Chapter 30
TINSLEY
“I can’t get through the gate without the headteacher.” My teeth sawed my inner cheek as I leaned toward the driver in the front seat—he’d introduced himself as Galen—and scanned the lifeless, snow-covered village through the windshield. “Just drop me at the rectory. Right up there.”
The sight of Magnus’s parked car gave me hope. Given the thick layer of white powder atop it, he hadn’t gone anywhere in a while.
Unless he left with Crisanto for New York.
As soon as Galen pulled to a stop, I grabbed my bag and jumped out. “Thanks for the ride.”
I didn’t wait for his response. My nerves had made me so damn twitchy during the six-hour drive, and all that worry frayed at the edges as I paced to his front door.
What if he wasn’t here? What if he rejected me? What if he had another woman in there with him?
Why would I even think that?
I knocked on the door.
When he didn’t answer, I panicked. Galen waited in the car. He was a new guy. New to me. My mother had so many drivers. They all carried guns and served as bodyguards. Galen had a military look about him—severe expression, dark skin, muscles everywhere, and fuck-off vibes for days.
He wasn’t going to leave until he could report back to my mother that I was in Magnus’s care or safely behind the gate of my prison.
Shifting to block his view of my hand, I tried the knob. The door opened.
Hallelujah!
I waved bye and slipped inside the house, shutting the door behind me. “Magnus?”
Quiet.
Empty.
It took all of five seconds to walk through each room and determine he wasn’t here.
He wouldn’t have left town with his door unlocked. He could’ve gone for a run. But probably not in this extreme cold. The only tracks leading to the front door were mine. Wherever he’d gone, he’d left before it snowed.
I peeked around the drapes and confirmed Galen was no longer here. Then I slung my bag over my shoulder and set out to find Magnus.
The blustery walk turned my fingers into icicles, but when I reached the arched doors of the church and opened them without resistance, I forgot all about the freezing temperatures.
A fever of elation swept through me as I crept into the foyer.
The scent of candle wax and incense permeated the air. Glossy woods and colorful stained glass danced in the glow of countless candles. Rows and rows of flickering flames illuminated the perimeter and behind the altar.
And there, kneeling in the front pew, was the dark outline of broad shoulders and a bowed head.
As the door shut behind me, his neck turned, and his blue glare sliced a path from my boots to my knitted hat. No smile. No evidence of happiness. No relief to see me.
My heart spooled out in tattered strips of vulnerability, spilling all over the floor.
In his hands, he held a rosary. I wondered how long he’d been praying in here. The candles sat in pools of liquid wax, suggesting they’d been burning for hours.
“Hey.” I dropped my bag, clamped my trembling fingers together behind my back, and steeled my spine. “I don’t have the code to the gate.”
“You’re supposed to be in Bishop’s Landing.” He unfolded his tall frame from the pew and stood, a deliberately unhurried motion that shivered my blood.
“I was alone there, and you’re alone here. I don’t have any expectations. I just…”
I had this very dirty fantasy of him taking control of me. I just wanted to stand here, give myself over to him, and let him use me however he wanted.
“I just thought…” My teeth chattered. “We could have coffee together, listen to Christmas music, trade witty insults…”
The barely restrained, sinister energy rolling off him eroded my voice.
He tucked the rosary into his pocket, stepped into the center of the aisle, and faced the altar with his back to me. A strong, proud back, encased in black. Long, talented fingers clasped at the base of his spine. Muscle-corded legs braced apart to support his powerful stance.
“I want more than coffee and music and insults with you.” His black velvet voice slid across my skin. “Lock the doors.”
Sweet holy Lord, there was no mistaking what that meant.
The past four months had wound so tightly around us, there was no stopping this. I didn’t, for a single second, want to slam on the brakes. I was so fucking aroused. Nervous.
Terrified he was making a mistake.
“Don’t do this for me.”
“Oh, princess.” He kept his back to me as his dark chuckle reverberated through the church. “I’m doing this for me.”
That was the answer I needed. He wanted me for himself. No matter the punishment or consequences. He would be breaking his vows for his own purpose.
Reaching back, I locked the steel bolt on the door. The sound crashed through the consecrated space, the fall of a heavy hammer, blaring its warning.
No turning back. My boots were already moving, following the path I’d chosen, chasing my one great passion.
Halfway down the aisle, I yanked them off. My scarf, hat, coat, and socks left a trail behind me. I tried to discard my nerves, but they clung, turning my insides into a jittery mess.
By the time I reached his back, he still hadn’t turned to look at me. His rigid posture vibrated with tension.
He stood at the base of four wide steps which led to the altar. I ached to touch him, to run my hands up and down his gorgeous body, but more than that, I needed to see his face.
I circled him, climbing two stairs to stand before him. At eye level, he still had the ability to glare down the length of his nose at me, and he did with those fierce glacial eyes.
Good thing he didn’t scare me, or I would’ve run straight out that door. But all the same, he made me nervous as hell. It was his silence. His unflinching eye contact. The motion of his thumb rubbing against his forefinger.
“Stop doing that with your hand.” My heart pounded. “You’re freaking me out.”
His expression darkened. His fingers went still. Then he slowly, menacingly moved toward me, setting one foot on the step. I backed up. He stayed with me. Just like the night I met him. He had the power to push me through a room without even touching me.
I kept retreating, and he continued to advance, his features stern and the tendons straining above his white collar.
When my back hit the altar, my hands flew up in defense. He grabbed them and pinned them to my sides. A half-second later, he spun me away. I wobbled with my back to him and my palms flat on the marble surface.
Fingers curled around my waist, hooking into the belt loops of my jeans and yanking my butt tight against his groin. He angled us over the altar at a slight incline, his chest hot against my back and his lips closing around the shell of my ear.
My body reacted instantly, heating, pulsing. I arched my spine and pushed back against his cock.
He caught my hips and set them away, controlling the pace of this, making me wait. His mouth went back to my ear, my neck, teasing and kissing sensitive skin, seducing with the rush of his breath.
“I’m nervous,” I whispered.
“You should be.” Standing behind me, he opened the fly of my jeans and lowered the zipper. “I’m going to tear your pussy in half.”
His huge hand sank into my pants, beneath my panties, fingers sliding over my clit and pressing into my folds. His other hand captured my throat, bringing my head back to his shoulder. All the while, his mouth continued to assault the sensitive spot beneath my ear.
Despite his verbal threat, my nerves subsided because he was so achingly gentle and caring and loving. By far the most beautiful, sensual man I’d ever had touch my body.
He flattened my spine against him, working those expert fingers in my pants, playing with my slit and teasing my opening. The palm on my throat controlled my head, which he kept tucked against his own. The stubble on his jaw abraded my cheek as he nuzzled my face and neck.
Then he pushed two stiff fingers inside me.
My heart stopped. My legs gave out, and my lungs caved in.
I’d never felt more alive.
Everywhere I was, he was there, invading me with his heat, stroking me with his touch, his digits sinking through flesh, and his sensuality consuming my awareness.
He shoved my jeans and panties to my thighs and fingered me until I whimpered and moaned for release. Then he removed all my clothes and sank his hand back between my legs, torturing me.
Quivering and naked, I gripped the edge of the altar, staring up at the life-size crucifix of Jesus on the wall.
“I’m going to hell.” I rocked my hips, riding the thrust of his fingers.
“Not without me.” He nipped my jaw, his breath heady and delicious.
He surrounded me. Arms, hands, lips, and masculine need—he was everywhere all at once. My body reacted as though I was made for his touch.
Everything he did, every kiss, every caress, was a long, languorous expedition in seduction. Meanwhile, I just needed him to throw me onto the altar and fuck me six ways from Sunday.
I tried to hurry him along, but he wouldn’t allow it. He pinned my hands when I touched his cock. He smacked my ass when I ground against him. I wanted to kiss him, but he wouldn’t give me that, either.
He drew out his seduction in the most excruciating and delicious way possible.
He made me desperate to surrender to his will. So I held still, with a death grip on the altar, my feet spread apart, and my spine arched as he fondled, licked, kissed, and tormented every inch of my naked body.
I dropped my head back on his chest, absorbing his strength, the support of his arms around me, and his hands roving in tandem up and down my front, rubbing my abdomen, cupping and kneading my breasts, pinching my nipples, tracing my breastbone, and stroking the curve of my neck.
With his steely jaw against my temple, he rested the tips of his fingers on my lips and throat. My head lay back on him, my neck stretched and fully exposed, and my mouth open, accommodating heavy breaths.