“It’s fine. I can do it,” Diarmuid said. “You should stay outside with the baby—she will start vomiting again, and the whole room is going to smell.”
Sheryl nodded. “Alright, you take care of her. The baby is going to sleep soon anyway, so I’ll coax him.”
“Yeah,” Diarmuid replied, and closed the bathroom door.
Abigail was leaning on the toilet and vomited again, though there was less of it this time.
Meanwhile, Diarmuid filled the bathtub with warm water, and the room was soon filled with thick steam.
“Do you feel better yet?” he then asked her.
Abigail was sitting on the floor, her clothes a mess and slightly caked in vomit.
Being drunk hurt, and her eyes were narrowed.
“No… I feel sick…”
Diarmuid helped her out of her clothes. “You really realized that now? So? Are you going to go drinking again?”
Abigail flashed a silly smile. “No… It feels terrible.”
At the same time, Diarmuid stripped her, baring her fair, delicate skin.
She then reached out, her dainty fingers reaching under his collar, leaving him speechless.
“Cut it out,” he said, prying her hand off and carrying her again, and gently putting her into the bathtub, causing a rise in the water level.
At the same time, he took off his dirty clothes—it felt sickening to leave it sticking onto his skin.
“I don’t want a bath… I want a bed,” Abigail suddenly said unhelpfully.
As she spoke, she tried to crawl out of the bathtub.
However, she did not even have the strength for it and slipped, dropping back inside, soaking even her hair.
Diarmuid was left speechless again, and put a foot down on the bathtub to keep her down. “Cut it out. I’m getting you cleaned up—it will be over soon.”
Still, Abigail purred playfully, “Or you don’t have to clean me…”
Diarmuid had no choice but to get into the tub as well, causing the water to overflow as he wrapped his arms around her to keep her in place.
“Stop it. You vomited all over and you’ll smell if you don’t take a bath. Be good—I’ll wash you, and it’ll be over soon.”
“Oh, you’re so annoying…” Abigail complained, but she leaned tamely into his arms.
As Diarmuid bathed her, his hands were dancing over her skin.
Perhaps it was ticklish or something else, but Abigail was moving around a lot.
She then wrapped her arms around Diarmuid’s neck and pressed her face against his, purring tenderly, “It’s hot… I feel so hot…”
Her cheeks were pinkish and droplets covered her devilish figure.
And the way she wiggled in his arms was utterly alluring, just like a seductive succubus!
Diarmuid lowered his eyes through the steam from the hot bath, but restrained himself.
Gulping, he rasped, “Don’t move. It will be over soon.”
“Urgh…” She kept struggling nonetheless. “It’s so stuffy.”
It was certainly the case in this bathroom!
“That’s enough,” he growled, forced to firmly hold onto her flailing hands as he washed her hair, soaking it thoroughly with bubbles.
When he was done, he carried her out of the bathtub, and they both stood under the shower sprinklers to wash off the suds.
Through it all, Abigail’s body was glued to his.
After everything was done, he pulled out a bathrobe and draped it carelessly over himself before trying to put one on Abigail as well.
Naturally, she was being uncooperative again—it was hot since she just bathed, and she did not want to put on anything.
“It’s too warm,” she complained.
Diarmuid was almost sweating all over from having to cater to her whims, but he had to compromise again nonetheless.
He wrapped her in a bathrobe like a cocoon without making her wear it and carried her out of the bathroom.
It was safe to go out into the living room as well—Mrs. Watson was not around, while Sheryl was busy with the baby.
He carried Abigail upstairs to their bedroom and put her on the bed.
Still feeling too hot, Abigail tugged on the bathrobe, loosening it.
Diarmuid could not help sighing even as he dried her hair.
“Don’t go drinking ever again,” he said—the work alone was enough to kill him.
After cleaning up, he fell asleep with her in his arms.
Perhaps sleeping was especially comfortable after a bath, Abigail slept like a log and only woke up at 10 AM.
However, she started rubbing her temples soon enough as her head felt heavy and hurt.
“Thirsty,” she rasped with a parched throat.
Diarmuid poured her a glass of water, while she narrowed her eyes, her head slowly clearing as she took the glass. “What time is it?”
“Past ten.”
“That’s late,” she said, getting to her feet and finishing her drink, placing the glass on the table nearby.
She tugged on her bathrobe, and then saw that she was naked underneath.
“You bathed me?” she asked.
“Yeah,” Diarmuid replied softly. “Shouldn’t everything be washed and dumped after you vomited all over yourself?”
Abigail was speechless. Was she some sort of object to be disposed of after getting dirty?
“You’re not working?” she then asked.
“I was waiting for you,” he said, sitting on the edge of the bed and watching her.
“For me?” Abigail scratched her head in slight confusion. “What for?”
“You were apologizing to me last night. Did you do something wrong?”
Abigail frowned. “I did?”
Diarmuid nodded assuredly, but Abigail could not remember a thing.
In that case, that meant she never said anything.
“I forgot. Must be some drunken mumble,” she said, getting up to leave the bed.
Diarmuid, however, caught her waist. “You haven’t told me why you’re hurting.”
“I can’t explain how much it hurts to be drunk,” Abigail said, and leaned in to breathe warm puffs of air into his hair, purring coquettishly, “Since when did you get so paranoid, Diarmuid? Are you really that concerned about drunken gibberish?”
Diarmuid held her gaze for seconds, his eyes piercing within.
Unable to find evidence that she was lying, he turned away, got up, and growled, “No drinking from now on. Now go downstairs—breakfast is ready.”
“Okay,” she replied.
But as Diarmuid headed downstairs, closing the door behind himself, Abigail’s tense nerves finally eased and she heaved a long sigh of relief.
She smacked herself on the forehead as well—she really should not go drinking.
Getting out of bed, she got dressed and headed downstairs… but Diarmuid was still there.
“Don’t you have to work?” she asked.
“I’m waiting for you,” he replied.
Abigail was speechless—did he ever mention that they were going to work together? Why would she go with him to Twinrise?
Heading downstairs just then, she said, “I’m not going out. I’m staying home with Tommy.”
Diarmuid turned and leveled her a cool look. “Are you sure about that?”
Abigail was left speechless again.
Abigail soon met Diarmuid’s eyes and guiltily averted hers.
Did she say something while she was drunk last night? Did he catch on to something?
Why else would he sound a little… threatening?
She searched her memory, but did not think that she had done anything to upset him!
Whatever the case may be, it was time to play nice.
Smiling, she said, “Alright, I’ll come with you.”
Diarmuid’s gaze was impassive. “Come!”
He left the mansion first, while Abigail followed.
In the car, she leaned against him and asked softly, “Did I upset you while I was drunk yesterday?”
“Nope,” Diarmuid replied.
Abigail heaved a sigh of relief—she actually thought she somehow did that!
“Then why are you taking me to your office? I don’t know anything about your work, let alone help—”
“Just stick with me,” Diarmuid said, and suddenly leaned in to growl into her ear, “Don’t you know how much you harassed me last night?”
New Book: Back Home to Marry Off Myself
Loredana’s father left the family for his mistress, leaving them to fend for themselves abroad. When life was at its toughest, her father showed up with “good news” after 8 years of absence: To marry off Loredana to a paralyzed son of the wealthy Mendelsohn family.
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