Chapter 21: The House on Dunmore Street

Padraig's POV

On Saturday night she fell asleep with her cheek on my chest and her hand flat over my heart.

I lay awake and listened to the house settle.

She had come to the shop at six with a bag of takeout and a beagle, and she had stayed.

We never got to the food.

I had undressed her slowly by the lamp, and she had laughed at how slowly.

Then she had stopped laughing and pulled me down by my belt, guiding my hard cock into her wet pussy.

I remember her hands on my back and her heel hooked behind my thigh as I stroked her clit and fucked her deep.

I remember her saying, "Don't be careful," and my answer, which was to fuck her until she came around me and I spilled my cum inside her.

Afterward I held her with her head tucked under my chin and listened to her breaths.

I am thirty-six.

I had never once in my life been the person a woman reached for in her sleep.

In the morning she woke up before me, and I woke to the smell of eggs.

"Your mother's expecting us at one," she said, from the stove, in my shirt.

"I'm making breakfast so I don't throw up on her carpet."

"She won't mind."

"She will, and she'll say nothing."

She was right about that.

At one o'clock, Dorothy's dining room table was set for six.

There was a white cloth, and the good plates, and a roast.

Jo sat on Althea's other side in a dress, which nobody had seen before.

My mother's friend from church, the one with the hat, sat at the end and looked at nothing.

"I asked her here because she heard a version," my mother said, putting down the potatoes. "I'd like her to hear mine."

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