Alison's Wonderland (17 page)

Finn was slipping into the story, his voice rising and falling in a tale-teller’s lilt. “There was a fiddle player, too, and his name is lost, as well. He was the best fiddle player anyone had ever heard. His talent was known beyond the bounds of Arderra, and that was saying something back then. These ruins are of the little house he had here by the lake.

“Of course he had a sweetheart, and it’s said her name was Róisín. That means
rose,
and given the abundance of roses here, it’s not a surprise that she’d be named for that. She was a wild Irish rose, you see, with the red hair and skin soft as petals.”

Phoebe thought of the woman on the pub sign, and tried not to be distracted by how close Finn was sitting to her, so close that his arm brushed hers as he gestured.

“Our fiddler, well, he loved his Róisín truly,” he went on. “She was beautiful and kind and strong and wise, and she had a voice that could bring grown men to tears.”

She should remember that phrase for the book. It was nice to hear of a woman with brains and strength and talent, as well as looks.

“But like many men, he had a streak of pride and a streak of foolishness, and the mix of the two never ends well. His fiddle playing was renowned, but he wanted more. He wanted true fame; he wanted the world—he wanted the whole of Eire, anyway, to know his name. So he sat out here and he played his fiddle and he wished with all his heart, but more than that, he swore aloud that he’d do anything to have that fame. I doubt he had to call on the fair folk by name, because any oath like that would attract them like cats to fresh cream.”

Phoebe thought of cats lapping cream, and her lapping at Finn’s cock, a mental image so strong it rocked her to her core. She could see his strong profile in the moonlight as he gazed out over the water, lost in his tale.

“It was a water fae—one of the Glaistig, maybe, or an Asrai. It’s hard to say now, for we’ve lost that connection with the faerie folk. She rose right out of the lake there.” Finn pointed. A fish leaped, splashing the surface, and Phoebe jumped. She laughed at her own nervousness, but then Finn put an arm around her, and she stopped laughing.

He dug a flask out of his hip pocket, not a knotwork-decorated one like the kind she’d seen in gift shops, but plain silver. She wondered how he’d shoehorned it into those jeans. He offered it to her, and she drank. The whiskey danced like fire in her veins.

Finn took a swig and continued.

“Whatever she was, she was lovely beyond reason, dark as night just as Róisín was bright as day. She promised the fiddler his heart’s desire, but there was a price, as there always is with
the fae. One night with her was all she asked, one night from Midsummer’s Eve to Midsummer’s Morn, and in his foolish desire to fiddle to the world—or at least all of Eire—the fiddler thought it wasn’t that bad of a price.”

“I’m guessing Róisín thought differently,” Phoebe murmured.

“That she did,” Finn said, his warm breath fanning across her cheek. “She and the fiddler were to be wed, and she chose Midsummer’s Day. He thought that might not be the best of ideas, and somehow she got it out of him why he hesitated so.

“So on Midsummer’s Eve, she stole down to the lake, and she confronted the water fae right in front of the fiddler, claiming him as hers. The fae woman countered, and offered her a challenge. Róisín loved her fiddler above all else, and she wouldn’t let him be lost to the faerie folk.”

Probably not the smartest thing, Phoebe mused. But many people did foolish things for love, and even for lust.

“He would fiddle, the fae said, and she and Róisín would sing. The better singer would win. How the contest was to be judged we no longer know. But Róisín accepted, and the fae took her to the center of the lake, where she’d bespelled a rock for them to sit upon. It’s said they sang until the sky began to turn light again.”

Finn sighed. “Róisín’s voice was so sweet that it called the sun to rise, it’s said. But it took her last breath, and her last strength. She hadn’t anything left, and when the fae woman left, taking the rock with her, Róisín didn’t have the energy to make it back to shore. The fiddler swam out to her, but it was too late. Their fingers touched as she sank, and then she was gone.

“The fiddler, it’s said, played one more song, a song for Róisín, and it went something like this.”

Finn drew in a breath, and sang. The lyrics were in Gaelic,
but it didn’t matter. His voice carried the tune pure and smooth, and over it she thought she could hear the original fiddle strains, what the fiddler would have played before the words were added. The tune soared and wept; it was choked with despair and desperate with love.

“And then he smashed his fiddle on that very rock you can see, there at the edge of the lake,” Finn said when he finished, “and he never played again.”

Phoebe took a deep breath, feeling as if she’d been holding her breath for the whole song.

“There was another song, though,” Finn said, almost as a casual afterthought, although Phoebe knew better. “He’d written one for the water sprite, too, for their Midsummer’s Eve meeting.”

He stood before her to sing this one. His blue eyes turned black and deep in the darkness of the night, but always on her.

This song was in no way melancholy. No, Phoebe realized with a tremor of arousal, this one was all about desire. About the wanting of a wild fae, about the need to have her, just for one night. About passion and ecstasy beyond mortal comprehension.

The music pierced her straight between her legs. Wild, wanton music for a wild, wanton lover, and her nipples peaked to an almost painful hardness, her sex growing wet.

It wasn’t the potent whiskey, or the resonance of the wild Irish music through her veins, although those things, and the moonlight and the heady scent of roses, all added to the spell that seemed to settle over her like a silken net. Finn’s voice was a charm, and she reached for his magic with both hands.

But none of that was an excuse; she was in full control, and she knew exactly what she was doing when he finished singing and she slid her hands up under his coat, cupped his shoulder blades and drew him closer, watching until the last
moment as his head tipped toward hers, soft hair brushing her cheek.

A whiskey and a kiss, the price of a story well told.

It wasn’t enough. His lips were cool, but warmed swiftly as they kissed. Phoebe met his tongue with hers, tasting whiskey, drinking in the final notes of the song.

Finn murmured something about going to her room, or his, but she didn’t want to wait that long, and told him.

“Then we’ll have to thank the fiddler for letting us use his home,” Finn said, and stripped off his long black coat to lay it on the grass near the wild Irish roses.

She plucked his shirt buttons open and ran her tongue along his smooth, hairless chest, sucking gently at his nipples and making him tremble and arch into her, his hands stroking her hair.

Kneeling, facing each other, he stripped off his shirt and then hers. He cupped her naked breasts in his hands, bit gently on her neck as he tugged and tweaked her nipples. She felt as though taut fiddle strings connected from her breasts to her clit as his fingers sent vibrations of pleasure streaking through her.

He lay back, encouraged her to straddle his face, murmuring encouragement for her to play with her own breasts, to feel the night around them. His tongue was as talented as his fingers, playing her like a fine instrument, respecting her but at the same time urging her to give him everything.

And she sang, releasing her own music to the night as she came, her thighs tensed around his face and her hips bucking in his hands.

She crawled down his body to take his penis, long and smooth and hard like the rest of him, into her mouth. She circled him with her fist and her mouth and coaxed sweet beads of moisture from the tip of him, honey to go with the whiskey they’d already shared.

She could tell he was getting close, but then he gently drew her away, urging her onto her hands and knees in front of him. He bent low, his hair brushing her back, her skin so sensitized that another small tremor rocked her before he slowly sank the length of his cock into her.

Callused fingers strummed a melody on her clit while he carried the rhythm on his steady thrusts into her.

Their song moved steadily toward a crescendo.

Blood pounded in her ears, beating like the bodhran played in the ceilidh. Her orgasm soared on the strains of wild music.

On the cusp of the dawn, he reached for her hand. “We should be getting back.”

She knew better than to suggest they wait to see the sunrise.

They sold the book, and Erik’s photographs and Phoebe’s text received much praise. Phoebe arranged for the publisher to send a copy to Harry at the pub. She wanted to send one to Finn, but she didn’t even know his last name.

“Send it to Finn, care of The Broken Fiddle, in Arderra, Ireland,” she said. “It’ll get to him.”

Care of the broken fiddle.
How appropriate. He was the one who cared for the legend, kept it alive.

And on the day the book was launched, Erik gave her a picture he’d taken of Finn, wild and sexy and fiddling.

A crisp morning breeze streamed in through the window, the cool gusts of air causing the curtains to billow and part, allowing streaks of sunlight to flash across my rumpled bed. I breathed in deeply and smiled, gradually awakening to a reality that was far better than any dream could ever be.

Behind me, I felt the mattress shift. I rolled over to face the tasty morsel next to me, who was still fast asleep. Jake was lying on his stomach, both arms wrapped around a pillow. The sheet had slipped off him during the night, revealing his muscular arms and back, as well as his tight little ass that still bore faint stripes from well-placed strokes of his own leather belt.

Only a few short hours ago, I’d seen his chocolate-brown eyes wide with lust and anticipation before he lavished my stilettos with kisses. At my direction, his pouty lips traveled upward, and he nestled his face between my trembling thighs to tongue my aching sex. I wrapped my fingers in his hair and crushed his face against me. Jake had just the right touch, not too hard, not too soft. With unceasing devotion, he lapped at my pulsing button until he turned my slow-burning desire into a raging inferno of pleasure.

But at that moment, in the bright morning sun, my bad boy looked blissful, nearly angelic. His black hair was so perfectly mussed, it looked as though a stylist had snuck into the room in the middle of the night to primp and pose him just for me.

“Good morning, Cassie,” said Rick, startling me from my reverie. He spoke in a hushed whisper, so as not to wake his friend. Rick was leaning against the door frame, wearing nothing but his drawstring pajama bottoms. My eyes lingered on his six-pack abs as he approached the bed with a mug of fresh-brewed coffee. I sat up and took the drink from him. I nodded my thanks, and he smiled and left the room.

I’m not one to believe in fate, but sometimes when you least expect it, life gives you exactly what you need—even if you didn’t realize you needed it.

Up until last year, my life was going according to plan. I’d checked off every milestone my twenty-two-year-old self had detailed years before on her list of must-have accomplishments: MBA, marriage to a lawyer and a swanky apartment on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. But somewhere along the way, things changed. I changed. And suddenly “the list” didn’t matter anymore.

For more than a dozen years, my husband, Brandon, and I had been working sixty-hour weeks and spending more time with our personal trainers than with each other. Of course, we’d penciled in weekly “sex dates,” but I was dissatisfied. When I finally stopped speeding through my days, I realized I was always on the go because I was too scared to admit that I wasn’t happy. It was at the start of one of our sex dates that I kept my panties on and confessed to Brandon that I didn’t know what I wanted, but it wasn’t the life I’d been leading. After a few moments of silence, he admitted that he felt the same way. There was no yelling or dish throwing, just a realization that we were through. Our divorce was a simple con
tractual arrangement, much like our marriage had been. I was closing in on forty years old, and I realized that a sensible life full of proper choices had left me feeling hollow.

I wanted—no, I
needed—
something more.

I felt as if I’d woken up from a multidecade nap. The world seemed fresh and new, and I decided to do all the things I’d been too meek to go for but had always wanted. I gave up my corporate job, got a position working for a small nonprofit and set up a new home across the river in a Brooklyn brownstone. Living in Cobble Hill was nearly like being in the country. It was the best of both worlds for me, the convenience of the city nearby and a house on a peaceful, tree-lined street.

I was happy living by myself, so I had no intention of opening up my home—especially to a couple of strangers. But one day, a business associate mentioned that a couple of her interns needed a place to stay. They would be starting their senior year in college in the fall and hadn’t been able to sublet a place for the summer. Right after she inquired about my three empty bedrooms, she began the hard sell about how they were such good, industrious boys. And while I wasn’t eager to give up my solitude, I agreed to do this one good deed. After all, it was only for three months.

When Jake arrived on my doorstep, I could hardly believe my eyes. After hearing about his dean’s-list grades, I was expecting more of a geek. But Jake looked like nothing of the sort. Tall and muscular, his black curls rakishly disheveled, he strode into my living room with a large duffel bag tossed over his shoulder, looking like a strapping sailor heading to shore for leave.

Jake greeted me shyly and stuttered a sheepish thank-you. His cheeks flushed adorably, and he seemed barely able to meet my gaze. That was just as well because
I
was unable to stop my eyes from roaming over his beautiful physique. I
stared at the muscles in his arms, which flexed as he shifted the weight of his bag from one shoulder to the other. And when he bent over to drop his belongings in the corner, I nearly swooned from how tempting his ass looked cradled in the broken-in jeans. Fortunately, I regained my composure before he turned around, feeling my face heat with embarrassment. I showed him to his room and left him to settle in. Meanwhile I headed for a warm bath and a glass of wine, wondering what had gotten into me. He was a gorgeous young man, but there was no way he’d be interested in a woman my age—or would he? In those fleeting seconds that our eyes actually met, I saw something that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. It was a look laden with admiration, appreciation and a certain eagerness that I found endearing.

While I was shocked by Jake, the next morning I received yet another surprise when his friend Rick arrived. Blond, fair-skinned and lanky, Rick perfectly complemented Jake. His peaches-and-cream complexion looked delicious, and I was having a hard time not imagining eating him up. Rick was bolder than Jake. He wasn’t shy about looking me in the eye, even as he deferentially expressed his gratitude to me for giving them a place to stay.

During the first two weeks, I barely saw the boys. We kept drastically different hours. But on the weekends, they were constantly underfoot. My house was in livable condition, but there were a host of home-improvement projects that needed to be completed, and the boys were quick to offer their assistance. But they wanted to do more than simply help. From the beginning, they insisted that I sit back, relax and tell them what to do.

At first, I felt uneasy about the situation, but they were so full of energy and eager to please that I easily found myself falling into the role of mistress of the house. We started with the backyard garden, and they followed my landscaping re
design to the letter, while I sat in the shade, sipping lemonade and admiring their shirtless torsos glistening with sweat as they labored in the July sun. While I enjoyed the sight, what surprised me most was how much I enjoyed telling them what to do. It seemed to give me a little charge, and I began micro-managing their household chores.

As the weeks passed, I sensed an erotic vibe growing between the three of us. At first I thought it was my imagination, but Jake began giving me a warm smile whenever he saw me, and Rick had taken to having my coffee waiting for me in the morning. Their schedules gradually changed, so that they both were in the house to greet me in the evening when I arrived home from work, and consequently we began having dinner together. While I appreciated their attention, I wondered where this was headed. Well, I finally got my answer at summer’s end—and it was hotter than any fantasy I could have dreamed up on my own.

I was sitting in an easy chair in the corner of the living room, dealing with office paperwork. The day before, I’d had the boys spackle and sand the walls, which were ready to be painted. Jake had just finished taping up the edges of the ceiling and was descending a ladder. As he jumped off the last rung, he knocked over an open paint can, and the cinnamon-hued liquid quickly spread into a large puddle at his feet. Before he could grab the can, an ocean of gooey color spread across the tarp and seeped into a patch of unprotected carpet.

I jumped up in alarm. It was a knee-jerk reaction because I’d already made the decision to tear up the cream-colored wall-to-wall and purchase a deep-pile throw. “Oh, Cassie,” Jake said, his eyes wide. “I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you.”

Rick wandered in from the kitchen in time to hear Jake’s apology. “That’s one big mess, Jake.” Then he turned to me with a twinkle in his eyes. “That was awfully clumsy of him. I think someone needs to be punished.”

I gasped at Rick’s unexpected words and saw Jake flush, his handsome face quickly going from pink to crimson as his eyes stayed glued to the spilled paint. I immediately got the impression that these boys had lived a lot more than I’d initially given them credit for. Without thinking, I instantly slid into their game.

“I think you’re correct, Rick. Punishment
is
in order,” I said slowly. Jake looked up at me, his brown eyes filled with a delicious mixture of fear and desire. His breathing was coming in quick little gasps, and his erection was tenting his jeans. The sight of his hard cock made my mouth water, but I forced myself to stay in character and play the game—to not give in to my hunger.

“But, Rick,” I added, “you’re the one who left that open paint can near the ladder. You’re just as much to blame. You stay where you are until I’m ready for you.” Rick tried hard to hide his smile, biting the corner of his lip, but I could still see how thrilled he was.

Feeling bold, I strode over to Jake and grabbed his belt. I quickly unfastened the buckle and slid the leather from around his waist. Jake licked his lips but said nothing. He just kept taking those deep breaths and staring at me. Holding the smooth black leather in one hand, I used the other to deftly pop open his button fly and yank down his jeans. Now it was my turn to bite my lip. Jake wasn’t wearing any underwear, and his thick erection sprang up from his jeans in indecent invitation, sprouting from a nest of dark hair. I resisted the urge to stroke his cock and ordered him to turn around. Acting as though he’d done this a thousand times before, Jake grabbed the arm of the couch and bent over, presenting his bare ass.

As for me, I’d never done anything like this before, but suddenly the situation felt right. I doubled up the belt and placed one hand at the small of Jake’s back to steady my
target. I slapped the leather against his ass, and he let out a little moan that caused a twinge in my pussy. I lashed him again, and he whispered, “Harder, please.” His urgent begging increased the ache in my sex, and with Jake’s words ringing in my ears, I whipped him more soundly. As his skin blossomed, turning from lily-white to carnation-pink to rose-red, I felt my panties grow damp and my arousal skyrocketed.

After a dozen strokes, I stopped lashing him and told him to remain in position. Jake didn’t move a muscle, although I could hear his ragged gasps for air as he struggled to maintain his composure. I looked over at Rick, who, as ordered, had remained in the same spot I had left him. I pointed to the opposite arms of the couch, and Rick mirrored Jake’s position. I wandered over and worked my hand beneath him to open his cargo pants. When I reached for his zipper, my hand grazed his cock, and he exhaled loudly. Using two hands, I tugged his pants and boxer briefs down to his knees. His ass was even more pale than Jake’s had been, and I couldn’t wait to give it some color.

Whipping Jake had gotten me seriously worked up, and I’d already found my stroke, so to speak, so I had no problem laying into Rick. After all, this scene had been his idea, and I didn’t want to leave his expectations unfulfilled. With rapid-fire precision, I delivered a dozen solid lashes, which only served to make me hotter. As I stared at Rick’s striped ass, I squeezed my thighs together, feeling desire and hunger swell inside me. I’d never been more turned on in my life than I was at that moment, having had these two strong, handsome men so readily submit to me.

“Now, Jake. You’d said something about making it up to me?”

Jake looked up, still clutching the couch.

“Come here.”

He rushed over to me, stripping off his clothes in a mad
haste. He knelt before me and placed reverential kisses on each of my high-heeled shoes before reaching underneath my skirt. He paused, his hands on my thighs, and looked at me for approval. When I nodded, he pulled my panties down my thighs. The silky garment was so wet, it left damp streaks along my flesh. Jake helped me out of my undies, and then dived underneath my skirt. He grabbed my ass, palming my cheeks roughly as he slurped up my juice. He trailed his tongue along my slit, and I jumped every time he grazed my swollen clit. I began grinding my sex down against his lips and chin. He responded to my motions by zeroing in on my button, and I tangled my fingers in his hair and held him in place. I was lost in my own world as he teased and flicked my clit until he took me over the edge. I cried out loud, shivering as I came, and glossing his face with my juice.

Once I caught my breath, I pulled away from Jake and told him to sit on the couch. He readily obeyed, and I couldn’t hide my smile when I saw him wince as his well-whipped bottom hit the velvet cushion. His erection was as hard as stone, and this time I reached out to stroke it, imagining what it was going to feel like inside me.

Rick was still in position, watching us. I leaned over and rummaged around in the pockets of his pants, which were still banded around his knees. I found his wallet and was grateful to find a condom inside. I tossed his wallet to the floor and then opened the little foil package and rolled the condom over Jake’s shaft. Once it was in place, I straddled his hips and slowly lowered myself onto his cock, sighing with satisfaction. I kissed him, our tongues tangling wildly, and I tasted my own musky flavor on his lips. I rose up and slammed down, repeatedly filling myself with his dick. Once I got a good rhythm going, I turned toward Rick. “Come,” I gasped, waving him toward us.

Rick kicked off his pants and rested one knee on the
couch. I grabbed his cock and brought it to my parted lips. I circled my tongue around the head of his dick, and Rick closed his eyes and hissed through his teeth. I slowly slid my lips down his shaft, swallowing his entire length and savoring his flavor. By this point, Jake had grabbed my hips and was pumping upward into my pussy. Each time he hit bottom, I groaned around his friend’s dick. Rick kept his hands at his sides and let me suck him at my own pace. I felt so deliciously dirty to be enjoying these two young men. As always, they followed my lead and were looking to make sure I was satisfied. That realization sparked my second orgasm of the night. It came on me suddenly in an explosion of pleasure. As I felt the ecstasy course through me, my cunt fluttered around Jake’s shaft. His hips rose off the cushions one last time, and he groaned loudly. I felt his shaft pulse inside the condom as he reached his own peak seconds after me.