His low laugh rumbles around my nipple, sending a hot frisson of need straight to my core. His fingers begin to move in lazy circles and my head drops back against the pillow. At once, my senses begin the spiraling climb toward release. Eamon takes me higher, his fingers moving faster, until my body tightens to the breaking point.
His hand goes unexpectedly still.
My breathing is ragged. My heart feels like it might burst out of my chest. I’m aching with unfulfilled need. My fingers are clenched around thick handfuls of bedsheets. And I should be embarrassed by the way I whimper when his body shifts away from mine.
Eamon hooks his fingers into my underwear, and I lift my hips as he eases them down. He tosses them on the floor before settling back on the bed, his breath warm on my skin as he kisses my inner thigh.
“You don’t have to—”
His tongue sweeps over the spot where his fingers had been, and my words devolve into a low, guttural moan. My hips surge upward. The dizzying ascent begins again, and anything I try to say spills out as incoherent, needy sounds. I’ve had sex with men who couldn’t find a clitoris with a GPS, and others who only cared about their own needs. But Eamon is unhurried, his tongue relentlessly soft against my most sensitive skin. The intensity is almost too much to bear. When his gaze travels up my body to meet mine, I come utterly undone. My eyes fall closed. My hips writhe against his mouth. My legs tremble. His name pours out of my throat as my body quakes with release.
Tiny aftershocks ripple through me as Eamon removes his boxers and reaches into the nightstand drawer. As he sits back on his heels and unrolls the condom, he flashes me a smug little grin, obviously pleased with the bone-melting effect he has on me, and I crave him again. Eamon positions his body over mine, leaning down to kiss me with my taste still lingering on his lips. And when he’s finally inside me—when it’s not my hand wrapped around him—I feel a fleeting, perfect moment of relief.
“Jaysus,” he breathes, his beautiful face etched with pleasure. “I could die right now. That would be fine.”
My own self-satisfied smile spreads across my lips as I wrap my arms around him and walk my fingertips down his spine. Eamon shudders, then groans as my hands grip his ass and pull him deeper into me. He responds in kind, slowly rocking his hips.
Teasing me in the most delicious way.
Our bodies begin moving together and time is suspended. The world falls away, leaving the sound of his skin against mine. Raspy moans. Sharp gasps. Primal grunts. With each stroke, shivers race toward my center. I want Eamon to come with me, but I don’t know how to stop myself from tumbling over the edge. My orgasm breaks over me like a wave.
“Oh, fuck. Yes,” he groans, as my body convulses around him. He braces his hands on either side of my head, his pace quickening, thrusting deep. Until his head falls back and the sound that roars out of his mouth is the most glorious of hallelujahs.
Eamon collapses against me, nuzzling his face into the side of my neck. We are both short of breath and slick with sweat, and his weight feels like the only thing tethering me to the earth. Like I could float out the window into the Dublin night. My brain drifts on a sea of postorgasmic bliss.
“Congratulations,” I say.
“For what?”
“Your dry spell is broken.”
He laughs as he falls onto his back. “Imagine if you hadn’t kissed me in the bar.”
“Imagine if we’d met at the airport like we were told.” I roll onto my side and rest my chin on his chest.
“Right now, we’d be in Tralee, and I’d be preparing to sleep in my childhood room with my brother. It’s a guest room now, so there’s only one bed,” he says. “No offense to Keane, but I’d much rather share a bed with you.”
I smile and he ruffles my hair in a way that’s tender and affectionate.
“What’s the family home like?” I ask.
“Four walls on the outside. Fairly standard,” he says. “But inside was pure chaos, especially when all seven of us lived at home.”
“That sounds fun.”
Eamon side-eyes me. “The reason I live in Dublin is so I can control how often I see my family. I love them dearly, but I was born to be an only child.”
Maybe that’s why his apartment is so plain and orderly, I think, but then I look around his messy bedroom and my theory doesn’t hold water. I don’t know him well enough to understand what makes him tick, and maybe it’s best not to try. Just because we had sex doesn’t mean we have to bare our souls.
“Listen,” he says, lifting his head to kiss me. “I’m starting to marinate in this condom. I need to go have a quick wash.”
While Eamon is in the bathroom, I rearrange my bralette and put on my underwear before venturing to the kitchen for a drink of water. I find a set of clean linens in a built-in cabinet at the end of the hall and change the sheets. I’m a little embarrassed by the size of the wet spot, but sweet baby Taddy Finnegan, that man is a marvel with his tongue. Finally, I grab a tank top from my backpack, and when Eamon comes out of the bathroom, I enter. He stops me in the doorway with a toe-curling kiss that suggests this isn’t a one-and-done kind of night. And I have no complaints about that.
Except when I return to the bedroom, Eamon is fast asleep. It’s not terribly late, but he doesn’t stir when I switch off the light. I don’t need postcoital cuddling. If I’ve learned anything in this life, it’s that everything is temporary. Don’t get attached; it doesn’t last. Which is why it’s perplexing that I’m kind of … disappointed.
My system is still running on Fort Lauderdale time, so I leave him there and walk through the living room to open the French door leading out to the balcony. A switch beside the door illuminates a string of twinkle lights, which cast their soft glow on an outdoor sofa, a small coffee table, and a climbing trellis covered with star jasmine. The sweet scent drifts on the cool night air as I step out onto the balcony and peek over the metal railing. The street below is quiet, and all the shops are shuttered. I imagine the nights are more bustling on the weekends, but tonight it’s peaceful.
I check my phone and there’s a message from Stella. HE FORGOT YOU WERE GOING TO IRELAND, BUT HE RECOGNIZED YOUR PICTURE. HE SAID HE LIKES YOUR HAIR SHORT.
Dad met Stella about a decade ago, when she was out walking her American Foxhound, Harvey. The dog’s leash got hopelessly tangled around the legs of Dad’s chair on the outdoor patio of a coffeeshop and the big, ungainly dog nearly toppled the chair. It was the perfect romance novel meet-cute. Love at first sight. And even after finding out that forever was not in the cards, Stella has stuck by him. I love her for not trying to mother me, and I love her for taking care of Dad, but texts like these stir up complicated feelings. Sometimes I resent that I’m the one he sent away.
I put the phone down without responding, but it lights up suddenly with a ringtone that signifies an incoming video call. The only person I ever FaceTime with is my dad, and those calls are sacred.
His face appears on the screen. As always, his gray hair is a throwback to the seventies, and he’s wearing his black-rimmed glasses. I smile, happy to see him. “Hiya, Biggie.”
“How’s my favorite girl?”
“A little jet-lagged, but otherwise okay,” I say. “How are you?”