Irish Kiss

by Sienna Blake

  He tilted up his chin and pulled me down onto his mouth. He kissed me long and deep, had me squirming against his thumb.

  He pulled away from me with a chuckle. “You’re impatient.”

  “I’ve been patient for five years.”

  His features turned serious, the dueling flames of hunger and tenderness warring in his eyes. He glanced down. “Let’s get rid of these.”

  He lifted me up even higher, his hands on my hips, like I weighed nothing, until I was standing on the bed, my feet on either side of his thighs, his breath heating up the front of my panties.

  He let out a sigh. “White cotton panties. Fuck, you’re going to be the ruin of me.”

  He tugged them down, down, down my thighs, his fingers leaving a trail of fire down my legs as he went, helping me pull them out from my feet, one by one.

  I was naked.

  Naked in front of him.

  And oh God. His face was right there. If he let go of me I swear I’d collapse, my knees were weak from need.

  He gripped the backs of my thighs and pressed his nose into my soft curls and inhaled. “Sweet girl.”

  I squirmed. Not because I didn’t like it. But because it was something I didn’t know how to react to. I should have practiced with other boys. But I didn’t want to. I didn’t want anyone but him. Had never wanted anyone but him.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice so sweet I could have cried.

  I shook my head. I was embarrassed.

  Diarmuid tilted his head as he looked at me. “Selkie, it’s me. You can tell me anything, remember?”

  I remembered. He was my Diarmuid, my hero. My Irish giant. Who fought off evil men and nightmares for me.

  “No one’s ever had their face down there.”

  His eyes widened. “No one?”

  I shook my head, cheeks flaming at my inexperience.

  “I would be honoured to be the first.”

  Before I could say yes or no or something, he leaned in again, holding me still with one hand and pressing apart my lips with the other, licking along my sensitive nub.

  “Oh, fuck,” I cried out.

  His tongue was like fire and ice, sending electricity through me with one swipe.

  “You taste like fucking heaven,” he murmured against me before moving his tongue against me again. And again.

  I fisted my hands in his hair, back arching, legs trembling, mumbling in tongues as I lifted my face to the heavens.

  “My sweet selkie,” he murmured into the centre of me. “I can’t…” lick, “fucking…” lick, “get…” lick, “enough.”

  He pushed my leg up and hooked it over his shoulder, opening me further to him, then he grabbed my other leg and hooked it over his other. I squealed from having my legs taken out from under me.

  But I didn’t fall. He was strong enough for both of us. He gripped my ass against his face with one hand and my waist with the other as I tangled my fingers into his hair.

  I forgot about falling over—I forgot about everything else—when his mouth clamped down on the centre of me, his tongue flicking side to side, then up and down.

  I was on fire. Delirious from fever. I ached for him. Burned for him. With every stroke of his talented tongue, I shook like I was infected with sickness. And yet, I knew I would die if he stopped.

  I hardly knew what was happening when my orgasm overtook me, shaking through my body as if I had been taken over by a spirit.

  Here, now, I was no longer the daughter of a criminal, the child of a whore.

  I was absolved.

  I was free.

  When I floated back down to earth I was lying curled against Diarmuid’s side, his sweatpants and briefs discarded so that he was naked before me.

  I sat up.

  “Selkie?”

  I shook my head. Nothing was wrong. I just wanted to look at him, lying out here before me. Naked.

  I had never seen anything as beautiful. His long, thick body, coiled with muscle, inked like a painting. And me—his selkie—right there across his heart.

  “I love you,” I said. No shame to my words.

  I loved him when I was thirteen. But that was the adoration of a child. The immature longing of a girl who wanted nothing more than to grow up. To take control of her own life.

  I told him I loved him when I was thirteen but I didn’t know how deeply I could love him until now. Until I was grown up.

  It was in that moment that I finally forgave him for rejecting me at fourteen. For leaving. Because he had to.

  Even though he left, he took me with him.

  He placed me over his heart.

  And he waited.

  He waited for me.

  Until I grew up.

  Because I needed to grow up before I could be with him.

  He brushed my cheek with his finger, pulling away a tear I hadn’t realised I’d shed. Then he sucked it off his finger.

  “Touch me,” he said, a mere whisper, a plea.

  “Where?”

  “Everywhere. Anywhere. Wherever you like.”

  I traced his tattoos up his arms like I had done once before, revelling at the way his skin pebbled at my touch. I affected him.

  I brushed my hand across the selkie on his chest, then feeling brave, I ran my fingertips across his small dark nipple.

  It hardened underneath my touch. His breath caught.

  Oh God. I affected him the way he affected me.

  I had his skin. And he had mine.

  The power surged through my veins and the need to touch him became like a drug.

  I moved my hand lower and lower until I rested in the patch of his thick dark hair.

  Holy shit.

  His cock was long, thick and veined, the end like a swollen red mushroom.

  That was a fucking weapon.

  And there was no fucking way it was going to fit in me.

  I felt his eyes on me, watching me, waiting. His pupils were glossy with desperation, with need, but he was holding himself back just in case I didn’t want to continue. He’d sacrifice his needs for me. Given up his wants for me. He always had. I saw that now.

  I licked the centre of my hand and curled it around his length, a rush of satisfaction going through me at the surprise in his eyes. I slid my hand up and down his length, just like I’d seen in pornos or had caught my ma doing to the men she brought home.

  His leg twitched and he let out a moan.

  A moan was good.

  I kept going, urged on by his muttering, making sure to capture the precum beading at the end of him and spreading that over him too.

  “Selkie. Your hands are like fucking silk. God, I love when you touch me.”

  He needed more. I needed more.

  I got onto my knees so I could use both hands, my ass rising in the air.

  I felt his fingers at my pussy and I let out a cry.

  “Oh, sweet girl,” he murmured. “I am going to fuck this tight little hole.” He slid a finger inside me and I jolted, losing my mind completely as he found the deepest of me.

  I was lost as he slid his digit out of me, then back in.

  When he added a second finger I bucked, crying out his name. How could something both satisfy me and make me hungrier at the same time?

  “Don’t stop touching me,” he begged, breaking through my reverie.

  His cock. My hands had stopped moving. Right.

  It took a few moments for us to get the rhythm right, but when it did, God did we move like liquid.

  As I pumped his length and his hips thrust up, his fingers pushed into me as I rocked my hips back. Back and forth. Like a desperate dance. We were fucking without fucking. The sweet tension began to build in me again.

  His fingers left me and I let out a cry from the loss. I grabbed for him. But he brushed my hands out of the way, grabbing onto my hips and pulling me over him so I was seated on him.

  We both moaned as my slick heat met his hard length. Without thinking, I rocked forw
ard along him, letting my juices coat his erection, the head of him separating my lips when I slid forward enough. I could just rock myself into oblivion.

  “Jesus, fuck, selkie, enough,” he growled.

  Enough? A stab of rejection went through me.

  He sat up, lifting me up with one hand on my waist again. But he didn’t push me off him. He just held me there.

  “I can’t wait any fucking more,” he growled. “You’re going to make me lose my damn mind.”

  With his other hand, he leaned over to his bedside table, pulling out a condom from his drawer and tearing it open with his teeth. In a second he’d rolled it down over him as I hovered there, waiting, my nerves tingling with anticipation.

  His hand went back to my waist as he palmed his cock, directing the tip of it to my entrance.

  I let out a whimper. Not because I was scared. But because I couldn’t believe this was finally happening.

  A flash of concern went across his face.

  I wanted to reassure him, but I’d lost the ability to speak, utter need choking me. I just arched my back and rocked my hips so my pussy slid over the tip of him, wetting him with my soaking lips.

  He hissed and all concern dissipated, replaced by a hunger, tenderness and love underneath it, the way it’d always been.

  “I need you to slide down onto my cock. Slowly,” he said through gritted teeth. The veins stood out on his neck as if he was holding himself back. “Get used to me. I’m going to stretch your sweet little pussy. But I don’t want it to hurt.”

  I did. I wanted it to hurt so fucking bad.

  But he’d never forgive me if I just impaled myself on him.

  I had waited five years. What was a few more minutes?

  I did as he asked. For him. Always for him.

  With every millimetre that I slid down, I felt him pushing into me, stretching me apart. My walls resisted at first, a hint of burning waving at the edge of my need for more. But that sting soon ebbed away, pleasure swelling until it was all that I was. I slid down right to the base of him, fuller than I’d ever been in my entire life.

  Our groans echoed throughout his room.

  He was inside me. Where part of him had always been.

  “Selkie…” he begged, his fingers gripping at my hips. “Please. Move.”

  “I…” I didn’t know what to do, struck motionless with inexperience. Watching two people having sex and having sex were two different things.

  How could I even admit this to him?

  But he seemed to understand what I needed. The way he always understood.

  He rolled me onto my back so he was on top of me. I groaned, the weight of him pressing apart my hips, spearing into the centre of me like the sweetest prison.

  “Fuck me, like I’ve always wanted you to fuck me,” I whispered.

  “Dirty girl,” he hissed.

  He slid out and thrust in smoothly, not slow but not fast. Perfect. Just like he was. Just like this moment was. He thrust again and pleasure swelled in me, as did my heart in the cavity of my lungs.

  “This is your first time,” he growled.

  “Yes.”

  “There’s been no one else. Will be no one else.”

  “No one,” I cried, my hips raising up to meet his.

  There was no self-consciousness anymore. No thought that he had a decade more experience than me. He moved and my body reacted. He demanded and I obeyed. He took and I gave. Like an ancient song of the ocean. The steady crash of waves. The ebb and flow of the tide. The rise and fall of the moon over the sea.

  “Oh, God, Diarmuid.” I was pushed to the edge of my second orgasm, my pussy clenching so hard around him I thought I’d break him.

  His control over himself gave way. The humanity in his eyes fled. He fisted his hand in the hair at the back of my neck, tugging my lips against his mouth.

  He got savage with me. Real savage. His tongue warring with mine, his hips slamming against mine like he was trying to break my back.

  Pleasure thundered through me and I screamed. He cried out my name as he found his release.

  He collapsed, spent, holding part of himself up on his elbows so he didn’t crush me. Even though he was probably numb from his orgasm, he was thinking of me. Like he always had.

  Our breaths mingled, like two sea currents swirling against each other.

  This was contentment. Here was peace. Love.

  I had waited for it and now I had it.

  Diarmuid was mine. And I, his.

  Diarmuid rolled off me, disposed of the condom in his wastebasket. Then he tucked me against his warm, hard body, my head on his chest.

  I sighed, my fingers tracing my keepsake over his heart.

  He glanced at something over my shoulder, then smiled at me.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “It’s just ticked past midnight. Happy birthday, selkie.”

  I grinned through the curtain of sleep over my eyes. “Best present ever.”

  It was.

  I’d gotten him.

  And yet, a part of me, deep down inside, was just waiting for it to fall apart, breaking me with it.

  62

  ____________

  Saoirse

  When I woke, the first thing I felt was warmth and love. I lay on my side facing out and Diarmuid was against my back, an arm slung over me, tucking me against him.

  God, I could stay here forever.

  I turned slightly so I could look at him. My beautiful giant carried so much weight about with him during the day, so much heaviness. Asleep he was still as handsome as awake, but his features softened, making him look more at peace. I tucked this secret about him away under my skin.

  But like all wonderful things, it had to end. Fear wormed its way into my warm nest.

  What if he woke up and regretted us?

  What if he woke up and hated himself for what we did?

  What if he hated me for seducing him?

  I couldn’t bear it.

  His lashes fluttered and I held my breath.

  His beautiful sleepy eyes searched and found mine. A smile spread across his face.

  “Hey there, selkie.” His voice was even more gravelly in the morning.

  I let out a sigh of relief. “Hey.”

  “Fuck, you’re beautiful.”

  I giggled. “Even with messy bed hair and pillow creases on my face?”

  He traced a line down my cheek, his eyes glistening as they roamed over my face. “They’re the sexiest pillow creases, and I love that I can witness your bed hair because it means you slept with me in my bed.”

  He yanked me closer against him, so that our naked fronts were pressed together. My softness against his hardness. I let out a low groan as heat and need flooded my body, nipples aching as they pressed against his chest.

  I wasn’t the only one who was getting turned on. I could feel his erection against my belly.

  Need filled his eyes. He looked almost in pain as he leaned forward to claim my mouth. Our lips meshed and he rolled over me, covering me like a blanket, pressing my thighs open exquisitely with his hips, settling against where I ached for him. His hips rocked, his hardness sliding against my wetness.

  The doorbell rang.

  We groaned in unison.

  “Ignore it,” he said, dipping his head down my body to suck one of my nipples into his mouth.

  I moaned and arched my back.

  The doorbell rang again.

  Diarmuid sighed. “It’s probably a package or something. I’ll be right back.”

  He rolled out of bed, tugging his sweatpants on. I gathered the blankets up against the chill in the air. He caught my eye and grinned.

  “You look damn good in my bed.” His eyes flicked to the bedroom door. “Maybe they’ve given up—”

  The doorbell rang again, this time three times in a row. Whoever it was, they were not going away.

  Diarmuid disappeared to deal with the postman or whoever it was.

&nbs
p; Perhaps twenty seconds went by and he still didn’t return.

  I frowned, listening out for any type of sounds.

  Could I hear voices?

  I slid out of bed and pulled his large t-shirt on before creeping out of the bedroom and down the hallway. I heard Diarmuid’s voice, harsh like he was angry and slightly raised but spoken in a kind of whisper, as if he didn’t want the noise to travel down to me.

  “—to do, Ava?”

  Ava? That cursed name conjured up the image of the raven-haired beauty, and a rush of hatred burned through my veins. The woman with the wide hips and the big breasts. The woman who had Diarmuid under her spell. The one who took him away from me.

  Diarmuid’s wife.

  She was here.

  I slid as far as I could down the corridor without being seen, pressing my hands to the wallpaper.

  “I know you’re still angry with me.” Her voice was soft, sweet sounding.

  “Damn right I’m still angry.”

  “But that’s good, don’t you see? If you’re angry it means that you still care underneath it all.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut. No. She could not want him back. Not now. Not ever.

  Tell her to go away, Diarmuid. Tell her you’re with someone else. Tell her you love me.

  But Diarmuid said nothing. Denied nothing.

  A stab of pain entered my heart. Diarmuid and Ava had history. They had a marriage. How could I compete?

  “Diarmuid,” Ava said, her voice softening, pleading, “I made a mistake and I’m sorry. But I’m still your wife. You made vows to me, didn’t you? For better or for worse.”

  I heard Diarmuid sighing. “I did.”

  “Then you owe it to me—to us—to try to work this out.”

  I backed up, having heard enough, trying not to stumble as my eyes blurred from tears.

  Once again, Ava was coming between us. And like last time, I knew Diarmuid would give in to her. His morals were too strong. They were married. He owed nothing to me. I was just…just a one-night stand. A fling.

  He didn’t say he loved me back last night.

  My heart tore into pieces as I ran silently back into the bedroom, searching for my clothes, tugging them on. Finding my shoes. My bag.

  I had to get out of here. I couldn’t be here when Diarmuid came back in the room and told me that he was getting back together with his wife.