Chapter 8
Chapter eight
He’d touched her.
He’d held her while she came—while he made her come—and then, grinding against her ass, he’d come in his boxer briefs.
And, Lord help him, he wanted to do it again.
There was no denying it, even to himself. Why should he when she’d liked it? And he liked that she liked it. He wanted to know what else she might like, how else he might make her tremble in his arms, the taste she would leave on his lips.
He’d woken in her bed, wrapped around her, his cock harder than it’d ever been and his nose buried in her hair, surrounded by the cinnamon and bergamot scent of her shampoo.
At some point in the night, the power had come back on, but the fire continued burning in the fireplace across the room, its reflected glow making her look like the angel he’d called her.
She’d shifted in her sleep, snuggling closer, his hands on her bare skin, and he’d panicked.
He wasn’t proud of the way he’d stolen from her bed, of the prayers he’d tried to recite to himself as he showered, but the words hadn’t come.
All he could think about was how he didn’t want to wash her scent from his skin, how he wanted to crawl back into her bed and never leave, how he wanted more stolen moments, more of the fantasy that he was the kind of man who could have a future with her.
The kind of man who could wake up with her each morning, who could touch her without guilt.
Christ, he wanted to touch her again. To kiss her and taste her, to see her laid out before him and sink into her heat—
Enough. No wonder you couldn’t pray this morning when you’re behaving like a hormonal teenager.
Caleb welcomed the bracing cold as he threw open the back door of the cabin.
In the mudroom closet he’d found a pair of snow pants, two sizes too big, and a pair of winter boots, at least two sizes too small, but they were better than freezing in his own inadequate clothing as he trudged through the snow.
His glasses fogged up with the steam from his breath, but he couldn’t be bothered with that now.
At least he had his glasses since wearing day old contacts wasn’t high on his list of things that made for a good time.
He hadn’t planned on going outside in the aftermath of the storm, not until they were plowed out at least, but then he’d spotted the ax in the mudroom and the expanse of evergreens at the edge of the property.
They were likely stuck in the cabin for at least another day given the depth of the snow and the news’ warning of downed trees delaying the progress of the snow plows.
And by God, if they were stuck two days before Christmas, then he intended to make the best of it.
He couldn’t give her the things she deserved from a man, but he could at least give her a Christmas tree.
The wind had made giant snow drifts on either side of the back door with a central path carved down the middle where the snow only came up to his ankle.
Like Moses parting the Red Sea, he thought to himself as he ventured out into the cold, a borrowed coat from the mudroom zippered against the wind and a scratchy wool hat and scarf completing the outfit. Except God actually spoke to Moses.
Maybe He’d talk to you if you weren’t so easily distracted from your vows by the woman sleeping upstairs.
Great. Now you’re hard again and picturing crawling back into bed with her.
As if you weren’t already.
He tugged the hat lower on his head with one hand, the wooden handle of the ax clutched in his other, his borrowed gloves a welcome shield from the cold.
The cabin was surrounded by evergreens of every size and shape, many of which would be perfect Christmas trees, but he wasn’t headed for one of those paragons of yuletide.
From the back door of the cabin, he’d spotted the perfect tree—thin trunk, sparse branches, shorter than the others.
And if it had the added quality of being something he was fairly certain he could chop down and drag back to the cabin before Molly woke up, that was just the icing on the proverbial cake.
He wanted nothing more than to delight her.
Well, he could think of a few things he wanted at least as much—to touch her again, this time in the light when he could see how beautiful she was, to warp the soft heaven between her thighs around him, to ask her to kneel for him, to touch him in return.
But he wouldn’t ask for those things, no matter how much he wanted to.
Lead us not into temptation...
Too late.
By the time the bottom step creaked as Molly descended, her long brown hair hanging around her shoulders and her robe tied tightly around her waist, Caleb was nearly done tightening the screws on the tree stand proudly displaying the tree.
It had been harder than he expected to chop it down, and harder than that to drag it through the snow.
The path from the back door to the living room was a mess of melted snow and pine needles, but he’d done it.
He was struck by a wave of masculine pride, as though he’d felled a dangerous beast and not a sad-looking tree.
“What’s all this?” she asked.
“I thought we could use a little Christmas spirit.” He braced his hand against the tree trunk. It wobbled in its stand and he quickly pulled his hand away, willing the tree to stay upright.
“Where’d you find this…this?”
“It’s a Christmas tree,” he said, admiring his handywork.
Molly stifled a laugh. “That’s not a Christmas tree.”
“Charlie Brown would beg to differ.”
“Can that thing even hold ornaments? It looks like it might droop under its own weight.”
“Let’s find out.” He reached into the cardboard box of Christmas ornaments he’d hauled from the hall closet and pulled out a delicate green and silver glass ball, holding it out to Molly.
She plucked the ornament from his hand, her fingertips grazing his palm, and carefully hung it from one of the sturdier looking branches.
Her delighted laugh sent ripples of joy through his body, a fizzy, floaty sensation coursing through his limbs.
When she turned back to meet his gaze, her eyes roamed over him, stuttering on the thin black frames of his glasses.
“I didn’t know you wore glasses.”
He self-consciously brought his finger to the frames, adjusting them. “I don’t usually. I didn’t have any contact solution.”
“But you had your glasses?”
“I always keep a pair in the car. I’m glad I remembered to grab them before we came in last night.” The mere mention of the night before making his cock twitch with interest, and he rushed to change the subject. “I was about to make breakfast. Are you hungry?”
“I could eat.”
She followed him into the kitchen, but kept a careful distance between them, as though she was giving him space to decide how this morning would go.
Caleb opened the refrigerator door and stuck his head inside, hoping the cool air would calm his racing hormones.
“There must be at least five packages of bacon in here.”
“I wouldn’t recommend cooking all five,” she teased as she dropped into a chair at the small kitchen table.
“Of course not. We’ll want to save at least one package for breakfast tomorrow.” He took a package of bacon and the carton of eggs and set them on the counter before rifled through cabinets in search of a pan.
“You think we’ll still be here tomorrow?”
He nodded as he cracked eggs into a bright purple Fiestaware bowl.
“More than two feet of snow fell in the last twenty-four hours and, according to the news this morning, there are drifts of up to four feet in some places. We’re lucky the power came back so quickly.
I think it’ll take the town all day to plow enough that we can safely get out of here.
Should be clear by tomorrow morning, though.
” He glanced over his shoulder at her and tried to look reassuring, calm, like he wasn’t such a mess of guilt and lust he couldn’t even begin to worry about something as mundane as snow.
“It’ll be another night, but we should be back in Aster Bay by Christmas Eve. ”
“Is that why you put up a Christmas tree?”
He shrugged as he poured the eggs into the pan on the stove, suddenly self-conscious about his decision to drag a scraggly tree through the snow first thing in the morning.
“How did you even get it in here? Did the storm knock it down?” she asked.
“There was an ax in the hallway.”
She gawked at him, her confused expression so freaking adorable he wanted to kiss it off her face.
No. Bad priest.
He leaned against the counter beside the stove and crossed his arms, unable to contain his amusement. “Did you have something you’d like to share with the class, Ms. Proulx?”
“An ax,” she repeated. “Like for chopping wood.”
“That is generally what tree trunks are made of, yes.”
“You chopped down a tree?”
He tilted his chin towards the living room. “That tree, in fact.”
“You are full of surprises.” Her words hung between them, then she cleared her throat and looked away, a delicious blush creeping up her neck and onto her cheeks. He wanted to drag his tongue along her throat, see if the pretty pink color changed the way her skin tasted.
You are going to hell. Straight to hell. Do not pass go. Do not collect God’s blessing.
Caleb turned back to the stove and focused on scrambling the eggs, breaking up the curds with unnecessary precision.
He wanted her. Now that he knew the little noises she made when she came, how it felt to wake up with her in his arms, he knew he’d never stop wanting her.
His stomach twisted, guilt and shame and something else—a whole different kind of guilt at not feeling enough shame to be able to stop.