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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.