Page 9 of Good Golly Miss Molly

Logan’s callused fingertips drift up my sides, carrying my shirt with them. He bends down and kisses my bellybutton before dotting kisses up along my body. When he reaches my breasts, he pulls my shirt over my head and then peels the cups of my bra down over each breast, caressing them, before taking one nipple into his mouth and the other between his fingers, pinching it lightly. I arch my back into him, moaning, and he groans in response.

I run my hands up his back, under his shirt, caressing muscles made strong by the physical nature of his work. He skin is ridged under my fingertips, and I wonder what exactly has happened to this beautiful, talented man that he’s marked up like this. I’ve seen it before — a life hard-lived, trauma, worse… You’d be surprised how often such experiences feed inspiration. There’s a reason why the tortured artist is a trope.

But this one… The man I saw this morning, the musician, the craftsman, so free with his smiles… He shows no sign beyond the texture of his skin of anything but the happy-go-lucky guy he seems to be on the surface. It’s a wonder. I marvel at him.

That song of his… the one he named for me — it’s one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever heard, almost otherworldly. And I’ve heard the work of legendary master composers. I’ve had songs written about me by some of the greatest songwriters in human history. Little, if any, of it compares to what I heard tonight from Logan Gilmour, luthier, musician and Druid, in the tiny little town of Mystic Beach in tiny little Delaware.

My fingers explore his back, seeking the answers to mysteries beyond even my ken. His lips and hands are learning my body far more efficiently, rendering me unable to think beyond the sensations of his touch and the feel of him under my fingers. He rolls his hips against me, hard against my soft center.

“I need these clothes off — all of them. Now,” I tell him, panting with need. His song alone should have left me sated, for now, but I’m so starved after going without for so long that my desire has only gotten stronger.

“Your wish is my command,” he says, sitting up to strip off his own shirt before grabbing hold of my loose-fitting skirt and sliding it down and off my feet, taking my panties with him. I reach behind me and unhook my bra, sliding it off my arms and dropping it onto the floor.

It’s almost pitch-black in this room, at least to human vision. I can make out shapes and form even on a cloudy, moonless night, even without the aid of modern streetlights. Leannán sidhe are creatures of darkness, even if we aren’t constrained to living there. Our natural environs are pubs, bars, concerts, romantic restaurants with candlelit dinners, a cozy room lit only by a banked fire, and dark bedrooms — always dark bedrooms. So we are born with incredible night vision.

But Logan has to be functionally blind right now. He found his way to the bed on memory, I’m sure. It has to be an illusion, but he’s gazing upon me now, stripped naked in his bed, like I’m the most wondrous thing he’s ever laid his eyes upon. Even above his beautiful guitars.

I can see more scarring on his chest. What in the names of all the gods happened to this man, and how is he not still in agony from it? No — far from it, because when I sit up to touch him, he shies away for just a moment before grabbing my hands and pressing them into his chest. He’s quiet, thoughtful. But then he smiles. He has to know that a human woman couldn’t see his expression, so he’s not smilingforme — he’s smiling because of me.

A shudder grips me.

Not before and not since… him… the one whose name I do not allow myself to speak… have I had a man look at me like this, with not just longing, but simple affection. If I was disarmed before, I’m completely undone now. Doomed to repeat the very thing that made me swear off even the most limited of dalliances. What is happening here? And can either of us possibly survive it?

Logan’s loose grasp on my hands tightens, dragging them down to his waist. I shake my head free of worry and unbutton his jeans, tracing my fingers along the inside of his waistband. He moans again at that simple contact and, impatient, strips off pants and underwear in one move.

The scars are much lighter here, and clearly not impeding function, because he’s sporting a rampant erection that has my fingers itching to touch and my mouth to taste. I do one and then the other, sliding down to take his cock in my mouth from where he stands at the end of the bed. He’s hard steel and soft velvet under my hand as I pull him into me, the ridges here to be explored with hands and tongue, in pure pleasure. And it’s pleasure he’s expressing, grasping the back of my head gently and panting lightly as I take him to the back of my throat.

“Molly,” he groans. The sound melts my insides in an instant. I am pure liquid.

He pushes my head away, his cock harder than ever, bobbing against his stomach and already tipped with a droplet hinting at his eagerness to have me. I look up into his eyes, and again that uncanny sense that he’s reading my expression, my body. Instinct. It has to be instinct…

I know arousal has to be pressing him to his limit, and I start to slide back up the bed so he can get inside me. But he grabs my legs and slides me closer to the end of the bed, my legs hanging off, quickly spread to accommodate his wide shoulders as he leans his head into me. Just the tiniest touch of his tongue as he trails from my opening to the top of my slit. Not gentle or tentative, but enticing. Now it’s me groaning, anticipating more… anything… whatever he’ll give me.

And he gives meeverything, making love to my pussy with his mouth, his lips, his tongue. He slides his fingers inside me, just a hint of things to come, but so exquisitely intuiting what I like that I’m at near-climax within moments.

“Oh, gods… Logan,” I moan, and he makes a low sound of deep pleasure that vibrates right through my pubic bone, sending me careening over the peak and racing downhill at the speed of light. I feel like I’m flying.

He keeps licking at me, fucking me with his fingers, milking the last spasms from me until I am completely spent. And the smile on his face when he raises his head is almost as fulfilling to my eyes as his song was to my ears.

He clambers up on the bed, looming over me like a promise and then lifting me up, hovering over me with such an expression on his face. One would think he’d just come himself. And again I marvel.

He leans over to the side and opens a drawer in the bedside table, withdrawing a condom. Less important when you‘ll likely live forever, but nonetheless wise, and a modern human convention I need to follow. Because I can’t exactly tell this man that I’m immortal.

He slides it down over himself as I watch, hungrily, still desperate for every bit of this man I can get… while he’s still here. I signed his eventual death warrant with a flippant metaphor involving fried cakes, but I’m going to make sure he enjoys the time he has left. He could well rule the world — literally — as strong as my need to give him everything already is, after just a handful of hours together. And if I can find any way out of this, I will risk all to make sure he survives. I cannot lose him. I won’t survive this time, immortal or not.

He looks me deep in the eyes as he lowers himself on top of me, the weight of him comforting, tangible, real, and I pull him hard against me with my arms wrapped around his chest and my thighs around his hips.

“I want you inside me,” I tell him. But the truth is he already is. He as good as climbed inside my heart and soul the first time I saw him.

“I want nothing more.”

He fits himself against me and slides slowly home… and it does feel like home. I haven’t had a real home in several centuries, and the feeling is welcome and terrifying all at the same time. Because I know how tragically briefly I will have him. But I will make that time the best he has ever experienced.

He starts to move, a slow dance that sets music drifting through my mind, as surely as if he was singing to me. The tempo speeds up as we move together, the percussive sounds of flesh against flesh supporting a melody laced with shared breaths and a harmony of two people truly come together as one, merging into a single song of delight and wonder and… something more.

“Molly, oh, Molly,” Logan chants.

“Yes… come… be with me…”

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