Chapter 7
Chapter seven
Molly couldn’t sleep.
It wasn’t just the strange bed or the light from the small bedside lamp (so much brighter than the one she left on at night in her bedroom at home) or the howling wind as it whipped around their cabin, threatening to tear it clean off its foundation.
She was restless, her limbs vibrating with the intensity of her attraction to Caleb, with the belated embarrassment from their last conversation.
Dinner had been eaten in strained silence before they’d said an early goodnight and shuffled off to their respective bedrooms, and it was all her fault.
I can’t believe I told Caleb he hasn’t had good sex.
She couldn’t stop thinking about what it would be like to have sex with Caleb.
It didn’t matter that he was her frolleague, or twenty years older than her, or even that he was a priest. She wanted him.
And she was pretty sure he wanted her too.
Somehow she knew with a bone-deep knowing, sex with Caleb would be everything she’d described downstairs and more.
In the dark, she let her hand drift across her collar bone, fingertips grazing the sensitive skin, before sliding down to skate over her breasts.
Her nipples pulled tight beneath the lace of her bra, and she continued her slow path over the peaks, across the soft roundness of her stomach, until her fingers danced at the waistband of her panties.
It was wrong to touch herself while she thought about him.
Not that that’s stopped you before.
But he isn’t usually in the next room.
A tree branch groaned beneath the weight of the falling snow outside her window, the wind loud enough he’d never hear her. He’d never have to know…
She wriggled out of her panties and dropped them on the floor beside the bed. Her robe fell open beneath the heavy comforter, and she drew her fingers through her wetness. In slow strokes, she teased herself, never touching where she wanted it most. Where she wanted him.
A loud crack and the room plunged into darkness, the whirring of the heating system abruptly halting.
“Shit,” she whispered, pulling her hand away and fumbling on the nightstand for the remote to the fireplace on the other side of the room. She only succeeded in knocking her cell phone onto the floor. With a muttered curse, she sat up in bed, turning her attention fully to the task at hand.
“You’re okay,” she mumbled to herself. “You are a full-grown adult with a job and a lease and crushing student loan debt. Full-grown adults are not afraid of the dark.”
The door to her bedroom flew open, a single point of too-bright light temporarily blinding her and she sucked in a startled breath.
“Are you alright?” Caleb asked, his voice rough.
Though he was hard to see in the shadow of his cell phone flashlight, she could tell he was more disheveled than usual, his robe hanging open on his shoulders as though he’d thrown it on in a hurry and his hair sticking up in all directions.
“I’m fine. I can’t find the remote for the fireplace.”
He stalked across the room and found the button beneath the mantle.
A fire roared to life in the fireplace, limning him in flame.
He turned back to her, his eyes dragging along the opening of her robe, but she couldn’t bring herself to close it.
His eyes on her made warmed her more than any fire could.
He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “That should keep you warm until the power comes back on.” His eyes traced her form one more time, then he cleared his throat and turned towards the door.
“Do you have a fireplace in your room?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I’ll sleep on the couch near the one in the living room.”
Something wild fluttered in her chest in protest, a desperate need to say something—anything—to make him stay. If she didn’t say something now, then would she ever?
She scooted over in the bed and flipped back the corner of the comforter. “Or you could stay here.”
His face was hard, unreadable in the dim, flickering light of the fire, and he stood so still, like an animal hiding from a predator. Or like the predator itself.
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“What, do you snore or something?” she asked, the poor attempt at a joke falling flat.
“Molly...” The grit in his voice sent electricity down her spine.
“I don’t like the dark,” she admitted. “As in, I hate it.” Even with his face half in shadow, she felt his eyes on her. “Please stay.”
At last, he crossed the room to the bedside and sat gingerly on the edge of the mattress.
He slid beneath the covers, careful not to touch her.
His breathing was somehow louder than the wind outside, the heat radiating from him making her almost too warm, and yet she wouldn’t have said so for all the world.
“Why do you hate the dark?” His voice rumbled through her, low and reassuring even though it was difficult to see his face.
“I don’t know. I just always have. I get these nightmares that seem so real and—” She shook off the thought. “Never mind. It’s silly.”
“It’s not silly to me.”
His words settled over her like a weighted blanket. “The nightmares are bad enough, but when I wake up from them, if I can’t see where I am, if I don’t know I’m safe, it’s hard to make myself believe it was just a dream.”
Another crack outside tore through the night air and she let out a yelp of surprise, pushing back against him, her back to his front, as though she could get away from the sounds outside her window. As though just being near him could calm the sudden adrenaline rushing through her veins.
“Shhh,” he crooned, gathering her against him. “I’ve got you.”
She wrapped her arms around his, pulling him closer as she settled into his heat, his pine and sandalwood scent enveloping her.
The scruff of his chin scraped at the place where her neck met her shoulder and she wondered how it would feel against other parts of her.
A bolt of desire arrowed between her legs and she pressed her thighs together.
She held her breath and pushed back against him, her backside grinding against his groin and the unmistakable bulge of him pressed to her.
A low rumble sounded in his throat as the bulge jolted, lengthened, and his fingertips slid into the opening of her robe, digging into her waist as he attempted to hold her still.
“Caleb.”
His muscled thigh slid between her legs, pressing mercifully at the apex of her thighs. She shivered in his hold and pressed back, the pressure delicious and not nearly enough.
“Go to sleep, Molly,” he said, his voice all gravel and command. As if she could sleep now. His thigh pressed against her tighter, holding her captive in a place of suspended desire. “Please.”
If this was all she could have, one night in his arms, then she’d take it, knowing it would never be enough.
At some point she must have drifted off to sleep.
When she woke in the darkness, shadows cast from the low fire across the room, Caleb was still there, his hands large and hot on her skin beneath her robe and his breath warm on her cheek.
Their legs were still tangled and she rocked experimentally against his thigh, the need pulsing through her all-consuming.
Could she come like this, with just his thigh to grind against?
She circled her hips, pleasure shooting through her at the added pressure, and she stifled a groan.
Then she did it again. Each movement of her hips also had the unexpected but undeniably enticing side effect of pressing her ass against Caleb’s erection.
Another circle, another groan, this time of frustration. It wasn’t enough. She needed more.
One of his hands, rough and warm, slid up her waist, his thumb brushing against the underside of her breast, the nail scratching lightly through the lace of her bra, and she stifled a gasp.
“Do that again,” she whispered.
And he did. She melted into his touch, into the knowledge that he was touching her back.
“Caleb—”
“Shhh.” He cut her off, his face buried in her hair, lips against her shoulder. “I’ve got you,” he said, just as he’d said when he first climbed into bed.
“This doesn’t feel real,” she whispered into the dark.
Another slow swipe of his thumb. “Maybe it’s not.” His hand closed over hers, lacing his fingers with hers from behind, and he dragged her palm up to cup her own breast, his hand holding hers in place, directing her movement. His breath was hot against her ear. “Maybe I’m not even really here.”
Together, they massaged her breast, his movements dictating hers, and she arched into the contact. “Maybe I’m dreaming,” she offered.
He hummed, a deep, molten sound. His free hand closed over her free hand on her stomach, his fingertips dragging over the soft skin of her belly through her fingers. “Is this what you dream about, angel?”
The nickname skipped across her skin, like a stone across water, each point of connection a ripple of something electric and warm wrapping itself around her.
She slid her hand lower, taking his with her, until they settled between her parted thighs.
It was her own fingertip tracing her slit, her own finger slowly circling her clit, but it was his controlling the pace, the pressure.
She was so wet already, her clit throbbing with the need to come, and she thought she really must be dreaming.
He rocked against her, grinding his cock against her ass in slow, unhurried movements, as though they had all the time in the world. As though this wasn’t a stolen moment that never should have belonged to them.
Molly moved lower, sliding two fingers deep inside herself as his hold moved to her wrist, urging her on, but not touching her directly. Not really.
“In my dreams, you touch me,” she said, near tears with want of it.
He grunted, a low rough sound, before his fingers dipped between her lips, tracing the place where her fingers disappeared inside her.
“Here?” He moved to her clit, soft and rough all at once, pressing against her with firm circles that sent sparks shooting down her legs and across the soles of her feet. “Here?”
“There,” she gasped, lifting her hips into his touch.
“Hmmm.” The sound scraped at her skin. “I touch you here in my dreams too.”
Her stomach tightened, pleasure gathering behind her clit with each brush of his fingers. Between his hands and her own, she was overcome with sensation, and yet she wanted more. “What else do you do in your dreams?” she asked.
He pinched her clit, hard, the sudden bite of pain heightening her pleasure. He thrust against her ass, his thick erection mimicking the movement of her own fingers inside her. “Everything.”
Her orgasm took her by surprise, barreling into her, knocking the air from her lungs as she shook in his arms. He released her clit and resumed his slow, relentless circles, prolonging her climax.
With a grunt and another hard thrust, his grinding at her back ceased, his breathing slowed, and she thought his lips whispered against her shoulder.
He moved to withdraw his hand, but it was her turn to grip his wrist, to hold him in place.
“Not yet,” she said, the words scraped raw. “It’s just a dream.”
The tension in his body eased and he shifted slightly so his palm cupped her between the legs, keeping her back tight against his front. “Just a dream,” he agreed.
His other hand slid down to her waist, holding her so tightly she could hardly breathe, but she’d gladly stop breathing if she could keep this moment for a little longer. Another one of those whisper kisses, so light she’d wonder later if she’d imagined them.
“Go to sleep, angel.”