Page 56 of Her Irish Savage

She names three singers I’ve never heard of. When she pulls up their music on her phone, they all sound the same—anguished girls with high, thready voices, spitting out the wordfuckin the middle of complicated rhymes about boys who screwed them over.

Fiona has never seenThe Shawshank Redemption.So after we put the leftovers in the fridge, we settle on the couch and watch my favorite film on her phone. She curls up against me like a kitten. We both ignore my full-blown hard-on, because Morgan Freeman deserves that much respect.

Fiona doesn’t love the movie.

“It’s just a bunch of men,” she says. “It can’t be one of the best movies of all time if there aren’t roles for women.”

“There’s Andy’s wife,” I remind her. I know that’s not enough to win the argument, but I want to wind her up. I’m thinking Fiona and I can go a round or two, that I’m ready to see if I can make her screamDaddyas she comes.

But before she can deliver a scathing reply, she yawns—and not some dainty, catch-it-at-the-back-of-her-throat little ladylike yawn. Her mouth opens like a cobra’s, and her tongue curls up as a sound like half a scream scrapes her throat.

Obviously embarrassed, she winces like she’s nursing a physical blow. She catches her lip between her teeth and glances at the front door, like she expects me to pack up and leave.

“Okay,” I say. “Let’s go,Scáthach.”

“What does that mean?” she says, like she hasn’t asked before.

I play dumb. “What does what mean?”

“Ska-ha?”

“That’s something only Daddies know.” I say it because I want to get a rise out of her. I want her to stop thinking about how she just yawned like a banshee.

“That’s absolute bullsh—” She swallows mid-word.

I know she won’t stop swearing forever. I don’t even want to apply my rule outside this game we’re playing. She can say whatever she wants when we aren’t actually fucking.

But I love the way she’s suddenly thinking, suddenlyawareof everything she says.

“What’s that, little girl?”

“Nothing,” she mutters.

“I’ll tell you what,” I say, because playing games with her is fun. “I’ll tell you whatScáthachmeans if you show me what’s inside the cigar box Oona gave you.”

She looks scandalized. “Never! No one’s looked inside that box.”

“Well, then.” I don’t push. I can wait until she wants to share.

But I see the way fatigue is shaping her face. Her eyes are heavy. Her lips are soft. “Come on,” I say. And then I repeat: “Let’s go.”

“Go where?” She’s suddenly wary, like a cat ready to hide beneath a table.

“To bed. Before I have to carry you there.”

She’s so transparent, my little girl. She juts her chin. She gives a sidewise glance to the crotch of my jeans where, mercifully, my cock has decided to behave. She licks her lips, ready to saysomethingdesigned to get a literal rise out of me.

I shake my head. “Be good.”

And she must truly be exhausted, because she obeys.

But at three in the morning, I’m the one who wants to go another round. I pad into the jacks to piss, and I come back with another johnny. I’m hard enough to roll it on before I climb back into the warm space beside Fiona.

I spread my hand across her belly, and she wriggles close. Ilean down and whisper in her ear, “You’re gorgeous when you sleep.”

She’s barely half-awake, but her body reacts like a cat hearing a can-opener. I can’t see her blush in the darkened room, but heat rises off her back in waves. I slip my hand under the waistband of the skimpy little shorts she’s wearing as pajamas. “You feel so good, little girl.”

Her eyes stay closed but she moans a little, and her hand reaches between her legs. Her fingers thread with mine, and we find her clit together.

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