A mother’s love is a blessing, no matter where you roam.
Keep her while she’s living, you’ll miss her when she’s gone.
Love her as in childhood, though feeble, old and grey,
For you’ll never miss a mother’s love ’til she’s buried beneath the clay.
The melody was simple but devastating, and the way Eamon sang it—with his eyes closed and his whole body invested in the emotion—made tears prick behind my eyelids. This wasn’t performance. This was a prayer, a confession, a piece of his soul laid bare. He was somehow singing about his own mother, even if the lyrics didn’t make sense for that timing. But he felt that song to the very depths of his soul and it was evident in the way he sang it.
When the last note faded into silence, broken only by the crackling fire and the whisper of snow against the windows, I couldn’t speak. The beauty of it, the raw emotion in his voice, the way he’d shared something so personal and precious—it undid me completely.
“Eamon,” I whispered, reaching for him.
He opened his eyes and looked at me, and what I saw there took my breath away. Love, longing, and a kind of desperate hope that made my heart race.
I kissed him.
Eamon responded immediately, his hands coming up to frame my face as he kissed me back with equal eagerness. His lips were warm and soft and tasted like wine and something uniquely him that made me dizzy with want.
The kiss deepened, Eamon’s tongue tracing my lower lip in a silent request for access that I granted eagerly. It triggered something inside me, something wilder, something that made heat curl low in my belly. His hands slid into my hair, tilting my head to find the perfect angle as he explored my mouth with devastating thoroughness.
I couldn’t get close enough, couldn’t feel enough of him. I twisted on the couch until I was straddling his lap, myhands fisted in his shirt to pull him closer. Eamon groaned into the kiss, his own hands moving down my back to grip my hips, pulling me flush against him.
The evidence of his arousal was unmistakable, hard and insistent against my thigh. I rolled my hips experimentally and was rewarded with a gasp that sounded like my name. Emboldened, I did it again, reveling in the way his fingers flexed against my skin, the way his breathing grew ragged and uneven.
“Charles,” he rasped, breaking the kiss to trail his lips along my jaw, down the column of my throat. “We shouldn’t…”
“I don’t care anymore.”
It was the truth. I’d stopped caring about all the reasons this was a bad idea, all the warnings and risks. I wanted him and he wanted me, and for now, that was enough.
I reached for the hem of my shirt and pulled it over my head in one swift motion. Eamon’s eyes went dark with desire as they raked over my exposed chest. His hands were both rough and gentle as they traced the planes of my chest, fingers grazing over my nipples and making me shudder. I’d never felt desire like this before—raw and urgent, an ache in my bones that only his touch could soothe.
“You’re so bloody gorgeous. I’ve wanted to touch you like this since the moment I saw you.”
I groaned, arching into his hands. “Then touch me. Please.”
He surged up to capture my mouth again, kissing me with a hunger that stole my breath. His hands were everywhere—in my hair, skimming down my sides, gripping my hips to grind me against the hard ridge of his cock. I fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against mine, to map the contours of his body with myhands and mouth. My fingers trembled slightly as I worked them open, revealing inch after inch of smooth, tanned skin stretched over firm muscle. When I finally pushed the fabric off his shoulders, I couldn’t help but stare.
He was magnificent. I’d seen him the previous night, of course, but now I could really take my fill. Broad shoulders, a dusting of dark hair across his chest that trailed down to disappear beneath the waistband of his jeans. Scars too—faded white lines that spoke of a life lived hard and dangerously. I traced one with my fingertip, feeling the way his breath hitched at the contact.
“You can touch me,” he said, his voice rough with desire. “I want you to.”
Permission granted, I let my hands roam freely, mapping the planes and angles of his body. He was all hard edges and coiled strength, but he yielded beautifully under my touch, his eyes fluttering closed as I explored.
When my fingertips grazed his nipple, he let out a soft gasp that sent heat racing through my veins. Emboldened, I did it again, rolling the sensitive nubs between my fingers until he was panting and arching beneath me, and then I lowered my head and flicked my tongue across one, reveling in the way his hands tightened on my hips.
I hummed against his skin, tracing slow circles with my tongue before sealing my lips around his nipple and sucking gently. Eamon’s hips bucked beneath me, seeking friction, and I couldn’t help but rub against him in response. The layers of denim and cotton between us were maddening—I needed to feel his skin against mine, no barriers, nothing separating us.
As if reading my mind, Eamon’s hands slid down to cup my ass, squeezing and kneading the flesh through my jeans. I moaned into his chest, nipping lightly at his skin beforesoothing the sting with my tongue. He was so incredibly responsive, every touch and taste drawing gasps and groans from deep in his throat. It made me feel powerful, desired, like I could take him apart with my hands.
“Christ, Charles,” he growled. “You’re killing me.”
“You started it. Singing to me like that, looking at me like you want to devour me whole.”
“I do.” His voice was low and rough, his eyes nearly black with desire. “I want to taste every inch of you.”
The words sent a shiver down my spine. “Then what are you waiting for?”
