Matchmaker 07: July

I clapped, along with everyone else, as the demonstration wrapped up. "That was really something. It was like the dog could read that guy's mind," I said as we walked back to the car, huddled close under the umbrella.

She nodded. "Yeah, and I could tell that dog was having the time of his life. You could almost see him smiling."

I held the umbrella over her as she opened the Jag's door, gave me a quick kiss, and dropped into the car. I smiled as I walked around the car. She may not understand why I put up with as much shit from the women in my life as I did, but that hadn't affected our desire for each other. We weren't fucking every night, but we hadn't missed many, and it was as good, or maybe better, has it had been the first night.

I shook the rain off the umbrella before sliding it into the back seat of the car and settling behind the wheel. I started the car and glanced at the clock. By the time we got back to Cork, it would be dinner time. I'd fallen in love with Irish food. It was hearty, simple, meat and potato dishes, and I'd even developed a taste for Guinness.

"How about we eat early tonight?" I asked as I piloted the car along the country lane.

I liked a lot of things about Ireland, but their narrow roads wasn't one of them. Driving on the wrong side was another. Even after two weeks, I still sometimes pulled into the wrong lane when making a turn if I wasn't thinking about what I was doing.

She smiled. "You have plans for later?"

I did, but not what she was insinuating. That would come later. "Yeah, and I don't want to feel too full," I replied, letting her think I was talking about what she thought I was talking about.

She smiled as she reached over to stroke my thigh. I took her hand and held it in mine, both so I could touch her and so I didn't have to sit behind the wheel with a raging hard on.

Brooklyn had laid out a general route for us to circle Ireland, but she hadn't planned every minute of every day, leaving us time to explore and do things on the spur of the moment. Tonight was going to be one of those. Easton didn't know it yet, but we were taking an Irish dance class.

We hadn't had a bad meal at a pub yet, so we weren't picky, stopping at the first pub that looked interesting. We ordered our meals and a Guinness, and talked about our day as we ate. Today had been one of our leisure days, giving us a chance to slow down and recharge our batteries. We woke late, made slow, easy love until almost lunch time, and then had driven through the countryside, stopping where and when we saw something that interested us, before watching the herding demonstration, the only planned activity for the day.

Tonight, however, I was going to kick it up a notch. I'd always like dancing. I'd started dancing as a way to pick up chicks, but as I got better at it, I found I enjoyed it, and it didn't hurt that it impressed the ladies. Irish dance was far more energetic, closer to tap than it was to the line and kicker dances I was used to, but I was eager to try my hand, or in this case, my feet.

I checked the time as I was scraping up the last of my Boxty, a potato pancake like thing full of cheese, herbs, and pieces of meat, and in this case, covered in a brown gravy. We had about forty minutes until our class began.

"Ready?" I asked.

"You don't want to let our dinner settle a little?"

I grinned. She was still thinking we were going to be doing a little bed dancing rather than the Irish dance we were going to learn. The bed dancing would come afterwards. "No. We don't have time."

She giggled. "You're raring to go tonight."

I leaned over, bringing my lips close to her ear. "I'm going to do my best to make sure you're gasping for breath and dripping with sweat by the time we're done," I whispered.

She looked at me, her eyes lively. "What's got into you tonight?"

"Let's go, and I'll show you."

She rose with me, a faint smile playing at her lips. I led her to the car and helped her settle inside before I drove to our class. The class was being held in a Rambling House, a throwback term for a house where the Irish would gather to gossip, tell stories, and enjoy music and dance before the advent of radio or television. Now the term mostly applied to a traveling troop that kept the Rambling House tradition alive. Tonight, a Rambling House was being held in one of the local hotels. I pulled out of the parking lot and used the car's built in satnav to get us there.

"What?" she murmured as I pulled into the parking lot, her brows furrowing. I smiled. It was easy to get turned around in these Irish villages with their narrow and winding street. She didn't have a clue we weren't going back to our hotel.

I grinned, knowing I couldn't hide the truth any longer. "We're taking Irish dance lessons tonight."

She grinned at me before bursting into a giggle. "You ass."

"What did you think I was talking about?" I asked, my voice dripping innocence.

"You're not fooling anyone. You know damn well what I thought you were talking about."

I opened my door and walked around the car, opening the passenger door for her and holding the umbrella over her head as she exited the car. "I was talking about dancing. If you were thinking something else..." I shrugged, struggling not to smile.

"Maybe you're right," she purred softly as she squeezed under the umbrella with me, her arm tucked inside mine. "I guess I won't think any more about it tonight, since you're not interested."

Shit. Checkmate. "Let's not get crazy," I muttered, causing her to snicker.

I led her inside the hotel and shook the water off the umbrella. "The Rambling House?" I asked the young woman at the hotel desk.

"Down the hall, first door on your right," she said, pointing, her accent so thick it took several seconds before I could decipher her words.

"Thanks."

We entered the room where there was already quite a crowd. The tourists were obvious, sporting cameras and sitting clustered together in comfortable chairs. We nodded to each other as Easton and I settled into a couple of chairs.

The first hour or so of the show was taken up with music, dancing, and storytelling. The music was excellent, as always, the dancing as amazing and entertaining as it always was, and the stories were so side-splittingly funny both Easton and I were in tears, wiping our eyes as we gasped for breath.

Once the scripted part of the show was over, there was a brief question and answer session, before the lady emcee invited people up if they wanted to try their hand at learning to dance. Most of the crowd rose to leave, but there were five couples left. Easton and me, two more couples from America, one from Australia, and couple from Hong Kong.

"Who wants to go first?" the woman asked. I waited a moment to give someone else a chance, before I raised my hand. The woman smiled. "Great! Up here please." Easton resisted, but I gripped her hand and pulled her to her feet and dragged her to the stage. Her reluctance wasn't missed, and the rest of the audience tittered in laughter. "Your names and where are you from?"

"Brent, from Texas," I said, pushing my accent until it was as thick as syrup.

The woman smiled as she held the mic to Easton. "Easton."

"You're not from Texas."

I grinned as Easton flushed. "No."

The emcee waved a man and woman over. "We'll start you out easy."

For the next twenty minutes, the woman worked with me as the man worked with Easton. A few more couples joined in, but I focused on what I was doing. I really wanted to learn how to move my feet like the dancers did. I quickly learned the moves weren't difficult, but doing them as quickly and with as much precision as they did was a real challenge. An hour later, I was getting it, the music helping me with the rhythm and flow. My shirt was damp with sweat and sticking to me as Ciara worked me hard.

"You're very good. You've danced before," she said as we stomped and bounced.

"A little," I panted.

I glanced at Easton, Damon holding her hands as he glided her around the floor side-by-side in the traditional Irish manner. The music stopped. Ciara and Damon, along with the other dance instructors, clapped. Class was obviously over.

"Great job everyone!" Mary-Claire, our host and emcee said, clapping herself.

"You did great," Ciara said softly. "You have a real talent."

"Thanks. You were a great teacher." I paused and decided to go for it. The worst that could happen is they'd say no. "Up for a little challenge?"

"What?"

I grinned at her and took a few steps back to the band. "You know any rocking honky-tonk?"

The band looked at each other. "Like?"

"Brooks and Dunn?"

A couple of the musicians smiled. "I think we can muddle through."

"You know Boot Scootin' Boogie or Hillbilly Deluxe?"

I heard a tapping and then they launched into Boot Scootin' Boogie. It sounded a little strange without the steel guitar, but they were rocking it. I grinned as I took Ciara by the hands and started guiding her around. Being a professional dancer, she very quickly picked up the steps. Damon watched for a moment, began to bounce on his toes to get into the rhythm, then took Easton in his arms and steered her around the floor.

I put it all out there, using very move I knew, and Ciara matched me step for step as we kicked, slapped our heels, and I twirled her around. The song was nearing the end when I guided Ciara to Damon. He knew what he was supposed to do, and with a twirl, we swapped partners. I had to tone it down for Easton, but it was fun guiding her around for a moment before the song ended.

As the song ended, everyone from the musicians to the other guests broke into raucous applause. I was panting and sweaty, as was Easton. I pulled her in for a hug.

"Told you I was going to make you all sweaty and out of breath," I whispered.

She was beaming. "Let's go back to our room and see if you can do it again."

Brent and I wandered along the ancient, narrow roads that snaked through Kilkenny as I window shopped, the small stores and workshops full of amazing crafts and pottery. I had to keep reminding myself that whatever I bought, I had to get home, and I didn't want to have to rent a cargo ship.

I didn't know if it was the magic of the Emerald Isle or something else, but I was becoming supremely comfortable around Brent. When I first met him, I recognized right away he was a stone-cold honey, and my God, could the man fuck. Not only was he hung like a bull, he had the stamina of one to boot, and his cock wasn't the only part of him he knew how to use to please a woman. His lips, tongue, and fingers were all wickedly skillful as well. It was a bonus he was funny as hell and wasn't an asshole.

While he was dealing with the train wreck that was his mother, I'd decided that while he looked and fucked like a God, he was nothing but another pussy-whipped wimp. The fact that he had no backbone didn't bother me, not much anyway. I wasn't interested in marrying the guy. As long as his cock was stiff, I didn't care if his backbone wasn't. I'd let him fuck me stupid for a month, enjoy seeing Ireland on his dime, and then I'd return to Oconomowoc with a treasure trove of great memories.

But over the last couple of weeks, my opinion of him had changed. I wasn't sure why I was mellowing. My view of Mommy Dearest, Biker Chick, Cam Girl, and Money Pit hadn't changed, but my attitude about how he dealt with them had.

When he was telling me his tale of woe, he'd made light of the matter. Maybe that was why I thought he had no will of his own, but I guess the details of his stories had bubbled away in my subconscious. I'd decided that maybe he wasn't as pussy-whipped as I first assumed, but rather he was a truly nice guy that had tried to help women who needed a hand up. Except for Cam Girl. She was a classic narcissist, and it took extensive professional counselling to help people like that. With her, maybe he hadn't realized what he was dealing with as soon as he should have, but to his credit, he'd put his boot in her ass the moment he found out.

As far as his mother, he'd distanced himself from her as much as he could, but he wouldn't allow her to be turned out on the street. I'd come around to the idea that despite my bluster at first, I'd do the same for my mother if I could, no matter how she acted.

I couldn't put my finger on when my attitude had changed, but it had, and watching him dance with Ciara was when it had hit me that it had changed. He wasn't in the same league as Ciara or Damon, but he was clearly a far better dancer that any of the rest of us amateurs. While he and Ciara's feet were almost a blur, I was still stepping on Damon's toes and trying to remember which foot went where, and the rest of those learning to dance weren't any better.

After the lesson, when he'd kicked off the brief hoedown, I was damned impressed and could tell Ciara was too. When we'd finished, she was breathing hard, but I didn't think it was from the dance. She'd danced far more energetically during the show than anytime with Brent, and she hadn't been breathing any harder.

Ciara was nothing but professional, making absolutely no move on him, but I'd seen the look in her eyes and the way she was smiling at him. I knew what she was thinking. It was the same thing I was thinking, and it pissed me off. Not only that, it made me a little jealous, and I was envious of her skill. I wanted to dance with him like that. That was when it clicked with me that I no longer looked at him in the same way.

I smiled to myself. Having a little competition for his attention, the fact that I'd subconsciously changed my opinion of him, and the fact his shirt was stuck to him like a second skin... My smile spread. When I got him back to our room, we'd work up another sweat as we performed a different type of dance. I'd come four times, the first time I'd ever had more than three orgasms in a session, and he'd come twice as he rammed that luscious fucking cock—

"Easton..." he called in a soft, sing-song voice, drawing my name out to get my attention.

"What?"

He chuckled. "Where were you? I said we should put the cups in the car. It's just around the corner."

"What? Oh! Sure." I smiled. I hadn't heard a word he'd said. "Sorry. Daydreaming."

"About what?"

My smile spread. "Nothing."

He grinned at me. "You know when a woman says 'nothing' like that it's definitely something."

That had become a running gag with us since the first time he'd said it when he was dealing with his mother. I smiled as we turned the corner, the Jag squeezed into a tiny parking space on the side of the road.

"I was just thinking about how much I'd like to take another dance lesson," I said as he popped the boot on the car, placing the six large mugs I'd bought to drink soup out of into the opening. "It was great exercise and a lot of fun."

"I'm sure we can make it happen. There has to be a place in Dublin."

"Think maybe we can find a country and western bar, so you can show me some of those moves you put on Ciara?"

"In Ireland?" His expression and tone clearly telegraphed he was questioning my sanity.

"Why not? We have Irish bars in America, and the band knew that song the other night."

His lips twisted as he bobbed his head. "That's true. Sure. We'll ask around and see what we can find."

"Great!" I pulled him into a kiss, quick and clean, because we were standing in the road, but that didn't prevent him from discretely brushing my breast as we parted. "Don't start something if you can't finish it," I murmured with a smile.

"Get in the car and I'll show you what I can finish," he suggested, but he was turning away and taking my hand.

I considered taking him up on the offer, just to surprise him, but we still hadn't visited Kilkenny Castle or St. Canice's Cathedral. As much as I wouldn't mind taking him back to the hotel and making him back up his words with action, we could do that after the other attractions closed.

"Promises, promises," I teased as we strolled along.

We walked hand in hand through the narrow streets to St. Canice's Cathedral. As we toured the building and grounds, I was in awe. The church was spectacular. It was far, far older than St. Mary's, but it still had the same soaring beauty, and I was nearly struck speechless. How they could build this magnificent building so long ago boggled my mind.

"Can you believe they built this place two hundred years before America was discovered?" I whispered to Brent as we stood in the center of the sanctuary with its intricate wooden ceiling and amazing stone arches stretching far overhead.

"Amazing."

I nodded in agreement. We'd seen numerous castles and churches, but many of them were little more than piles of rocks. While Brent had a passing appreciation for the buildings and their age, these beautifully preserved or restored artifacts never failed to take my breath. Looking around at the towering arches and the elaborate stone and woodwork, I wanted to cry and didn't know why. All I knew was buildings like these moved me in ways I couldn't explain.

We spent nearly an hour in the building. Brent never complained, never tried to hurry me, allowing me to take my fill of the history and ambiance of the place. We left the cathedral, and I snuggled close as we walked the kilometer, about a half mile, to Kilkenny Castle.

I was agnostic, and it was easy for me to look down my nose at the deeply religious people who ignored all medical and scientific evidence that was contrary to their belief system, but that didn't prevent me from feeling the power of the cathedral. In the thirteenth century, when the cathedral was built, before we'd acquired the knowledge and understanding we have today, the wonder people must have felt when entering the building was probably... well... awe inspiring.

"You okay?" he asked as we strolled along.

"Yeah, why?"

He smiled at me. "Normally you're bubbling over after we visit a place like that."

"Yeah. I just can't get past how old the place is and the labor that went into it. Almost a hundred years to build. Can you imagine? Three or four generations were born, grew up, worked on it, and died before seeing it completed." I shook my head, the sudden urge to cry returning. I simply couldn't fathom such time scales and dedication.

He nodded. "I know. I keep tripping over the same idea. Two hundred years before Columbus discovered the new world." He shook his head and nodded at the castle as it began to appear over the tops of houses and trees. "And that place is almost a hundred years older than that."

I nodded in agreement. "Can you imagine living back then? What it must have been like."

He smiled. "No indoor plumbing, no electricity, having to heat with wood and still freezing your ass off, no clean water, not enough food. Thanks, but no thanks."

He was right, of course. Compared to living in the 1100's, what we had today would be considered magic, but I still couldn't help but imagine how it must have been. I could envision Brent, tall and proud in his leather armor, felling invading enemies with his sword as they fought at the castle wall.

I smiled with my little fantasy. Or even better, his armor ripped and torn, his bare chest covered in sweat and dirt as he hacked and slashed at the invading hordes. Then, after he'd vanquished his enemies, I could have treated his wounds in my bedchambers before he vanquished me, sheathing his sword within me as we gasped and writhed in pleasure.

It was ridiculous. I knew that was the Hollywood version. In real life, Brent would probably die from his wounds as infection ravaged his body. We'd have been malnourished, smelly, dirty, and probably missing some of our teeth. Worst of all, any sex position other than missionary was a sin, and oral sex was completely out of the question. Still, the Hollywood version was appealing, with its handsome, muscular men dressed in clean, well-fitted leather, and the women beautiful and full figured, robed in magnificent, brightly colored, flowing gowns, all parties lusty, well-groomed, and in good health. A girl can dream, can't she?