Irish Kiss

by Sienna Blake

  Her jade eyes met mine, her tiny teeth chewing on her lip. “I didn’t open it. I wanted to, though.”

  “You’ve seen it now,” I said. “You might as well have it.”

  She blinked several times at me. “The box is for me?”

  “No. Yes. Sort of.”

  She frowned. “Clear as mud, Brennan.”

  I downed the rest of my coffee as if it were a shot, the bitter burning searing the back of my throat—I needed something stronger, but this was all I had to hand—before dropping the empty mug in the sink. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.

  Saoirse was still staring at me, the stern look on her face telling me that there was no way she was letting this go.

  I let out a sigh. “Come on. It’ll make more sense when you see it.”

  I felt her eyes on me all the way to the bedroom. And when I heard her dainty footsteps enter the bedroom behind me, my skin became electrified.

  Saoirse and I were in my bedroom.

  Alone.

  I shoved this thought aside, yanking the closet door open just a tad too hard. The box was sitting plain as day in the back corner on top of the set of inbuilt drawers, Saoirse’s nickname, selkie, written across the top in my tiny script.

  I pulled it out and placed it on the bedspread, sliding it in front of the lady in question.

  Saoirse glanced at me, a request for permission.

  I nodded, permission granted.

  Even after being apart for three years, we could still have a whole conversion without uttering a single word.

  She slid the top of the box off and peered inside, my stomach flipping in my belly.

  Ah, shit.

  I was nervous.

  40

  ____________

  Saoirse

  It was an old shoebox. Selkie written in black scrawl across the top. I brushed my nickname written in Diarmuid’s hand before I slid off the lid.

  I pulled out the couple of papers on top first, my eyes scanning the pages, greedy for the contents.

  My gasp caught in my throat.

  It was my report card, the one where I’d gotten my first A+ in science. The one I’d given him.

  And my short story, “Diarmuid and His Selkie”, the story I’d written for him.

  “You…you kept these?” I glanced up to Diarmuid.

  He swallowed, his eyes not meeting mine, then nodded.

  My heart swelled up, all tender and warm. He kept them. All this time.

  I pressed the papers to my chest before setting them aside.

  All that was left in the shoebox was another box, light blue and small enough to sit in one hand.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “For—” Diarmuid cleared his throat. “For you.”

  For me?

  My heart began to pound as I slid the lid off the blue box.

  Inside was a charm bracelet with three charms on it. I pulled it out, dropped the box aside, and held the bracelet in the palm of my hand.

  The first charm was a tiny Irish harp. I recognised the second as the serotonin molecule, the happiness molecule. And the third was a woman with a seal’s tail, a tiny selkie.

  I collapsed, sitting on the bed, my knees failing me.

  Diarmuid lowered himself to kneel in front of me, so we were eye to eye, face to face.

  “I bought the bracelet and a single charm for you for each of your birthdays. I just didn’t send it to you because…” he trailed off, his stare going soft.

  He didn’t have to finish that sentence. I knew him well enough to do it for him.

  He didn’t send it to me because he thought it was better for me not to hear from him. To forget him. To get over him.

  This whole time I thought he didn’t care. I thought he forgot about me, too busy with his new life and his new family to even spare me a thought.

  Turns out I was wrong.

  He thought of me every year that we’d been apart.

  He bought me a gift every year even though he didn’t think I’d ever receive it.

  “Saoirse, no…”

  I only realised I was crying when his warm palm slid over my cheek and he brushed aside my tears with the rough pad of his thumb.

  “Not sad,” I mumbled. “I’m…serotonin.” In my hand I fingered the tiny metal molecule.

  His lips lifted into a soft smile. “Me, too.”

  This was what I had always dreamed about since the day I met him five years ago, that he’d look at me this way, just once.

  I lost myself in his eyes, his intense stare. Or perhaps I had only just found myself.

  Before I could think about it, I leaned forward...we leaned forward. Or perhaps we fell.

  And fell.

  Until our lips connected.

  His mouth was soft, firm. His lips fit perfectly against mine as if they belonged there. His palm, still cupping my cheek, went from warm to searing against my skin.

  But he didn’t move.

  He didn’t kiss me back.

  Oh shit. Once again, I’d misjudged things. Shit shit shit.

  I pulled back, our mouths separating, my lashes fluttering open, desperate to see his reaction to my kissing him for a second time, even though I was just as terrified to see the rejection waiting for me, his pained refusal for a second time.

  His eyes were open, wide and shocked. Just like last time.

  I pulled farther away, excuses tangled on my tongue.

  I didn’t get a chance to voice any of them.

  His hand on my cheek slid back, grabbing me by the back of my neck and yanking me towards him.

  This time I really did fall.

  I dropped the bracelet. My hands, open to catch my fall, landed on his shoulders, so firm and hard.

  This time our mouths crashed together on purpose, a deliberate accident. A beautiful wreck.

  His lips parted and I felt his tongue stroke against my lips. I gasped at the sensation, my own lips parting, letting him in.

  My head spun. My thoughts silenced as he kissed me with enough ferocity to bruise, with a hunger that felt violent and insatiable. And yet, I couldn’t get enough.

  I had always been his. But now he had laid claim to me. His kiss branding me deep into my soul.

  When he groaned into my mouth, the noise rumbling through my very centre, his soft beard brushing my skin, his fingers tightening around the back of my neck, I knew I’d forever be wrecked. Ruined. Broken into a thousand pieces that would only fit him.

  My fingers slid across his shoulder, his neck, gripping into his shoulder-length hair, tangling into the soft curls at the base of his neck. I was making a mess of his ponytail, but I didn’t care.

  All I could feel was him. All that existed was us.

  And it was beautiful.

  And wrong.

  And bliss.

  Until it wasn’t.

  His hands shoved me and I went flying onto my back across his bed.

  41

  ____________

  Diarmuid

  I blamed the softness of her mouth.

  I blamed fate that had twisted our lives back together again, even after I had cut all ties.

  I blamed the part of me deep down, the part of me that had been waiting for her to grow up.

  And now she was grown.

  Unfortunately, none of these excuses would be a suitable defense in a courtroom.

  Because I was kissing my seventeen-year-old assignment as if she was the very air that I needed to breathe.

  Reality doused me like icy water. Before I knew what I was doing, I pushed her from me and she fell on her back across my bed, sprawling over my bedspread, her hair flying around her sweetheart face like a halo. She looked so beautiful just like that, her parted lips red and slightly puffy from where mine had been, eyes heavy with lust, her breasts heaving, legs askew.

  It would take nothing for me to crawl over her, covering her with my body, tearing every last teasing shred of clothing from her and claiming
her body, the last thing I’d yet to claim of her.

  Fuck, Diarmuid, what are you thinking? my logical mind screamed at me.

  “Diarmuid?” Her voice, so sweet and innocent, cut through my desire like a knife.

  I stumbled back, bile rising up my throat. Oh God. I was sick. I was demented. What kind of man thought these things about a seventeen-year-old girl?

  She’s almost eighteen. She’s a woman. So much a woman now.

  No. I shook my head. That kind of thinking would ruin me.

  I turned and bolted from the room, no idea where I was going, I just knew I had to get out of there. I stumbled into my living room and felt her hand on my arm. When I spun towards her, she was staring at me with concern.

  “Diarmuid, what’s wrong?”

  Oh God, her voice was so sweet and concerned. I did not deserve it.

  “That didn’t just happen.”

  Shock spread across her face. “You don’t mean that.”

  “I do.”

  She grabbed my arms, forcing my attention only on her. “Look at me and tell me that wasn’t the most incredible kiss you’ve ever had in your life.”

  “Saoirse—”

  “Look at me and tell me so,” she practically screamed at me.

  I pulled her hands off me, everywhere burning that was under her skin, shaking the foundations of my willpower.

  “It doesn’t matter what I feel, we can’t ever do that again.” I practically had to spit the words out, each one tasting like lies.

  Her face screwed up. “Why?”

  “You’re too young.”

  “I’m seventeen, over the age of consent in Ireland. It’s not wrong.”

  Shit. Fuck. Shit.

  “Not for me. I’m a person of authority. You have to be eighteen…”

  “But…but I turn eighteen in less than five months. We could wait—I’d wait.”

  My face softened. My sweet girl. My selkie. “Saoirse…”

  “I’m not thirteen anymore. I’m a woman. I’ve seen the way you look at me, at my body. It’s okay to want me now.”

  “No, it’s not okay. It’s sick and it’s wrong.”

  Her eyes rimmed with tears. “You don’t mean that.”

  “I do, I—”

  Fuck. I realised too late that I’d made her cry, tears flowing freely down her cheeks.

  The fight sagged out of me. I reached for her, just wanting to make her sadness go away, wanting to make it all better just like I used to do.

  “Saoirse—”

  She sidestepped out of my grasp, spinning and running from the living room. I heard my bedroom door slam.

  Shit.

  I’ve made a right mess of this.

  What the hell was I thinking kissing her?

  I wasn’t thinking. I was reacting. Giving in to what my body wanted, what my heart yearned for.

  The bedroom door banged open and Saoirse stormed past me, her overnight bag over her shoulder.

  I chased after her. “Where are you going?”

  “Leave me alone!” She slammed my front door in my face.

  I sagged against my front door, resting my forehead against the wood, desperate to go after her.

  Leave her alone. Let her go.

  The truth was, that was all I could do.

  Her lips still lingered on mine. The way her skin felt, so soft and smooth, still ghosted my palms. I was terrified that if I went after her, I’d lose complete control.

  And ruin us both.

  42

  ____________

  Saoirse

  Then—Dublin, Ireland

  On the Monday after the disastrous dinner that Ava ruined, Diarmuid picked me up from school.

  He was silent. But that was okay. He and I were often silent, no need to talk.

  I sat up when he took the turn that led to his area instead of my apartment. “Where are we going?”

  “I thought we could have afternoon tea at my place. Is that okay?”

  I nodded. This was perfect. Our stars were aligning. Only one possible flaw in the plan.

  “Is…” I began, “is Ava going to be there?”

  “Oh. No.”

  It was perfect.

  Just Diarmuid and me, alone. Just like it was meant to be.

  At his house, Diarmuid held open the door for me as if this were a date. I blushed as I stepped past him.

  I felt like I was exiting my old life as a girl and stepping into my new life as a woman. His townhouse enveloped me with warmth and security as I walked into his living room. His place had always felt more like home than my own.

  He felt like home.

  I scanned the mantle where the framed photographs of him and Ava had sat. They were gone. All gone. The places they’d once sat was marked only by the absence of dust.

  Oh my God.

  He’d done it. He’d broken up with her. And now he was acting like there was something he wanted to tell me, the air around him heavy with gravity. This was it. He was free to be mine.

  You have my skin.

  I heard him drop onto the couch. I spun, our eyes locked and my breath caught in my throat.

  He shot me a shy smile. “Whatcha doing all the way over there, selkie?”

  I shrugged because I couldn’t speak. He and I were alone in his house and Ava was gone.

  He let out a smile. “Come sit with me.”

  I don’t know how but I managed to get my feet moving, my breathing quickening as I neared him. My knees gave out and I dropped onto the other end of the couch.

  “Why’ve you gone all shy for? Come here.” He patted the spot next to him.

  A ball lodged in my throat. I shuffled closer until my knee was touching his strong thigh muscle covered in his usual denim. A warmth spread through my leg, making it tremble. I wondered if he noticed. He always noticed everything with me.

  Diarmuid eyed me for a few moments.

  “Jesus,” he let out, “everything is changing so fast. I don’t know how to say it.”

  Then don’t say anything.

  I shifted up onto my knees and leaned in. He enveloped me in a hug, his warmth, his presence, his everything blanketing me in safety, my heart banging against my ribs so hard I thought I was having a heart attack.

  “Oh, Saoirse,” he spoke into my hair, his voice reverberating around my name. “It’ll all be okay.”

  Of course it would. He’d left the one he wasn’t supposed to be with. Now he could be with me. I pulled back to look at him and he let me.

  I brushed his shoulder-length hair back from his face. He’d let it out loose today. I’d rarely seen him with his hair out. He was my scruffy prince. My long-haired knight.

  I leaned in and pressed my lips to his warm firm ones, my eyelashes flicking shut so all I could feel was him.

  Then he was gone, his mouth tearing off mine.

  My eyes flew open. Diarmuid’s green eyes were wide and on me, surprise on his face. How could he be surprised?

  “I love you, Diarmuid,” I explained.

  I didn’t care that he’d only just broken up with her. They were never meant to be together. But he and I were.

  He blinked at me. He didn’t say it back. But we had all this time for him to say it back. I leaned in to kiss him again.

  “Saoirse, Jesus.” His hands wrapped around my upper arms, holding me there. His mouth parted but no sound came out.

  It was time to offer him my gift.

  “Diarmuid, I want you to have my virginity.”

  43

  ____________

  Diarmuid

  Saoirse kissed me.

  She kissed me.

  Right on the mouth. I was so shocked that it took me a second to tear my lips away.

  “Saoirse, Jesus,” I muttered.

  This was so wrong. So fucking wrong. My stomach filled with sickness. She was fourteen. Just a child. With a crush. Why didn’t I see this coming?

  Ava had. Why didn’t I listen?

  Sao
irse spoke and her words were like knives in my gut. “Diarmuid, I want you to have my virginity.”

  Fuck.

  Oh fuck, oh fuck.

  She reached for me and my stomach turned. I leapt to my feet, pushing her aside so that she fell back on the couch. “Saoirse, no! Oh God.”

  I should have never let her in so close. I should have never treated her like an adult, even if she was more mature than her physical years. My mind weaved back through the last year with her—every hug, every innocent touch was now tarnished. How could I let this happen?

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, standing up and reaching for me again to soothe me. To soothe me.

  I backed away from her, my hands out, trying to keep her from getting any closer.

  “Jesus, Saoirse, you’re only fourteen.”

  “I know what sex is. I’ve seen my mother do it with the men she brings home. I can make it good for you.”

  Oh my God.

  I snatched my arms away from her hands like her fingers were poisonous. My fingers ripped at my hair.

  “No, Jesus, fuck, no.” I choked. “I’m not touching you like that.”

  I saw the instant something broke inside her, the tears swelling in her eyes. Her bottom lip trembling.

  Fuck. I’ve hurt her.

  Her tears cracked something in me. My self-preservation flew out the window and all I cared about was softening the blow. I sank to my knees in front of her.

  “Saoirse,” I said, my voice calmer than my ragged heartbeat. “I don’t want to hurt you. But that can’t happen between us.”

  “Why not?” she wailed, the first tears flowing down her cheeks, leaving burn marks across my heart.

  I cursed under my breath. “You’re four-fucking-teen, Saoirse.”

  “I’m almost fifteen.”

  I shook my head. “It’s still wrong.”

  “Why?” Her voice started to rise. “Because of my age? Age means shit, you said so yourself.”

  “I meant age doesn’t mean shit when it comes to mental maturity.”

  “So it means something when it comes to sexual maturity?”

  “…yes.”

  “A hundred years ago women were being married off at thirteen and fourteen. Wasn’t anything wrong with it then. Why now?”