He was trembling, an odd feeling as his muscles stretched back into shape. His ass grumbled at him, throbbing to remind him of the man who’d been in him, as if the sheer heft of Sionn’s hot body spooning up behind him could be missed. Sionn worked the quilt and a sheet over them, the linens warmed by their sex, then yawned, nearly splitting his jaw apart. Sleep tugged at Damien, promising sweeter dreams than the horrors that had stalked him since he’d woken up in Skywood, but his mind refused to fall into its seductive coil.
Damien didn’t want to miss a moment of Sionn’s arms being around him or the weight of the man’s leg casually flung over his shins that held him against the soft mattress. There was never enough time to capture the moments in his life when everything was good. His headache still lingered, but so did the echoes of time spent under the stars with Miki, their dreams spun out of cotton candy and moonlight. He wanted to hammer the brightness of Sionn’s pleasure into his mind, engraving each touch with a sweeping flourish.
No one’d ever made his body and heart sing as sweetly as Sionn Murphy. His brain stung, pierced through with the shattered return of his life, a mosaic of sharp, effervescent pieces he needed to fit together. Amid the chaos, Damien stood, sheltered in Sionn’s embrace.
“Do you need something for your head?” Sionn’s breath ruffled his hair. “Are you doing all right there, Damie?”
“I’m fine,” Damie slurred, laughing softly when the man rubbed at his scarred chest. “Seriously, I think you… damn. Just damn. How much time do we have before we head over to your uncle’s place? Can I crash for a bit?”
“We’ve got all the time in the world, a rún.” He kissed Damien’s teeth-scored ear. “Sleep for now. I’ve got the alarm set so we’ll have time to shower. Your clothes are already in the dryer. I’m worried they’ll be falling apart from being washed so much.”
“What’s that mean? Aaron? A roon?” It wasn’t the first time Sionn’s Gaelic slithered past him, but he’d finally caught on that one phrase.
“A rún. Uh-ROON.” He enunciated until Damien caught the phrasing. “It means… well, it’s sort of like secret, like a treasure. Something found and known only to a few. That’s how I think of you. Something beautiful and dark, hiding in plain sight. But, Damie boy, you’re a secret I’ll have to be sharing soon enough.”
“Not just yet.” His eyelids were heavy, weighted down with fatigue, and Damien fought to keep them open. He was going to have to give in. It was too warm… too comfortable in Sionn’s arms to do much more than fall in and drift on the thing they were creating between them. Damien pulled Sionn’s hand up and kissed the man’s knuckles, taking care to touch each one to his lips before snuggling back against Sionn’s tall frame. “For right now, let me be your secret. I’m totally good with that, Irish. Totally.”
Chapter 10
Miles of black
Whiskey and rye
Keeps the band warm
And our damned souls dry
—Whiskey and Wry
DAMIEN was nervous.
It was a silly thing. Nerves. Especially since it wasn’t like he was going to meet Sionn’s parents or ask them for his hand in marriage. It was a dinner. With relatives. An aunt and uncle. Probably a sweet older couple with a few cats or a shivering little Chihuahua that would hump his leg every time he stood still long enough for it to get a good hold. Simple enough. Sure, he sucked at getting along with anyone remotely resembling a parent, but it shouldn’t matter. They were going there solely so Sionn’s uncle could be talked into helping him get his shit… and life… back together.
“Then why the hell is there an alien trying to chew its way out of my stomach?” he’d grumbled to himself as he buttoned up his borrowed shirt before they left.
It was too big for him. When Sionn’d tossed him a burgundy shirt out of his closet and said it was one that no longer fit his shoulders, Damien knew it would still be too large. The man was built like a white pony meant to carry Valkyries. Still, he had to admit the shirt looked good on him, even with the shoulder seams drooping halfway down his upper arms and the tails dragging down to his midthigh. Rolling up the sleeves helped.
So did the kiss Sionn placed on the back of his neck.
No, his nerves were just going to have to step to the back of the bus and sit there quietly. If things got bad, he’d go into the bathroom, and they could chuck themselves into the bottom of a toilet.
“Parents fucking hate me, you know,” he said for the tenth time since they’d gotten into Sionn’s Jeep and headed up toward the Presidio.