Kiss of the Irish (Foreign Fling)

by Lauren Hawkeye

  And the women—he’d sampled a woman of every flavor, sometimes more. He had exotic memories that he still pulled out once in a while when he was alone with his hand.

  And still, for him, it had always come back to Ireland. He bled green, and he was fucking proud of it. So when he’d seen what he’d wanted to see, he’d come back, not sure what he planned to do with the rest of his life. That apartment building had been the first purchase, and the pub the second. When a man his father had once worked with approached him about buying into his new coffeehouse in the next town over, that had seemed like a natural next step, as had the investment in his cousin’s store an hour away, the one that sold fancy tea and trinkets.

  As a result, the one-time small-town bad boy had become pretty fucking respectable by the ripe old age of thirty. He had enough money that he didn’t have to put in as much time at the pub as he did—he could have hired someone to do it for him. But he liked the customers, liked the company, liked the Irishness of it all.

  And he’d have been lying if he said he didn’t like the opportunities it brought to continue talking pretty girls out of their panties.

  With a sideways glance, he looked at the woman still leaning against him. He’d like to talk her out of her panties and a whole hell of a lot more, but not tonight.

  “This place is beautiful.” She was now murmuring against his shoulder, her tired eyes wide with wonder.

  Cian laughed softly at her awe. Maybe this was it—the wide-eyed wonder with which she looked at everything—that made him unable to tear her from his mind. It was like she’d been sheltered her whole life, had lived in a cocoon and was just now learning to spread her wings. It was a far cry from the aggressiveness of so many of the women he encountered. Not that they were in the wrong, being who they were. It was just refreshing to be around a quieter soul. “It’s a lot lovelier when it’s not dark and rainy, that I promise you.”

  “It’s just so quiet,” she gushed reverently, blinking sleepily at the quiet town he had once ached to leave. “There’s nothing like this back home. I must be dreaming.”

  “Is it a good dream, at least?” The corners of Cian’s lips twitched.

  She sighed blissfully, nodding as he steered her from the main road and carefully up the stairs of his building. Her flat was one of the two on the second floor, the other belonging to the old Mr. Gallagher he’d mentioned in his messages to her.

  He found himself narrowing his eyes up at the old man’s window. A harmless flirt he was, to be sure, but a jealous streak Cian hadn’t been aware he had flamed crimson at the thought of any other man putting the moves on this woman—any man at all.

  “You’re the best part of it.” Sarah recaptured his attention as they came to a halt before her front door and he fumbled with the keys.

  “Really? Am I?” Cian felt torn about telling her that she was, in fact, in the real world, and everything she was saying, he’d remember.

  “Mm hm. You’re absolutely gorgeous.” The smile he was trying to restrain broke free at that particular comment.

  “Not my type, of course.” She laughed softly, and he frowned a bit. “Back home, I never would have dreamed of speaking with someone who had a piercing in their face. It’s so…wild.”

  She didn’t sound like she thought that was a bad thing, and it took a lot of restraint not to tell her that he had several other parts pierced, as well. If she thought his eyebrow was wild, then she might pass out if she ever got a look at the hoops in his nipples and the silver bar through his cock.

  “Of course, no man is my type right now.” This brought Cian up short. Surely she wasn’t saying that she played for the other team, was she?

  Fuck. Sarah, lying on a bed, her long, gold hair tangled with the chestnut curls of another woman as they writhed together…

  Get yourself together, man.

  “Surely someone is your type,” he probed carefully. Hot as the thought of Sarah pressed against another woman was, a tight knot in his stomach didn’t relish the notion of being out of the running before he’d even started the race.

  Against him, she huffed out a breath, the exhalation tickling his ribs. “Mm, yes, I suppose that’s true. I definitely have a type. I’m just avoiding it for a while.”

  He heard the frown in her voice and wanted to erase it, so he deliberately changed the subject.

  “You’re not hard on the eyes yourself, Sarah.” Gauging her level of exhaustion, he winced. He’d been as jet-lagged as she was before, and he wasn’t sure how she was still awake at all.

  Reaching past her to open the door, Cian took in the cornflower blue of her eyes, and the damp, gleaming gold waves that framed her face. Rosy cheeks on silky ivory skin, and full lips made for doing wicked things…she’d been attractive in that serious picture on Facebook, but in person she was just stunning, even with dark circles under her eyes and hair tangled from the rain.

  She made a low sound of disagreement in her throat, and Cian blinked, forcing himself to stop staring at her fascinating face. He released her for the moment it took him to move her bags into the flat’s small entryway. Of course, that was all the time it took for her to lean against the wall, sliding down until she was seated on the floor just outside the doorway.

  Damn. She really was out of it. Cian had intended to see her to her front door and leave it at that, but Sarah now looked as if she might need a hand into the apartment—an action that, after having her warm and pressed to his side, would be more than a little uncomfortable.

  He’d help her in, head back to the bar, and have a nice big shot of Jameson’s. If that wasn’t enough, his hand and his shower would have to suffice, though no doubt the pleasure would be fueled by thoughts of those full pink lips on his skin.

  “Come now, darling. Let’s up and at ’em.” Bending down, Cian took both of her hands in his, attempting to draw her to her feet. Instead of him pulling her, however, he was surprised when Sarah tugged him. The motion was completely unexpected, and Cian ended up all but on top of her, their faces inches apart.

  “It’s a dream…” She murmured softly, her eyes burning into his. “You’re a dream.”

  The next thing Cian knew, her mouth was on his.

  His body reacted immediately, the warmth that had tingled through his nerve endings exploding into a full-blown inferno. Without even thinking, he curled his fingers around her waist as his tongue slid between her lips to taste her more deeply.

  She was sweet—the orange juice she’d had in the bar only enhanced her sweet taste, and Cian groaned softly as her tongue touched his almost tentatively. Slender arms wound around his neck to tug him closer, and he forgot that they were on the second floor of an apartment building, that a storm was raging outside. He forgot that he had to get back to the pub, and he forgot that he wasn’t supposed to want this woman.

  When Cian drew her lower lip between his teeth to nibble gently, she moaned, arching against him so her breasts were flush against his chest. Her clothes were wet to the point where he could feel the hard jut of her nipples through the fabric, and a new jolt of lust shot over him. If she wanted him right here, right now, he was more than willing. Cian could be out of his clothes in a trice, and he didn’t give a damn if the whole world were to see them…

  No. No, she didn’t even know what she was doing. She wasn’t under the influence of anything, but neither was she in her right mind.

  It took every iota of willpower he had, but Cian tore his mouth from hers. The way she looked up at him—mouth swollen, eyes glazed over with want—was almost enough to make him kiss her again, but he refrained. Hers wasn’t the look of a practiced seductress, but rather a woman who simply wanted, innocently and wholly.

  A woman made fragile by…something. Something he didn’t know her well enough to even begin to guess at.

  So, instead of ravaging her, Cian lifted her from the floor and carried her into her flat. He’d had it well prepared for her—scrubbed from top to bottom—and it still smel
led of the lemon disinfectant. He headed through the modest living room and down the narrow, single hall to nudge open the door to the bedroom.

  The bed was there—large and inviting—the coverlet already turned down, the sheets he’d purchased himself freshly washed and warm.

  Don’t look at the bed. Not happening tonight.

  With excruciating care, he laid Sarah on the wide mattress, taking the time to carefully remove her sodden shoes—very sensible ones, they seemed, made of plain brown leather, with only the smallest of heels.

  Damp hair in a tangle on the pillow, Sarah started to snore so suddenly that she startled a laugh out of him, and then a curse when he realized that the clothing she was wearing was completely soaked.

  He wasn’t changing her out of them. He had self-control, but he wasn’t a saint.

  “Sarah.” Grasping her by one slender shoulder, he rocked her a bit. She just needed to wake up long enough to get changed. “Sarah!”

  She swung out with a fist that he only just managed to catch, then kept right on snoring. He eyed her warily, then scrubbed his hands over his face, not sure what to do.

  His ma would have his head if he let the pretty new Yank catch a cold from sleeping in her wet clothes. And he might be a grown man, but one word and that woman could make him feel like he was thirteen years old again, caught sneaking kisses from Deirdre, the fifteen-year-old vixen next door.

  Wincing—he had no desire for the sharp side of his ma’s tongue—he eyed Sarah’s sweater and jeans. All right, then. He’d remove her sweater and leave in whatever shirt she had beneath and the jeans.

  She didn’t take another punch as he moved her this time, instead simply moaning. He thought frantically about the last game of football that he’d seen, and worked her arms through her sleeves. The wool was wet and tugged at her skin, and still she slept, her breathing deep and even as finally he freed her arms then pulled the pile of wet wool over her head with a plop.

  “Sweet baby Jesus.” Cian couldn’t hold back the curse as Sarah fell back on the bed. He’d expected her to have a T-shirt or one of those strappy things—what did women call them? Camisoles?—underneath the scratchy lamb’s wool.

  She did not. No, beneath that sweater was nothing but a simple white cotton bra, edged in a thin border of sweet white lace. The unadorned garment accentuated those fantastic curves, and with the sweater gone, he could see a lot of them.

  Mouth watering, he did the only thing a decent man could do in that situation—he threw the blanket over her and ran, right out her front door.

  Bloody hell.

  Raking a hand through his hair, Cian collapsed against the wall in the hallway and shook his head. He might have known from the moment Sarah Mercer had walked into Wild Irish that she would be trouble for him. The thing was: he normally embraced trouble. It was his middle name. After chasing it all over the world for the better part of five years, he’d come home in search of some peace and quiet.

  Only to have it disrupted by a pretty blond Yank with curves that wouldn’t quit.

  She was a sweet one—shy and conservative—but the way she’d kissed him was evidence that Sarah was hiding something much more interesting deep down. Cian wondered if she was even aware of it.

  If there was one thing that was certain, it was the undeniable chemistry between them. Chemistry that had taken all his power to thwart just now. If Sarah Mercer really wanted him as badly as he wanted her, she would come to him on her own terms. There would be no jet lag, no dreaming, and no uncertainty.

  Only then would he take her for his own.

  For now? Now he was going to go use the rain as a cold shower. A nice, long one.

  Chapter Three

  When Sarah woke up, she was groggy and disoriented. Her jeans pulled uncomfortably at her skin, and she winced at the dampness. Shifting on the sheets, she was momentarily thankful that she wasn’t wearing her sweater—wool stayed wet for a long time—but where had it gone?

  An unfamiliar room swam into focus around her, and for at least half an hour, she was uncertain as to whether she would stay awake or slip into unconsciousness again. The feeling persisted until she raised the watch on her right wrist to her line of sight.

  Her eyes popped wide in shock.

  It was noon. As in, the afternoon.

  Sarah distinctly remembered the clock in her rented Prius reading around six in the evening when she arrived in Ceanmore, which meant that she had been out for…what? Close to eighteen hours?

  Immediately, she rolled out of bed—and instantly regretted it when her head protested painfully at the treatment. Wincing, she dropped back onto the edge of the mattress, waiting for the momentary twinge to pass. Once it did, she took a deep breath and glanced at the alarm clock next to the bed.

  Twelve fifteen.

  She recalled changing the time on her watch the moment she arrived in Dublin, but some small part of her wanted to believe that there was no way she could have slept eighteen hours. It was ridiculously unlike her.

  Back home, her schedule ran like clockwork. She got up promptly at six a.m. every day and took her morning jog before returning home and showering. Breakfast was a bowl of oatmeal with fruit, and if she was lucky, Ross would give her a kiss before she left for the auction house.

  Now, Sarah cringed when she looked back at that particular detail. How long, she wondered, had he kissed her like that and then gone straight to the woman he’d left her for? What had she been…an exotic dancer?

  A stripper who, Sarah assumed, was skinny, stacked, and wild in bed. Everything she was not.

  Pushing the thought from her mind, she rose from the bed, gazing around the room. She presumed she was in her new flat—remembering vaguely that Cian Murphy, her landlord, had helped her home when she was on the verge of collapse.

  Now that she was a little more awake, she might as well explore it before seeking him out to thank him for his trouble.

  The bedroom was a surprise. It was small, thanks to the slanted roof cutting into the room, but the pale lemon color of the walls and the natural light streaming in through what looked like an old barn window helped to open up the space. Though the furniture here was white rather than the dark tones at the pub, it still reminded her of the tables and chairs she’d seen the night before—an eclectic mix that shouldn’t have worked and yet somehow did.

  White lace curtains, which on closer inspection seemed handmade, and a cheery red-and-white checkered quilt added to the brightness of the room. It was all so incredibly different from what she’d had back in Boston—sleek dark furniture that Ross had helped her to select, garnished with jewel-toned curtains and sheets. She’d had her eye on pretty pink floral ones, but he’d laughed at the notion of sleeping on something so feminine.

  Never mind that it wasn’t his home, wasn’t his bed. Or that he apparently hadn’t played to stay long anyway.

  Shoving away thoughts of Ross, she ventured from the room, making her way down the hall, the worn hardwood cool under her bare feet. Toward the front entryway, there was a tiny bathroom, and she couldn’t hold back a squeal of delight when she saw an actual claw-foot bathtub.

  In Boston, Ross had insisted she install a massive rain showerhead, and she’d always felt like she was drowning as she rinsed the shampoo from her hair. This tub, and the simple, sky-blue curtain wrapping around it, made her grin with anticipation.

  Later. Later, she’d buy herself a giant jar of bath salts and soak until her skin turned red. Right now, the growl her stomach let out cut through the air, announcing that she wouldn’t be doing anything else at all until she’d had some food.

  With the time difference, she couldn’t actually count how many hours it had been since she’d eaten.

  The surprisingly spacious kitchen already contained an array of simple cooking implements, and it looked to have been recently scrubbed. Picking up a spatula, Sarah made a face at it. She could boil pasta and heat up soup, but had always relied heavily on take-out.


  When she checked the fridge, she wasn’t surprised to find it empty. Obviously, she was going to have to do her own grocery shopping.

  When she ventured into the bathroom, Sarah got a good look at herself for the first time since she’d left the Dublin airport.

  It wasn’t pretty. Going to sleep on wet hair had left it flattened on one side and spiked up on the other. She had creases from the pillow striping the pale skin of her face, and one of her boobs had shifted inside her bra, making her torso look lopsided.

  When did I take my sweater off?

  She didn’t remember undressing before going to bed. But then again, she hardly remembered going to bed at all. What she did remember, however, was her devastatingly handsome landlord helping her through the downpour to her flat.

  Oh, and she had kissed him.

  No.

  No, that hadn’t been real.

  Here, in the light of day, she noticed with mortification that it absolutely had.

  The realization was enough to make Sarah flush scarlet from the top of her head to the tips of her toes as everything came rushing back to her. Sometime between finishing her orange juice and the journey to the flat, she had convinced herself that everything was a dream. It wasn’t too much of a stretch for her to believe it in her exhausted and drained state. Everything had gone fuzzy, and Sarah had let herself drift away.

  As part of her dream, Cian Murphy had gone from off-limits to directly in her crosshairs. Sarah could do little more than cover her face in embarrassment as she realized she had all but molested the man on her front doorstep.

  And then…Christ…she could barely remember him carrying her into the house and placing her in her own bed.