Irish Kiss

by Sienna Blake

  Oh God. What if there was another burglar in there? What if Diarmuid was hurt? Or worse?

  I forced myself to calm down as the lights inside turned on. I watched the windows and door for any sign of movement. I spotted Diarmuid’s shadow moving through the house.

  Then my bedroom light flicked on.

  Diarmuid Brennan was in my bedroom.

  Oh God. I squeezed my eyes shut. I hadn’t considered the state of my room. Had I left anything embarrassing out? Dirty underwear, old photos of him, my journal…?

  I had left my journal on my bed.

  With all the secrets of my heart splashed across the pages in ink. Oh God. He wouldn’t go through it, would he?

  I stared at my bedroom window, wondering if I should run inside, wondering if I’d be too late to stop from embarrassing myself when he read every single thing I felt for him.

  I unlocked the truck and hurried to the front door.

  Diarmuid was climbing down the stairs as I pushed open the door. As soon as I neared him, everything in my body sighed.

  “I told you to stay in the truck,” he said, but there was no bite to his voice.

  “What did you find?”

  “There’s no one in here. It doesn’t look like anything’s been disturbed. We’ve got to call the police.”

  “No!” I yelled.

  Shit. My da would lose his shit if he came home to find cops came crawling around the place.

  Diarmuid frowned. “Saoirse—”

  “You said so yourself that nothing’s been disturbed. We don’t even have a description of the guy. It’ll achieve nothing.”

  “Selkie—”

  “Don’t make me do this, please.” I pleaded at him with my eyes, willing him to understand.

  He let out a sigh. “Okay, fine.”

  Thank God.

  Diarmuid turned back to the house. “None of the windows have been jimmied so he didn’t get in that way.” He reached out and jangled the lock. “It’s busted.” He spun to me, his eyes a hard jade. “You’re not staying here while the lock is busted. You’re coming home with me.”

  You’re coming home with me.

  Those words. The way he said them, so full of raw, take-no-arguments hardness, it sent a shiver up my spine. And a rush of longing through my veins. I scowled internally at myself, because I know he was not saying it in the way I wanted him to.

  I nodded, because when a man like Diarmuid Brennan makes a demand like that, you can’t say no.

  His entire body relaxed, as if he expected me to fight him and was relieved that I didn’t. He reached up and cupped the back of my neck, the warmth of his palm in contrast to the chilly night air.

  “Call your da. Tell him you won’t be home tonight.”

  I nodded again, because I knew arguing with him was pointless. But mostly, with his hands on me he could ask me for anything and I’d give it to him.

  I pulled out my phone and rang my da’s mobile. He picked up on the third ring. I explained about the house having being broken into, that the perpetrator had knocked me over on the way out and that the lock was broken.

  My da responded with a series of curse words. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. Just a scrape or two on my hands. I’m…going to stay at a friend’s house, okay?”

  I glanced up to find Diarmuid watching me. He didn’t make any motion to argue that I should give my da his name and address. At least we agreed on one thing. No way in hell was I telling my da that the “friend” was a cop, my JLO officer and not so much a “friend” as a…Jesus, I didn’t know what the hell we were. God, I hoped my da didn’t ask where I was staying because I didn’t want to lie to him.

  “Okay, baby girl. Shit, I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I’ll get it fixed, okay? I’ll get an alarm system installed. I want you to feel safe there, yeah?”

  We hung up. Thank God. He didn’t ask who I was staying with. A thread of disappointment weaved through my relief. Shouldn’t a parent ask where their underage daughter was staying?

  Diarmuid followed me through the house, saying nothing even as I turned all the lights on as I went, so I could grab a few things and shove them into an overnight bag such as toiletries, toothbrush, clothes. He looked respectfully aside when I went through my underwear drawer. I might have been dreaming, but I swear his cheeks coloured.

  I grabbed my journal too, resting on my crumpled bedspread, before he could see it, and shoved it into the bottom of my bag. It was my turn to flush.

  We walked back out, turning lights off as we went. When I reached the front door, the lock practically hanging off the frame, I felt the adrenaline wearing off. My legs were becoming shaky. As if he knew what I needed, Diarmuid slipped an arm around my waist and helped me to the truck. He always knew what I needed, even without my having to ask.

  Damn him.

  Damn him and his caring. Damn him and his warmth and his smell and the tousled dark hair that fell across those magnetic eyes.

  We were silent in the truck, even the music had been turned off. Until Diarmuid broke the silence.

  “You kept the journal I gave you,” he said quietly.

  I sucked in a breath. He had seen it. Had he read any of it while he’d been in my room alone?

  I shrugged, trying to downplay the significance. Not that it’d matter if he’d read it. “It’s useful to write things down sometimes.”

  “What do you write in it?”

  Thank fuck. He hadn’t read any of it. Or was he bluffing?

  “Don’t tell me you didn’t sneak a peek.”

  “That’s private. I’d never.” He shot me a glare as if he was insulted that I’d questioned his morals.

  Because that was Diarmuid Brennan, the guy who always did the right thing. Too moral to read through someone else’s journal. Too moral to go after a seventeen year old, even if he wanted her.

  Perhaps it was the adrenaline, the shock of having been burgled, but it didn’t hit me that I was going to stay over at Diarmuid’s house until he pulled up in his short driveway.

  My nerves wound around each other, tightening like a coil.

  Me. And Diarmuid. In his house. Alone.

  How the fuck was I ever going to survive this?

  37

  ____________

  Diarmuid

  Jesus Christ.

  When Saoirse had pulled open her underwear drawer earlier, I’d spotted all those lacy, skimpy adult panties. Saoirse Quinn should not be wearing underwear like that. My blood burned at the sight of them. I had to turn my head away before I said something I shouldn’t.

  What got me even hotter was the idea that there might be a boy who was getting to see all those sexy lace panties on her.

  Now she was in my house—my house—in my room getting changed. Naked.

  I yanked open my fridge with a little too much strength, the bottles rattling in the shelves. I needed a drink. Something to cool me off because I still felt like I was feverish.

  I grabbed a bottle of a pale IPA lager and ran it across the back of my neck before I cracked the bottle and skulled half of it down.

  An image of Saoirse in my bedroom changing flashed through my mind, making my veins simmer.

  Dear God, I was going straight to hell.

  “Hey,” her sweet voice came from behind me like a siren’s call.

  I jolted out of my reverie and spun, the beer bottle almost slipping from my hand.

  She was standing there in a pair of sleep shorts, showing off her slim legs, and a thin t-shirt that clung to her chest. Dear God, I don’t think she was wearing a bra.

  I tore my eyes away from her and gripped onto my beer bottle. “I’ll sleep on the couch. You can take my bed.”

  She shook her head. “Diarmuid, you’re a giant. You won’t fit on the couch.”

  I grunted. “I’ve slept in worse places before.” Including on a park bench and in a doorway when I was a teenager.

  Saoirse crossed her arms over her chest, a cute
little crease between her brows. “I will not kick you out of your bed. You’ve been good enough to let me stay.”

  “Saoirse, this isn’t up for discussion.” I pointed to my bedroom. “Go to bed. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  I glowered at her, a clear signal that I would win this argument no matter what.

  She shut her mouth. And her face softened. “You’re a true gentleman underneath all that gruffness.”

  I grunted.

  She walked over to me, her steps cautious as if she were approaching a dangerous animal. She was, in a way. I froze as she slipped her arms around my waist and leaned her head against my chest.

  I caught the honey scent of what I imagined was her body wash. She must have brought her own. I certainly never smelled this damn good after a shower.

  It was just a hug. An innocent hug.

  I closed my arms around her, holding her gently to me. Everything in my body felt like it sighed with relief. Just a hug. This was fine. Fine.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, her breath tracing the skin of my collarbone.

  “Anything for you,” I said, knowing in my heart that it was one of the truest things I’d ever said.

  The couch was the most uncomfortable piece of shit I’d ever slept on. It was one of those horrid black pleather two seaters that seemed to exist in every property in Ireland, with arms that were board-straight and too high for my neck. It was so short I could barely get my torso on it when I lay lengthways, my legs hanging over the other arm and going numb.

  “Fucking couch,” I grumbled, and shifted yet again, trying to get comfortable and failing.

  I heard a patter of footsteps, then smelled honey and roses around me, a soft hand brushing hair off of my forehead. I squinted and saw a figure with a golden halo. An angel.

  I must be dreaming.

  “Stubborn man,” a sweet voice muttered. “You look so uncomfortable.”

  I tried to open my eyes properly, but they were too heavy and stinging from being awake this late. My angel slipped her tiny hands into mine and tugged.

  “Come on.”

  I rose to my feet, drawn towards the angel, following her through the darkness, trusting her completely. Then I tumbled onto a soft mattress and I let out a groan of relief, stretching out my legs. I felt a blanket being pulled over me. Then my angel climbed into bed next to me.

  So soft.

  So warm.

  And she smelled so sweet.

  I loved my angel. I may have even told her that, my words coming out as a mumble.

  Then I fell completely to sleep.

  38

  ____________

  Saoirse

  I watched him sleeping for the longest time, his thick chest rising and falling like the ebb and flow of a tide, mesmerising me, soothing me, at the same time causing something warm inside me to ebb and flow. The way the silvery moon filtered through the window dusted his sharp cheekbones. He looked younger sleeping, at peace.

  Before I had pulled the blanket over him, I saw that he was only wearing a light t-shirt and a pair of briefs. They hid nothing. Round ass, strong thighs, wide muscular torso. Knowing all of this was less than a foot away from me was making my head spin like I was on one of those hurly whirly rides.

  God, I wanted him.

  But it was more than just his body, it was him.

  His mind, his heart, his flaws. Him.

  I reached out for his hair spread across the pillow and touched the ends of it. It was softer than I’d imagined it would be. And it smelled like the masculine shampoo he had in his shower.

  He grunted in his sleep. I yanked my hand back, squeezing my eyes shut, my cheeks flaming at the thought of being caught.

  There was no more movement. No more noise from him. He must still be asleep. Slowly I opened my eyes again and gazed upon this beautiful sight.

  What I wouldn’t give to lie here with him every night. To be his.

  His.

  My wishes crumbled and blew away into an impossible wind. Diarmuid would never care for me the way I wished he would. I just needed to accept that fact.

  Tomorrow. I’ll accept the fact tomorrow.

  Tonight, I was going to get as close to him as I could. I would take warmth from him without him knowing so he didn’t have to feel guilty. I didn’t know when I’d ever get to lie next to him again. If ever.

  I shuffled closer to him until my arm pressed lightly against his. I didn’t dare get any closer. Although I wanted to.

  Feeling brave and giddy from his proximity, I ran the tip of one finger along his arm, memorising the dip and curve of each hard muscle, remembering how I’d done this three years ago when he’d shown me his ink. Back then I thought I’d known what it was to be a woman who wanted a man. I didn’t. I’d been too young.

  I knew now. Now this simple touch was all it took to set off a twisting, burning need inside me, a yearning in my lower belly that felt so wild. So primal. So…adult.

  I wanted Diarmuid to sink into where it ached for him. I wanted him to live there. To own me.

  He moved suddenly, his arm flinging out to grab me, yanking me against his chest. My entire front pressed against his hard body. My soft flesh moulding around steely muscle. He mumbled in my hair and then let out a soft sigh, sinking back into sleep, his eyes never opening.

  I sucked in a breath.

  This.

  Here.

  He was my harbour. This was my home.

  It felt so damn right I could have cried. I could have begged him to never let me go.

  Instead I curled my fingers into his shirt. I held on for as long as I could. Stealing his seal-skin under the cover of darkness, with the non-judgemental moon as my only witness.

  Because come morning, when he woke, he would cease to be mine.

  39

  ____________

  Diarmuid

  I dreamed I was in the arms of an angel.

  She kept me warm and she brought me peace. The kind of peace I’d never known. The ghosts from my past stopped rattling their chains. The heaviness that lay across my shoulders fell away. And the uncertainty, the feeling of being untethered, a single cork bobbing in an ocean, fell away.

  She was an anchor. My anchor. My safe harbour.

  As I woke, I felt every outline of her soft body, her breasts pressed against my side, her softness tangled around my limbs. My blood began to heat. I reached for her and found her slim waist under her shirt, my hand moving across her smooth skin as I shifted towards her. She let out a soft moan and her leg slid across my thigh, pressing against my growing hardness. I rocked against her, every movement like a tide pulling me closer to awake.

  I opened my eyes and found the blonde angel curled in my arms, her sweetheart face—the most beautiful face I’d ever seen—lay on my chest, her long lashes almost touching her high cheekbones.

  It felt like cold water had splashed over me, snapping me out of my near-dream state.

  Oh shit.

  Saoirse.

  In my bed. Up against my erection.

  I jumped out of bed. She stirred, blinking. “What’s going on?” she mumbled, her voice heavy with sleep.

  “What the fuck? How the…? Wha?” I wasn’t making any sense, my mind still trying to put together the pieces.

  I had been on the couch. I swear I had gone to bed on the couch.

  Saoirse sat up in bed, the sheets falling around her. Dear God, I wanted to get back in there with her.

  “You looked so uncomfortable last night,” she said, “I dragged you here.”

  And in my half-asleep state I had gone with it. Even though I shouldn’t have.

  “Jesus Christ.” I rubbed my face. I was going to prison. Even worse, I was going straight to hell.

  Saoirse rolled her eyes. “Don’t worry. Nothing happened.”

  Except something did happen. It happened inside of me.

  My erection was evidence of it. I had pressed it against her. Rubbed it against her. God h
elp me.

  I had to get out of here. I spun and practically ran out of the bedroom.

  “Where are you going?” she called after me.

  “You shower. I’ll coffee,” I grunted back, just needing some distance from her. From me around her.

  In the kitchen, I cupped my hands around a mug, letting the heat from the freshly brewed coffee within burn my skin. If only it could burn away my sins.

  I’d woken up in bed with Saoirse. I’d pressed my filthy erection against her clean body. Heaven help me.

  “Why is there a box with my name on it in your closet?” Saoirse’s voice broke through my reverie.

  Ah, shit.

  I looked up to find her standing before me, dampness at her hairline, wearing a pair of skinny jeans and a fitted jumper that showed off all her curves. Curves that I instantly remembered being pressed up against me in bed.

  Double shit.

  “You went through my closet?” My voice came out like a growl. The best defense is an offence, or so they say.

  “No.” She shifted her feet. “Maybe. I was just looking for a hand towel, I swear. You didn’t have one in your bathroom.” She screwed up her face. “Or your closet, for that matter.”

  Now that I was living on my own there were a lot of things I realised I missed about living with a woman. Feminine things. Like candles, flowers and hand towels.

  I didn’t miss them enough to take Ava back, though.

  “So the box…” Saoirse said.

  Right. The Box.

  “It doesn’t have your name on it,” I said, stalling.

  She rolled her eyes. “Fine. Why is there a box with Selkie written across the top?”

  I let out a sigh. I hadn’t meant for her to ever see that box; it had been for me. Especially now that things were more…complicated between us.

  No, I scowled to myself, things were not complicated. I did not have a complicated attraction to a woman who was over a decade younger than me.

  It was simple.

  Keep my hands off Saoirse.

  Make myself stop thinking these illicit things. Right now.