaw.

One enthusiastic punter jostled another. The burly lad with a tweed newsboy cap would collide with the Faerie girl in seconds. I reacted, thrusting my palm forward, striking the clown between the shoulder blades and, at the same time, pulling Calla out of harm’s way.

“Oy, sorry, mate.” The culchie tipped his hat, making amends.

“You saved me, O’Donnell. Twice.” She pressed against me, her hands on my shoulders. Beneath the clingy knit, her nipples rose into delectable nubs.

“Aye, and I’ll do it again. You’re a fine lass, Calla Sweet. You need to take care.” Blood rushed through my veins, making my balls burn and my cock react.

“I do?” She smiled sweetly, making no move to retreat.

Her scent made my head spin. My mouth water.

“Aye, there’s a wee rabble out tonight. Shnakey shitehawks. Bleedin’ melters.” I chuckled.

“Shnakey shitehawks?” She stumbled on the Irish slang.

“They’ll be after taking advantage of a lass like you.” I pressed the heel of my hand into the small of her back, seating her position between my thighs.

“And what would you be wanting, Colm O’Donnell, from a fine lass like me?” Her fiery gaze stared through my soul.

“I want what’s beneath this slip you’d be calling a dress.” I leaned close, the bristles on my chin scraping the soft skin of her cheek.

A cacophony of voices babbled around us. Another day, I would slip through the kitchen, escaping through the back door. Crowded places were not my thing. But that was not the time to abandon a lady in distress.

“Hmm. I wasn’t sure if I was your cup of tae.” She pinned her soft lips and smiled.

The voices faded, and in that moment, that fracture of time, the crowd dissipated, leaving us alone. She was the wind whistling through the trees.

“Why do you visit my dreams?” The Faerie girl and I were in a precarious position, yet she made no move to escape. Drifting lower, I brushed the edge of her skimpy dress with my free hand. Unseen and unnoticed, I explored freely, finding a wee bit of lace and her bottom bare. She rewarded me with a low laugh.

“You don’t want to know.” She writhed silently against my hardened erection, her breath mingling with mine. This was not a hookup in a bar. This was a pleasure, long overdue. The dreams we shared had only escalated my need. The point of no return loomed near.

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