Four Months Later
Onmyfirsttripto Europe, I only meant to stop in Dublin for a few days.
I fell in love with the city before I even made it to the Liffey.
It was the Fourth of July, and while Americans shot fireworks across the ocean, I played my first pub gig. Terrified. Energized. Alive.
I stuck to my original plan for a while. Visited London, Paris, Spain, Vienna. With only my guitar and a backpack, I traveled light. Laughed a lot and spent another month in Dublin playing the open mic circuit before my visa ran out.
I went back to the States, gave notice on my apartment and worked two more months of double shifts at Delgado Cocina, and booked a one-way ticket back.
Even while staying in a hostel with creaky bunks and warm tea, it feels like home here. I don’t need much. I sing in pubs, slip into trad jams when they’ll have me, and busk on Grafton whenever the sky holds.
I’m even brave enough to post it all on YouTube. It’s been years since I escaped and no one from my old life has attempted to contact me. With a new name and a new outlook, I’m pretty sure my past is in the past.
Music makes me feel real. Grounded. Free. If I’m gonna make a living at it, I’ve got to put myself out there. Slowly, I’m building up a following. It’s exciting. I finally know what I want to do with my life.
Things are looking up in my love life as well.
Not long after I returned, he came up to me after a pub set off Dame Street. Tall, bearded and handsome with a broad chest and strong arms, Linus O’Donnell handed me a card.Isis Management. He asked if I was playing anywhere else and his eyes focused on mine without drifting.
He showed up at my next gig a few nights later. Then again. And again.
Every time I saw him, the pull was stronger. He listened to me like he was memorizing every note. I loved how calm his voice was when he said my name.
Immediately, there was something about him I couldn’t shake. He seemed familiar, like I’ve seen him before in a dream or a different life. I haven’t been able to figure out why.
Curiosity has turned into desire. I get wet dreaming about his hands on my hips, pushing my shirt up. My nipples pucker when I remember how he looks at my mouth. I want his weight over me, his breath against my throat, his cock inside me while I shake apart.
Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had a lot of sex in Europe. Fast. Fun. Reckless. Nothing permanent, only something to scratch an itch.
Now I need this.
Him.
Linus is the man for me. I know it with every fiber of my being. He doesn’t chase. Or impose. The hunger in his eyes is tempered by patience. Which makes me want him more.
Turns out, I’m ravenous for a man who doesn’t rush the unraveling.
Tonight, over candlelight and red wine, between shared bites and confession-shaped silences, he finally asked me back to his flat. I said yes. To now. Tothis.
The second the door clicks shut, I’m on him.
I kiss him like I’m starving. It feels like I’ve waited a goddamn lifetime for the taste of his mouth. Weeks of him watching me play, his deep eyes marinating in every note like he already knows we’re meant to be.
He kisses back with the same hunger. His hands are strong, gripping my waist like he owns it. He spins us and presses me against the wall, and fuck, the way he breathes against my neck...
I’m soaked already. No point pretending I’m not.
“You have no idea,” he rasps, dragging his mouth across my jawline, “how many nights I’ve pictured you like this.”
“Say it out loud.” I tilt my head, daring him. “Tell me.”
His hand slides down, rough palm skimming under my dress, over my bare thigh. “Bent over. Legs shaking. Pussy drippin’ down my cock.”
Good God. He’s a dirty talker. My breath stutters. I grind against him, dress hitched high on my hips now, nothing underneath but heat and want.
“Well, you’re in luck. I’m so fucking wet for you,” I wheeze. “I’ve been soaked since dinner.”
