Clancy's Irish Dream
Published by: eXtasy Books
Author : Evelyn Starr
Word Count :10133
Publication Date :2013-05-20
Series : #
Heat Level :
- Product Code: 978-1-77111-570-4
"By my stars, it was cold in there."
Faced with a scantily clad blonde stepping out of the ice cream case, Clancy Duggan had two instantaneous reactions. First, he dropped his gallon tub of pistachio ice cream. Then in the next instant or maybe the same one, his prick stood straight up. Straight out he found himself outrageously aroused. Fully erect. And completely, hopelessly astutter with the strongest, most instant craving he'd ever had to endure. He wanted to run, and would have. But his feet weren't cooperating. His legs either.
"H…h…how…" He wanted it to be ten seconds ago. Back when his world had been predictable, if maybe a little dull. Back when his worst problem had been Joyce and her damned, ill-conceived early summer barbeque that had to feature green food, green food and nothing but green food. But most of all he wanted, more than he thought a living man could possibly want anything, to clutch at the throbbing, thrusting thing between his legs. Wanted to do it with both hands and then hang on tight in the hope—he already knew it was a vain and stupid one—that he could do something to get the damned thing to lie down and behave.
Failing that, he peered past her. At the infinitely confusing array of flavors in Emerald Aisles' vastly overstocked ice cream case. There hadn't been a blonde in there when he'd reached for the pistachio. Not a hint of one and not a hair of one. Clancy felt pretty confident he'd have noticed something like that. "Where the hell…"
The blonde set her staff aside.
It was a big one. Kind of sinister looking and taller than she. And she was one tall drink of glittering green water. The staff was metal. Vaguely, disturbingly green like most of the rest of her, it looked something like brass. Though if it was, it was brass allowed to age until it reached the dark and dull, slightly virescent patina of extreme antiquity. At its tip a bright purple stone about half the size of the blonde's head pulsed ominously. Sending out some vaguely wicked glimmers that should scare the living crap right out of him. Except that he was too stunned to be scared. Too absolutely, irreversibly turned on to have so much as a thought for his own safety. Or survival.
She was stern. Unsmiling. Christ in heaven was she stern and unsmiling!
Clancy figured that was probably a big part of what the hell turned him on to such an insane degree. Somewhat meek and mild by nature, he'd always been attracted to Amazonian women. Case in point—Joyce.
Now, there was a real Amazon, a ball-busting Amazon, if he'd ever set eyes on one. And while he realized more and more, with every second of his life that passed in fear of having his balls busted, that Joyce was a big mistake…
Of course the turn-on could be the clothes the blonde wore. Didn't wear. She'd be considered scantily clad in a Vegas strip club. For six A.M. on a Saturday in Emerald Aisles supermarket in Stuttsman, Ohio, she was something else again.
Clancy looked around. His prick was screeching. Quite literally. Loud enough that anybody should be able to hear. If anybody was around. Which, luckily, no one seemed to be.
Clancy felt guilt creep automatically over and through him. Even if he had done nothing wrong. Yet. The ice-cream-case blonde was scandalous.
She wore a…thing.
It was cut down to her navel. And then some. It was cut so far down that it came dangerously close to revealing every last one of her charms…dangerously close to killing him if he couldn't soon find a way to attend to and relieve a prick pushed way beyond its limits. The thing she wore wasn't much better at the top. It consisted of a couple of paltry little points that barely covered her nipples. And left nothing to imagination. Nothing.
It was kind of a green and Clancy wondered how in holy hell it stayed on.
His prick cramped. Piercing, burning pain shot through it as phase one of its preparations concluded. It was hard. Ready. Absolutely, sinfully, more than ready as the blonde shook herself and set about putting her clothing to rights. What there was of it.
A flick of her wrist, a lithe stretching and twisting of her torso and Clancy knew he was about to die. So he groaned. Softly so she wouldn't hear. Though he felt certain she did. And finally he grabbed himself. Just grabbed his prick right then and there with both hands, the way he'd dreamed of grabbing. He massaged it openly with both hands as hard as he could without inflicting damage. "Who the hell are you?" he demanded. "What the hell are you?"
She had a…glimmer. A very vague, subtly emerald-jade-sardonyx luster that seemed to come and go. So he could never quite get a look at it. And right now she was regarding him steadily, her gaze unwavering, pale peridot. "Have you never seen a leprechaun then?"
Clancy's jaw fell open. Gulping for air, not very successfully, he massaged harder. For a minute it wasn't possible to say anything or make any kind of sound. And then when he did regain the ability it was so he could blurt the first idiotic thing that came into his head. "You don't look Irish." Immediately, he felt himself blush. Just what the hell is that supposed to mean? He was Irish and he didn't think he looked it either. Whatever the hell Irish is supposed to look like anyway.
The blonde smiled. As much as a tall and stern, preternaturally dignified and strong-featured Amazonian type like her was likely ever to smile. "This is a new day," she quipped. "Times have changed. And you, me boyo…" Here she lapsed into an obviously phony brogue that wouldn't fool even the most damn-fool-ignorant non-Irishman from a mile and a half away. "You are stuck sadly in the past, my friend."