Chapter 9: A Little Slutty Sometimes
The cobalt dress hung on the back of Jan’s closet door, a sober sentinel amidst the riot of color and chaos. The air in the bedroom still thrummed with the residual energy of Shiv’s visit—a familiar, formidable warmth that felt like a challenge. Jan spun away from the dress, her bare feet silent on the woven rug. Her eyes landed on Mara, who was meticulously refolding a rejected lace top with lawyerly precision.
“She thinks she’s won,” Jan said, a mischievous grin pulling at her lips.
Mara didn’t look up. “She has won. You’re wearing a funeral dress to a wedding. It’s a historic capitulation.”
“The battle of the dress is conceded,” Jan conceded, drifting closer. “But the war for the weekend’s spirit continues.” She let her fingertips brush over the pile of discarded fabrics before finding what she sought: a scrap of black lace so fine it was nearly sheer, edged with delicate obsidian beads. It was a bodysuit, really, more suggestion than garment.
She held it up. The feeble afternoon light from the dusty window speared right through it.
“No,” Mara said immediately, finally meeting Jan’s gaze. Her expression was the flat, unimpressed ‘objection’ face she used in depositions. “Whatever you’re thinking, no. I’m packing sensible separates. I’m the plus-one of a magical chaos vortex. I need to project competence and neutrality.”
“Competence is boring,” Jan purred. She stepped in, closing the distance. She didn’t use her magic in a blatant wave—that was crude. Instead, she let it seep, a subtle thermal leak from her skin as she held the lace against Mara’s chest. It was the gentlest nudge, an amplification of the fondness, the trust, the latent vanity that lived in every fierce heart. “Just try it on. For me. Humor your walking disaster of a best friend.”
Mara’s protest died on her lips. A flush, warm and unexpected, bloomed beneath her sternum and spread outward. The room seemed to soften at the edges. The mundane concerns of packing faded behind a slow, honeyed pulse of why not? It wasn’t compulsion. It was permission, magnified.
“Jan…” Mara’s voice was lower, a tad unsteady.
“See? It’s calling to you.” Jan’s fingers brushed the hollow of Mara’s collarbone, tracing the line of her clavicle. “Under your blazer, under all those formidable layers… you’re a fucking knockout, Mara. Don’t you ever want to just… feel it?”
Mara’s breath hitched. The careful, controlled architecture of her posture seemed to loosen by a single, vital bolt. She gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod.
“Good girl,” Jan whispered, the words a warm exhalation against Mara’s neck.
The transformation was a silent, mesmerizing thing. Mara’s efficient movements took on a new, deliberate grace. She unbuttoned her crisp white blouse, each button a tiny surrender. She let it slide off her shoulders. Her sensible bra followed. The cool air touched her skin, and her nipples tightened into dusky peaks. She stepped out of her trousers, standing in just her plain cotton briefs, her body a study of sharp angles and sleek muscle usually hidden by power suits.
Then she stepped into the lace. Jan helped guide it up, the material whispering over Mara’s hips, settling like a second, darker skin. It was indeed a bodysuit, the front a daring plunge that cupped the undersides of her breasts, leaving the upper curves and her stiff nipples fully exposed through the web of lace. The back was a mere strap. The bottom was a high-cut thong that vanished between the firm globes of her ass.
Jan let out a low, appreciative whistle. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Counselor, you look edible.”
Mara turned towards the full-length mirror leaning against a box of old spellbooks. For a long moment, she just stared. The woman reflected back was a stranger, and yet utterly herself. The black lace contrasted brutally with her pale skin, the severe cut highlighting the lean strength of her torso, the surprising fullness of her breasts. She looked powerful, not in a courtroom way, but in a primal, predatory way. A flush crept up her chest, but her gaze was rapt.
She ran her own hands down her sides, over the lace, feeling the texture, the revelation of her own shape. A thrill, sharp and electric, shot through her.
“It’s… obscene,” Mara breathed.
“It’s fun,” Jan corrected, stepping behind her. She pressed her body against Mara’s back, her own softness a contrast to Mara’s taut lines. She rested her chin on Mara’s shoulder, their reflected eyes meeting in the glass. “Tell me it’s not fun.”
Mara’s lips parted. She watched her own hands slide lower, over the flat plane of her stomach, towards the thatch of dark hair visible through the lace at her junction. “It’s fun,” she admitted, the voice husky, foreign to her own ears.
Jan’s grin in the mirror was triumphant. Her hands settled on Mara’s hips, possessive and sure. “I knew you had it in you. All that repressed, judicious energy.” She rolled her hips, grinding the denim of her shorts against the bare skin of Mara’s ass. The friction was immediate, electric. “Now, let’s see how you move in it.”
“Jan…” It was half-protest, half-plea.
Jan’s right hand slid around from Mara’s hip, fingers slipping under the lacy edge of the thong. She found wet heat, slickness already soaking through the delicate fabric. Mara gasped, a sharp, truncated sound, her head falling back against Jan’s shoulder.
“Already so wet for me,” Jan murmured, her lips brushing the shell of Mara’s ear. “All that composure, and your cunt’s telling the truth.”
Her middle finger dipped lower, past the lace, and slid into Mara without preamble. She was tight, clenching around the intrusion, but impossibly slick. Jan pumped her finger slowly, deeply, feeling the inner muscles flutter in shock and arousal.
“Jan, what are you doing?” Mara moaned, but her own hips pushed back, taking Jan’s finger deeper. Her hands, which had been on her own stomach, now gripped Jan’s thighs behind her, anchoring herself.
“Giving you a proper fitting,” Jan said, her voice dropping to a rough growl. She added a second finger, stretching Mara open. The wet, sucking sounds were blatant in the quiet room. Jan’s thumb found Mara’s clit, a hard, swollen nub, and began circling it with relentless pressure. “Seeing how this pretty, legal mind falls apart when she’s getting fucked.”
Mara’s composure shattered. A raw, guttural sound tore from her throat. Her body was a bowstring pulled taut, every muscle straining. She fucked herself back onto Jan’s hand, her movements becoming frantic, desperate. The mirror showed it all: the wildness in her eyes, the sweat glistening on her chest, the powerful flex of her thighs as she rode Jan’s fingers.
“You’re so fucking tight,” Jan grunted, curling her fingers, searching. She found the spongy ridge inside and pressed hard.
Mara cried out, a sharp, legal objection transformed into pure carnal surrender. “There! God, right there, don’t stop!”
Jan’s pace became ruthless, a hard, piston-like drilling. Her thumb worked Mara’s clit in furious circles. She watched Mara’s face in the mirror, watched the moment all coherent thought evaporated, replaced by a blind, animal need for release.
“Let go,” Jan commanded, her own breath coming fast. “Come all over my fingers, Counselor. Show me how you break.”
The orgasm hit Mara like a systemic failure. Her body convulsed, a series of violent, uncontrollable spasms. Her cunt clamped down on Jan’s fingers with a milking intensity, wave after wave of pleasure burning through her nerves. A silent scream was etched on her face, her mouth a wide ‘O’ of shocked ecstasy. She shook, held upright only by Jan’s arm around her waist and her own death-grip on Jan’s legs.
Jan worked her through it, gentling her movements as the tremors subsided into aftershocks. Slowly, she withdrew her glistening fingers. She brought them to her lips, never breaking eye contact in the mirror, and licked them clean with a slow, deliberate swipe of her tongue. The taste was musky, tart, uniquely Mara.
Mara slumped against her, boneless and panting, a sheen of sweat making her skin glow. “That was…” she started, voice wrecked.
“Inadmissible as evidence?” Jan finished, a playful lilt returning to her voice. She pressed a soft kiss to Mara’s damp temple.
Mara managed a weak, breathless laugh. “Something like that.”
Jan turned her gently, facing her. The charged atmosphere softened, melting into their familiar, deep affection. Jan kissed her, not with predatory heat, but with a profound tenderness that tasted of salt and satisfaction. “Just the beginning,” Jan said softly when they parted, foreheads touching. “We have a whole wedding weekend ahead in a village soaked in magic. The dress code is just the opening argument.”
Mara nodded, her eyes clearing, the sharp intellect returning alongside a new, quiet warmth. She looked down at the lace still clinging to her ravaged body. “I’m keeping this,” she stated, the lawyer’s decisiveness firmly back in place.
“Good.” Jan grinned. “Now, help me find my other boot. And for God’s sake, put some pants on before my brother phases through the wall. He has a shit sense of timing.”
As if summoned, the air in the corner of the room shimmered like a heat haze. There was a sound like a record skipping, and Johnny O’Connor stepped out of nothingness, brushing non-existent dust from his rumpled jacket. He glanced at them—Mara half-naked in black lace, Jan flushed and grinning—and his blue eyes flickered with mild, asexual bemusement.
“The portal to Ballymore is syncing with the lunar tilt at the old mill in two hours,” he said, as if discussing a bus schedule. “Mam’s already there with the bird. Brigid’s cohort is meeting us. Try to be… minimally disruptive.” His gaze fell on Godfrey, who was now chewing contemplatively on a stray knitting needle. “And bring the dog. Nana Maeve will want to see him.”
He phased out again, leaving only a scent of ozone and old paper.
Mara let out a long, slow breath. “Right. Pants. Portal. Magical Irish wedding.” She reached for her trousers, a new, determined energy in her movements. The lace bodysuit stayed on beneath.
Jan watched her, feeling the familiar, joyful surge of anticipation. The pieces were moving. The whole, messy lot of them were converging. Chaos, as always, was impeccably punctual.
Chaos, as always, was impeccably punctual. The old mill stood skeletal against the bruised twilight sky, its rotting timbers groaning in the lake wind. Jan, Mara, and Godfrey arrived to find the others already waiting in the gravel lot, a small island of improbable normalcy. Shiv stood like a sentinel, her cobalt dress impeccable, Larry preening on her shoulder and eyeing Godfrey with avian disdain. Brigid looked up from a sheaf of printed pages, her maid-of-honor dress a deeper shade of blue, her brow furrowed in concentration. Will and Sarah stood close, their shoulders touching in silent communication.
“You brought the agent of restraint, I see,” Shiv observed, her eyes flicking to Mara.
Will, ever kind and ever nervous around the O’Connor matriarchy, offered a tentative smile. “Hey, Mara. Not that it’s not great to see you, but I thought Zack was your plus-one for stuff?”
Mara smoothed her elegant, perfectly appropriate navy sheath dress. “He is. But for this, we drew straws. Me, Stacy, Fatima, Mike, Casey, and Hank. To see who had to try to keep Jan under control.” She delivered the line with deadpan legal precision. “I lost.”
Jan shouted a sharp, indignant “Hey!” that echoed off the mill’s rusted siding.
The ensuing silence was profound. Shiv raised one eyebrow. Brigid looked up from her speech, a faint smile playing on her lips. Sarah bit hers to keep from laughing. Will studied his shoes. Even Godfrey paused his sniffing of a particularly interesting weed to look at Jan with what could only be described as canine pity.
Jan’s shoulders slumped. She shoved her hands into the pockets of her leather jacket, which she’d thrown over the funeral-blue dress. “Okay, fine,” she grumbled. “Point taken.”
Brigid folded her speech, her expression softening. “We love you anyway, Jan. We just wish you could keep your underwear on more often. Like, at family functions. Or in public. Or just… in general.”
Before Jan could retort, the air ten feet away shivered like a heat mirage. Johnny stepped through, his rumpled khakis and worn jacket looking absurdly casual. He gave a brief, almost imperceptible nod to Sarah. “Ready?” he asked, his voice bland.
Sarah stepped forward, looping her arm through Johnny’s with practiced ease. For the purposes of Ballymore’s gossiping populace, she was Johnny O’Connor’s quiet American girlfriend. It was a cleaner story. The truth of the triad was a beautiful, private knot they carried within their bound souls, not for provincial dissection.
Johnny raised a hand. He didn’t chant or wave his arms. He simply pulled at a thread in the fabric of the evening. The space before him tore open with a sound like tearing silk, revealing not the dark interior of the mill, but a sun-drenched lane flanked by stone walls and wild foxglove. The scent of damp earth and peat smoke washed over them.
“Go on,” Johnny said, his voice strained with the effort of holding the seam. “It’s stable for ninety seconds.”
Shiv went first, Larry clutching her shoulder, her posture erect as a queen crossing a threshold. Brigid followed, clutching her speech, then Will. Jan nudged Mara. “After you, my reluctant chaperone.”
They stepped through. The transition was a brief, weightless stumble, a lurch in the stomach, and then they were standing on the grassy verge of a country lane, the old mill’s melancholy gone, replaced by the vibrant, overwhelming green of rural Ireland.
Nora was there, which was the first surprise. She was wrestling a massive, flowering rhododendron bush into a wooden planter, her movements fluid and powerful. The second surprise was her attire: a stunning, formal dress of emerald satin, paired with heavy-duty gardening gloves.
“Hello!” she called, her Cork lilt musical, not even slightly out of breath. She shoved the bush into place, patted the soil, and straightened up, brushing dirt from her bodice. “Maeve said you’d be arriving about now. The portal spot’s always a bit damp, mind your shoes.”
The front door of the whitewashed cottage opened, and Maeve Monaghan emerged. She was a tall woman, back straight as a ruler, her silver hair in its severe bun, her eyes the familiar, piercing Monaghan green. She took in the assembled group with one swift, comprehensive glance that missed nothing: the matching mother-daughter dresses, the nervous young man, the blonde on Johnny’s arm, the lawyer, the dog.
Her gaze lingered longest on Jan. A flicker of something—amusement, astonishment, vague approval—passed over her stern features. “Jan Siobhan,” she said, her voice like dry peat. “I am surprised. That is a dress appropriate for a wedding.”
Jan opened her mouth, a protest about her general competence bubbling up. Why does no one think I can do anything without causing sexy chaos? She looked at her mother’s knowing face, at Brigid’s affectionate smirk, at Mara’s I-told-you-so eyebrow. The words died. She shrugged, a wide, expressive gesture of surrender. “I know,” she said, and it was both an admission and a promise.
Maeve almost smiled. “Come in. The bride is in a state. Brigid Moira, she’s asking for you.”
Brigid needed no further prompting. She handed her jacket to Will, smoothed her dress, and hurried inside, the printed speech crumpled slightly in her damp hand.
The front room was cozy, dominated by a large fireplace. Sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating Aisling where she stood on a small footstool, a older woman from the village pinning the hem of her wedding dress. The dress was ivory lace, simple and breathtaking, flowing over Aisling’s curves to pool lightly on the stool. It was the exact dress from the photograph. The same one Brigid, hurtling through time, had once glimpsed and, in her temporal nausea, thrown up on.
Aisling turned. Her black hair was half-up, tendrils framing a face alight with nervous energy. Seeing Brigid, her green eyes, so like her own, widened with relief and joy.
“Brigid! You’re here!” she exclaimed, stepping carefully down from the stool, shooing the seamstress away. She gathered the skirts in her hands, the lace whispering. “Can you believe it?” she asked, her voice trembling with excited disbelief. “This time last year, I was living in cheap apartments, trying to just survive, that no-good Rory keeping me down, and now?” She spread her hands, encompassing the dress, the cottage, the future waiting at the end of the lane.
Brigid felt the truth of it, the visceral contrast between the desperate, lonely girl Aisling had been and the radiant woman before her. The speech in her hand was just paper. This was the living proof. She stepped forward, taking Aisling’s hands in her own. They were cold, trembling slightly.
Brigid squeezed them, her voice firm and clear, carrying the conviction she’d found in the quiet after love-making, in the geometry of souls. “Now,” she finished for her cousin, “you are marrying a man who loves you for you. And the way you deserve.”
Aisling’s breath caught. The nervous excitement in her eyes melted, replaced by a profound, grateful certainty. She pulled Brigid into a tight hug, the lace of her dress pressing against Brigid’s cheek. “I am,” she whispered fiercely. “I really am.”
Outside, the murmur of arriving guests began to filter through the open window, a gentle hum of anticipation. The ceremony was an hour away. The chaos of the O’Connors had arrived, but here, in this sunlit room, there was only a perfect, fragile peace.