Mortal Sin (38 page)

Her heart raced as they stood there drinking each other in, electricity leaping and sparking between them, as visible as the rusted aluminum screen that separated them.

“I don’t suppose I could come in?”

She returned from wherever she’d been, lost in the heady thrill of looking at him, and opened the screen door. He passed her, smelling of bay rum and altar candles. She closed the door and locked it, then switched off the outside light. They wouldn’t be needing it again tonight.

Soft music swirled around them as they stood awkwardly in the foyer, bathed in the flickering glow of candlelight, neither of them certain how to proceed.

“You look breathtaking tonight,” he said.

“So do you, sugar.”

As far as responses went, it was a half-witted thing to say. While his amber gaze pinned her in place, she floundered for something, anything, to say that wouldn’t make her sound like the village idiot. But intelligent words weren’t forthcoming, and she realized that in all her careful planning, she’d forgotten one crucial element. She’d done everything under creation to render herself irresistible, and she’d spent an inordinate amount of time dwelling on every possible permutation of the coupling that would undoubtedly take place tonight. But she’d left out a step along the way. In her customary full-speed-ahead, take-no-prisoners manner, she’d neglected to map out the route from Point A to Point B. The critical step between polite chitchat and rolling around in a sweaty tangle was a chasm she had no idea how to breach.

She seized the only lifeline she could reach. “How was the retreat?”

“Hellish.” Hands still in his pockets, he paced across the foyer, then doubled back. “I walked the beach a lot. Prayed a lot. Wore circles in the carpet in my hotel room. And then I prayed some more.” His shadow loomed dark on the wall behind him, exaggerated by the flickering candlelight. “I had dinner last night with an old friend. Michael Santangelo. We were in seminary together. I told him about you. About us.”

“What did he say?”

He reached out, fingered a strand of her hair, its mousy brown turned a burnished gold by the magic of candlelight. “About what I expected. He took the high road of moral righteousness. He reminded me that it was Eve who was responsible for the Fall, and advised me to run as far and as fast as I could away from you. Of course, it wasn’t what I wanted to hear.”

Her stomach clenched. “Maybe he was right.”

“He didn’t understand. I’m not even sure I do.” He regarded her intently, his eyes softening, warming. “God in heaven, Sarah, I don’t know if you have any idea, but you look absolutely stunning tonight.”

“You don’t think I look trashy?” It occurred to her for the first time that in her zeal, she might have gone too far, might have stepped over some invisible boundary. The line between sex kitten and trailer park trash was sometimes blurry.

The corners of his mouth curved upward. “More like ravishing. Exquisite. Intoxicating.” He reached out a single finger, skimmed her bare shoulder. Goose bumps broke out in every conceivable location, from her ears to her ankles.

Now that the moment of truth had arrived, terror took over the reins. Fighting back nausea, she said impulsively, “Dance with me.”

The romantic ballad pouring from her stereo was a little outdated, and more than a little unsophisticated. But ever since she was a girl, back in Louisiana, listening with her daddy to the Grand Ole Opry on a portable kitchen radio, she’d adored Ernest Tubb’s rendition of
Waltz Across Texas
.

He opened his mouth, closed it. Opened it again and said, “I don’t dance.”

“What are you talking about? Of course you do. Everyone dances. It’s just a simple two-step. You take my right hand, I put my left hand on your shoulder, and we move around the floor in time to the music. What could be simpler?”

“Saying the Mass in Latin?”

She eyed him suspiciously. “I thought you said you wanted to be John Travolta when you were twelve years old.”

“Fortunately for the future of humanity, I changed my mind. Sarah, darling, there’s a reason I entered the priesthood instead of becoming the male equivalent of a Rockette. I have two left feet, and neither of them has a clue what it’s doing. Trust me, it’s a debacle you don’t want to witness.”

“Oh, phooey.” Having grown up in Louisiana, she’d learned to two-step almost as soon as she’d learned to walk. “I’ll lead and you follow. There’s nothing to it.”

“I really think this is a mistake.” But he let her take his hand. His palm was sweaty, and she wondered if he was nervous about the dancing, or about what would come after. “Now,” she said, “you put your arm around my waist—”

He obediently followed her instructions. His warm hand brushed soft silk, sending a frisson of heat racing through her. He paused discreetly at her waist before he let the tips of his fingers trail lower, brushing against the swell of her hip with such subtlety, she couldn’t be certain whether or not the move was deliberate.

His eyes gave away nothing. She rested her free hand on his shoulder and began silently counting beats in her head as she followed the steps of the dance, so familiar to her she could have performed them in her sleep. He faltered, zigged when he should have zagged, and stepped on her toe. “Ouch,” she said.

“I’m sorry. I tried to warn you.”

“Stop trying so hard, sugar. Close your eyes. Feel the music.”

“I can feel the music just fine. My problem is following it.”

“You just need more self-confidence. You need to—
ow
! Lord almighty, Clancy, you’re supposed to be letting me lead. I’ll be lucky to have any toes left.”

“Did I or did I not tell you I was hopeless?”

“You told me. I just didn’t believe you.”

“Then you have no grounds for complaint.”

“Maybe we’d do better without the shoes.”

They kicked their shoes aside. Minus the heels, she instantly lost three inches of height, and they had to make adjustments. Darkly, he said, “I bet all your husbands knew how to dance.”

“You make me sound like Elizabeth Taylor. I’ve only had three husbands, not a dozen.”

“Only three. Yes. I remember.”

She’d been right; it was easier without the shoes. And damned if he wasn’t starting to get the hang of it. He hadn’t tripped her up in at least fifteen seconds.

Softly, she said, “Sugar?”

He was busy concentrating on his feet, and it took him a moment to respond. “What?” he said distractedly, eyes still downcast, lest his feet commit some atrocity while he was looking the other way.

“You’re not hopeless. And none of them counted.”

He glanced up and into her eyes, lost the beat, and their feet tangled irreparably. She tripped over his ankle, and would have fallen if he hadn’t caught her.

“Had enough?” he said.

“Oh, shut up. The song’s over, anyway.”

The CD player whirred and shifted, and the sweet, poignant strains of a classic Andy Williams tune floated free on the evening air.
The shadow of your smile when you are gone
…

Her eyes locked with his, and her pulse fluttered. “Come here,” he said.

Without conscious volition, she melted into his arms, reveling in every lovely inch of him pressed against her, the full frontal contact she’d craved almost since the first moment she lay eyes on him, all those weeks ago. He snugged her tight against him, buried his face in her hair. “This kind of dancing,” he murmured, “even a total incompetent like me can do.”

Eyes squeezed shut, she smiled against his shoulder. Dreamily, she said, “This was Momma’s favorite song. When I was a little girl, she and Daddy used to dance to it after they put us kids to bed for the night. Bobby and I used to sneak out of bed and hide behind the sofa and watch them.”

In response, he ran whisper-soft fingertips up her bare arms to the wrists that rested loosely against either side of his neck. Skimmed them back down to her shoulders, and said gruffly, “Your skin is so soft.”

“And your hands feel so lovely against it.”

He pressed his cheek, warm and smooth and clean-shaven, against hers. His breath tickled her ear, fluttered the hair at the base of her neck. With a sigh, she inhaled his scent. In the background, Andy still crooned, the music darting little barbs of pleasure through her stomach, her pelvis, the breasts crushed so mercilessly against his chest.

“Sugar,” she murmured, “I think we have a problem.”

He exhaled a warm, sweet breath against her cheek. “Why’s that?”

“Because—” she pressed her lips to his throat, drew back, studied the faint lipstick stain she’d left, pleased that she’d marked him as hers “—I’m a very straightforward person,” she said, her voice tremulous. “With me, what you see is pretty much what you get. But you—” she ran the tip of her tongue along her lower lip and raised her eyes to his “—you have rivers running through you, dark and lovely and deep. You terrify me. I’m afraid I’ll drown.”

His mouth thinned. “I’m not all that deep. I’m really quite ordinary.”

“You’re a terrible liar, Clancy Donovan. There’s not a thing that’s ordinary about you.” She paused, softened. “And I am so much in love with you I can’t see straight.”

He let out a hard breath. “This is so unfair to you. I shouldn’t have put you in this position.”

“I’m here because I want to be here. There’s nowhere else I want to be. Nobody else I want to be with. Only you.” She touched her mouth to his throat again, circled his Adam’s apple with the tip of her tongue. He tensed in her arms, let out a harsh, ragged breath, and then tightened his hand on the back of her neck. He lowered his head and touched his mouth to her throat, traced a moist trail from chin to shoulder. He slid aside the spaghetti strap, nipped gently at the smooth flesh beneath, and drew exquisite patterns on her flesh with his tongue.

“Sarah,” he whispered.

It took her a moment to return to her body. She stroked the nape of his neck, combed fingers through his thick, dark hair. “What?”

He kissed the swell of her breast, burgeoning above the bodice of the dress. Cleared his throat. “What are you wearing under this thing?”

“There’s nothing under there but me, sugar. I told you, what you see is what you get.”

His eyes met hers, and heat smoldered between them like waves rising off hot asphalt. “You’re a wanton woman, Ms. Connelly.”

“You told me to be ready, Father Donovan.”

“So I did. Are you ready, then?”

“Darlin’ mine, I’ve been ready since I hung up the phone.”

He kissed her then, a hot, wet kiss that went on and on and on. He was a world-class kisser, infinitely delectable, and she decided that if God were going to strike her dead, kissing Clancy Donovan was well worth a premature demise. He snagged his fingers in her hair, tilted her head back, and drank her in, silken tongue swirling and sliding against hers, languid, leisurely, thoroughly maddening.

They gave up all pretense of dancing. He shucked off the linen jacket, first one arm and then the other, and tossed it onto a chair. They broke apart for an instant, sucked in harsh, ragged breaths, realigned their fit and came back together with a ferocious hunger. His hands stroked her thighs, closed around them, long fingers biting into soft flesh, thumbs making teasing circles, tickling, taunting the sensitive skin just beneath the hem of her dress.

She gasped, and he swallowed the sound before it could escape. Beneath the dress, his hands edged steadily northward. Shaking like a washing machine in spin cycle, she began working frantically at the buttons of his shirt. She tugged the tails free, ran her hands up his chest, combed fingers through crisp dark hair that narrowed at his navel to point directly to paradise.

His hands reached her bare buttocks and paused. She snagged a forefinger beneath the button atop his fly, and hovered there, waiting. For an instant, time stood still as they remained in a holding pattern, blue eyes sinking into gold as shadows danced around them. Then, his eyes still trained on hers, he brought his hand around between her legs and slipped two fingers inside her.

Every muscle in her body went limp. Her eyelids fluttered closed, and she let her head fall back as she lost herself in the thrill of his touch. It might have been a long time for him, but he hadn’t forgotten how to touch a woman, how to excite her, where to glide and stroke with those incredible fingers, how much pressure to use, when to back off.

The pleasure was exquisite, unbearable, yet somehow not enough. She flicked open the button to his jeans, worked the zipper down, plunged her hands inside and found him, thick and hot and as ready as she was.

She filled her hands with him, reveled in his size, his weight, the incredible heat he radiated as she stroked him. “Sarah,” he rasped.

“What?”

“If you keep that up, I’ll go off like a rocket.”

She circled a thumb around the tip of his penis, caught a bead of moisture and teased him with it, felt him shudder in response. “I thought that was the idea.”

“Not yet,” he said raggedly. “Not yet.”

“I’ll stop as soon as you do.”

“We’re not going to make it to the bedroom, are we?”

“I don’t know about you, sugar, but it doesn’t look like it from where I’m standing.”

He sucked in a hard breath. “Where?” he asked harshly.

“I don’t care, baby. Just hurry.”

He backed her up against the wall, lit by dancing shadows, and pressed her hard against it. Her chest rose and fell with her labored breathing as he dipped his head and took her mouth in a kiss so steamy it could have peeled the paper off the walls. She squirmed, wriggled her hips against his as his mouth roamed her face, her neck.

“Now,” she demanded. “Now, please, before I die from waiting.”

He tore his mouth away from her throat. “Wait. I have to—”

“No.” She circled a leg around his, slid it up and down, enticing him to move closer. “Can’t wait any longer.”

“—condoms… “

“Don’t need any. I took care of it.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes!” she said in exasperation. “Oh, God, please hurry… “

He lifted her off her feet, rucked the dress up around her waist. She raised her knees and locked them around him, pulling him closer, guiding him. With a groan of surrender, he leaned forward and plunged into her.