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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.