Still Life with Strings (38 page)

“You don’t play fair,”
I say sullenly.

He smiles with teeth
and murmurs, “No, I don’t,” before he dips down to give me a spine-tingling
kiss. Somewhere nearby I can hear Ben letting out a loud wolf whistle. I just
about manage to give him the finger, even though my wrists are still captured
in Shane’s grip. He drags his mouth off mine lazily and then stands up,
offering me his hand and helping me to my feet.

We go inside, and Clark
declares that he’s going to make us all a cup of his homemade hot chocolate. I
go and change into some comfy PJs, and Ben fires up the DVD player. When I
enter the living room, Shane’s sitting on one of the couches, his stare hot as
he takes in my fleece pyjamas. By the way he’s looking at me, you’d think I was
wearing some slinky lingerie.

I sit down on the other
side of the couch, but he pulls me closer, wrapping his arms tight around me
and nipping playfully at my ear. His hand settles on the lowest part of my
belly, which means that when Ben starts the movie I can hardly concentrate on
the story at all. Clark comes in with a tray of hot chocolates, and I take mine
gratefully. The warm liquid and dollop of cream on top soothes my nerves.

This is a good feeling,
I think. To have great friends. To be loved. I don’t know what I did to deserve
the man I’m currently wrapped up in. Then a dozen recollections flit through my
mind.

Looking into the eyes
of the devil who killed my sister as he pretended to be innocent.

Puking up blood and
vodka as I hunched over a toilet bowl.

Going through alcohol
withdrawals. God, the withdrawals were the worst.

Okay, so maybe I do
deserve this moment. But I’m still slightly on edge, like I’m going to wake up
from a dream. It’s not like I haven’t spent half my life imagining fantasies to
try to escape the darkness. I remember him telling me he felt like he dreamt me
the first night we met. Perhaps he feels the same way. Perhaps I’m just as much
of a miracle to him as he is to me.

What he said to me is
always in the back of mind, that how we met is proof that there’s magic in the
world. Those words are always there, making me feel a little bit better about
living this life full of pain.

As the movie comes to
an end, Shane’s hand has started to play beneath the elastic of my pants. I
clench my thighs together, thinking of all the things I want him to do to me
tonight. Clark asks if we’d like some cheese toasties, but I’m too full of
butterflies to eat anything else.

Shane offers to help
with the toasties, and I go to our room for a breather. One of those little
mundane things in life that bring me pleasure is to dive with all my weight
onto a bed without a care to the possibility that you might break it. And
that’s what I do.

Jump up.

Dive.

Fall.

Relax.

Then I just lie there,
my head turned to the window, counting the flecks of snow as they drift like
beacons through the dark night. Fairies perch on their edges, hitching a ride
down from their secret world in the sky. They are just as pretty and cute as
you might imagine, but don’t get too close, or they’ll bite.

Someone coughs from the
doorway, and I look to see Shane leaning against the wall. It feels like he’s
been there for a while.

“What were you thinking
about just now?” he asks with an indulgent smile.

I shrug and turn back
to the window. “About fairies that bite.”

“And here was me
thinking it might have been sex.”

I laugh. “Well, that,
too.”

Shutting the door
firmly behind him, he strides from his spot by the wall. With one knee levelled
firmly on the mattress, he stares down at me, and this action alone makes my
heart speed up. Then he crawls up my body, stopping when he gets to my stomach.
He pushes up my top and presses his face to the rounded part of my lower belly,
breathing in deep.

“I fucking love the
smell of your skin,” he purrs.

“My skin?”

“It smells like the
beach, sun, and sand.”

“I’m hoping this is a
classy beach we’re talking about,” I joke.

“It’s beautiful. Not a
bit of sewage in sight,” he replies with a devilish wink.

“Well, that’s all
right, then.”

His fingers run along the
edge of my pants, nudging them down little by little. I stare as he pulls them
clean off me and then lowers his face to my mound. His lips press down hard
over the silky knickers I’m wearing and I tremble beneath him, heaving,
expectant.

His finger traces a
circle on the innermost part of my thigh before moving to my underwear and
shoving them aside, baring just part of me. I can feel how wet I am as he dips
a finger in and groans with pleasure. Two fingers come together to slowly slip
inside me, his hungry eyes watching my every reaction.

He works them in and
out as my channel clenches around them. God, I need more. Using his teeth, he
tugs my knickers down and off me at long last, and I moan loudly when his mouth
dives right in. I have to stop myself from moaning a second time, aware of the
other people in the house. His tongue laps at me as his fingers pump. The hand
he’s not using travels up my body to pinch at my nipples, and I think I might
combust. He never neglects a single part of me, ensuring I feel him everywhere
at all times. I have never felt more possessed, claimed.

He sucks my clit into
his mouth, releasing it with a loud
pop
. I cry out and tense my legs, an
orgasm approaching. When I come, it’s with his mouth licking me hard, his
fingers moving faster and his other hand pinching my nipple to the point of
pain. Shudders wrack me, but as he moves up my body I realise he has no
intention of giving me a break.

His clothes are gone
within the next ten seconds, a distant memory. My sex is still sensitive from
so recently coming, so when he positions himself and thrusts his cock deep
inside, I become boneless.

Mouths meeting, tongues
colliding, I taste myself on him, and it’s the most erotic sensation. Like not
only has he claimed me, but in a way I’ve claimed him, too. His brown eyes
shimmer with gold under the dim lamp light as he breaks the kiss.

“Love you,” he pants.

I stare right back at
him, unable to form words, but silently communicating that I feel the same say.
Fucking hell, if there’s magic in the world, then this is it. He comes with a
violent thrust, growling and biting gently on my collarbone. I adore this exact
moment, the quiet after he’s poured himself into me, the peace that comes over
him as he wraps his arms around me and holds me close as though in reverence.

“Happy early thirtieth
birthday,” I whisper with a smile.

I can feel him grinning
into my skin, when he replies, “Was that my present?”

“Wait and see. I just
might have more surprises in store.”

I stroke his dark hair,
loving the feel of it. His face is buried in the crook of my neck, and then I
notice he’s humming a tune, humming it so softly that I can only barely make it
out.

“What’s that?” I ask,
my tender voice echoing around the room and mixing with his hum.

He nuzzles me. “Just a
song.”

“One you wrote? It
sounds like a lullaby.”

He shakes his head ever
so slightly. “I haven’t written it yet. It came to me just now.”

A flush marks my cheeks
as I comprehend the fact that he thought of new music while he was inside me.
Electric tingles prick at my skin, my every pore coming alive.

To be a muse is to be a
wonder in someone else’s eyes, flaws and all.

Six months later…

By some strange twist of fate, I find
myself in the southwest of the country again. This time I’ve travelled with
Shane for a performance. He was asked to come play as a guest with the Symphony
Orchestra at the Cork Opera House.

I love seeing him play
in the symphony back home, but there’s something extra special about his solos.
It’s like I’m getting to view all the passion and emotion that’s inside him
from the comfort of my seat in the audience. I get to witness how his playing
affects others, how he sometimes brings a tear to their eyes and often brings
them to their feet with applause by the end.

I’m really excited for
tonight and have even splashed out on a new dress for the occasion.

I know, fancy dress,
fancy man. I still feel a little like I’m playing a role when I go to these
types of things, but then again, I do enjoy assuming a persona. Or maybe I can
be me and be fancy all at the same time. I will shun perfection in order to
remain a caterpillar. In fact, I’ve always thought that butterflies are
overrated. Caterpillars may be pests, but they do have a certain quirky charm,
bumbling along with all those legs and eyes.

Instead of becoming
poised and sophisticated, I will continue to bumble.

Speaking of which,
Mirin has been slowly coming around to the fact that this caterpillar is going
to remain a permanent fixture in her son’s life. I have a feeling Shane might
have had a good long talk with her about it, because she came up to me in the
concert hall a little after the whole Mona drama and apologised for how she’d
treated me. I accepted her apology with quiet grace, while a small surge of triumph
settled itself in my chest.

At the moment we’re
staying at a swanky hotel, but Shane left just after lunch to go to a
rehearsal. In reflection of my unsophisticated ways, I changed into my dress
and then decided to treat myself and order a slice of chocolate cake from room
service. In fact, I ordered two slices so I could keep one for Shane for when
we get back later.

Ever since our weekend
break in Kerry, I’ve been reminiscing about cake. I got up early the morning
after our first night, leaving Shane snoozing in bed, and got Clark to drive me
to the bakery in the nearby town. They didn’t have anything that was as grand
as what I’d been envisioning, so I went wild and purchased three large cream
sponge cakes. When we arrived back at the house, I stacked them one of top of
the other to create a super cake, planting a three and a zero on top and
lighting them with the flick of a match.

Now that’s how you say
happy birthday, Jade Lennon style.

Shane woke up and came
sleepily into the kitchen to be greeted by me, Clark, Ben, and Lara yelling
“surprise!” at him, blowing on party whistles and wearing ridiculous cone party
hats on our heads. I’m surprised we didn’t give him a heart attack. After all,
these sorts of surprises are generally an evening affair. I got it into my head
that doing it in the morning would bring an extra level of excitement.

I mean, cake in the
morning? It’s so wrong it’s right.

Shane’s eyes lit up
when he saw the cake on the table, looking a little more like a monster cake
than a super cake, if I’m being honest. I didn’t know what his reaction was
going to be, but then he laughed harder than I’d ever heard him laugh,
clutching his stomach, happy tears rolling down his face.

That day we had cake
for breakfast
and
lunch. Take that, Marie Antoinette. By the time dinner
came around, none of us wanted to look at another slice for at least a month.
Anyway, long story short, nowadays every time I want to treat him, I buy him a
cake.

So, back to my current
cake debacle. I’m so ravenous to shove it down my gullet that I end up dripping
a load of chocolate sauce onto my lap. And yeah, I’m so busy enjoying myself
that I don’t even notice the error of my ways until I’m at least four bites in.
Panicked, I shove the cake aside and pull the dress up over my head. It takes
forever but I manage to salvage it by dabbing the sauce off with a damp towel
in the bathroom. A tip for getting out stains: dab, don’t rub.

By the time I get
outside the hotel I’m seriously late, and it doesn’t help that it takes forever
to hail a cab. I mutter swear words to myself all the way to the Opera House,
shoving a twenty in the driver’s face and not even bothering to wait for
change. The concert tonight is Vivaldi’s
Four Seasons
, and as I’m being
seated by an usher I note that they’re already playing the Summer Concerto.
There are some grumblings as I pass people by, but at last I reach my seat.
It’s in the second row, and as I look up I see Shane standing in the middle of
the stage, diving right into Summer Presto.

I remember him
practicing this in our hotel room this morning while I was taking a bath. It
sounded wonderful then, but now with the accompaniment of the entire orchestra
it’s like it’s a living, breathing thing, invading every one of my senses.

A shower of colourful
petals bursts out of the strings section like confetti at a wedding.

Roots explode from the
stage floor, crawling swiftly up the walls, making me feel like Jack staring
aloft at a gigantic beanstalk. Daisies sprout around my feet, and a bunch of
lilies falls into my lap, filling my nose with their pretty scent. Pink
chrysanthemums twirl down from the ceiling as though dancing through the air.