AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Yeah, sure.”
Once she disappears through the French doors, into what I’ll assume is the kitchen, as I can make out a table and extravagant looking chandelier, I browse through her selection of records set beside a phonograph. Mostly French titles, from the looks of it—ones I can hardly pronounce, let alone recognize.
She returns carrying two wine glasses filled nearly to the rim. “Hope cabernet is good for you.”
I should refuse the proffered drink and leave right now, but I don’t.
“I’m sorry about your wife and child. That must be a very … painful topic for you. I won’t pry.”
“I appreciate that.” I kick back a sip of the wine, wishing I could polish it off. Taking a seat on the settee, I carefully set the glass down on a coaster atop a wooden coffee table. “So, tell me about French singers and Eiffel Towers.”
Smile painted on her face, as if it’s a topic that makes her happy, she takes a seat beside me, uncomfortably close, and I have to resist the urge to back up, so as not to make her feel it’s entirely unwanted closeness. It isn’t, but I shouldn’t be enjoying it as much. “My grandmother was born in Paris. I grew up listening to all her French music, speaking the language, and someday, when I manage to save up enough money, I plan to go there.”
“Your grandmother means a lot to you.”
“She’s the only person in my life who didn’t abandon me. My mother left right after I was born, and my father is probably passed out somewhere in Venice Beach, unless he already died of an overdose. Heroin addict.”
“That’s too bad. Heroin’s bad stuff. It must be quite lonely, at times.”
Sucking her bottom lip, she runs her finger around the rim of her glass, seemingly thoughtful for a moment. “It is. I honestly don’t know what I’m going to do when Mamie’s gone. She’s all I have.” Lifting the glass to her lips, she takes a sip, and when she lowers it from her face, I catch the glisten of tears.
“Hey, its going to be all right, Ivy.” Thumbing away the fallen tear from her cheek, I take a moment to study the brilliant green of her eyes, rimmed in red. Absolutely stunning.
Before I can stop myself, I’ve leaned in close enough that I can feel her breath against my mouth, and when I slant my lips over hers, I can taste the wine there, the savory flavor that I suck from her skin. It’s only at her first escaped moan that I realize what I’ve done, the predatory way I’ve responded to her anxiety, and I pull away.
Hands gripping either side of my face, she stops my retreat and tugs me into her once more. Like a sinning thief, I steal a moment longer, curling my fingers into a fistful of her long hair. The anger pulses through me in waves. Why now? Why, when I’ve already committed so much sin, does she come along and tempt me this way? A sweet, poisonous apple that tastes like everything I want. Everything I need right now.
My senses kick in, and I give a gentle push to her chest, breaking the kiss. “Forgive me for this. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for what? Kissing me? Do you have any idea how many times I wished for this?”
“It’s not right, Ivy. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be doing this.” I push up from the couch, knocking the wine. With quick hands, I capture it before it falls, splashing only a small bit onto the back of my palm as I right the glass back onto the table.
“Here.” Still seated on the couch, she takes my hand , and drags her tongue over the trickling drops of wine, eyes on me all the while.
A shiver ripples down my spine, at the same time my dick lurches, as I watch her tongue trail across my skin. I draw my hand back, balling it into a fist at my side, and when she rises to a stand in front of me, all systems tell me to back away.
Two erect nipples peek through her sheer, cream-colored blouse, offering even more dimensions to the perfect globes just begging to be touched. The light sweep of her tongue adds a shine to her lips, urging me to suck them into my mouth, just like before. As I stare back at her, I’m not Father Damon, but a thirty-five-year-old man who’s denied himself pleasure for nearly a decade. Pleasure he thoroughly enjoyed up until this point.
“I have a confession, Father.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t hear it right now.” I skirt around her, making my way toward the door. “I’ll take your confession tomorrow. At the church.”
“I saw what you did.”
Hand on the knob, I pause. An ice cold sting moves through my blood, turning my muscles paralyzed. “What did you say?”
“The other night. I saw what you did.”
I muster the strength to turn around, and in spite of the proud incline of her chin, I can see she’s trembling. “What do you think you saw, Ivy?”
“You … you dumped a body. Into the septic tank.” Now she’s the one backing away.
Fuck.
The only thing worse than having committed the sin, is knowing she, of all people, witnessed it.
Inching toward her, I keep my gaze locked on hers in a silent threat that seems to work, because the moment her back hits the wall, she casts her gaze from mine. “Are you certain that’s what you saw?” It’s not me talking. Not Father Damon, but my father’s son. The ruthless bastard who made a point to clean up after his messes, or face his father’s wrath. I can damn near hear him laughing inside my head, telling me what an idiot I am for being so careless, so sloppy. I want to tell him to go to hell, but he’s right.
