Seducing Their Nun [Unlikely Bedfellows 1] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting)

by Jenna Stewart

  “I know,” she said. “I know that.” She didn’t want him to leave. She didn’t want him to remove his fingers from her lips or his body from being close to hers. Father, forgive me.

  “Until tomorrow,” he said, but he didn’t leave. He continued to look into her eyes.

  “Will you be outside tonight?”

  “I don’t think it will be necessary.” He stroked her cheek.

  “If you change your mind, you could come inside.”

  Shaking his head, he said, “I really don’t think that would be a good idea.”

  Why? Because he felt the same confusion she did? But no, that couldn’t be it. Jordan was a man of the world. It wasn’t possible that he wanted to kiss her again, no matter how much she wanted it.

  “Good night,” she said.

  “Good night.” Then he turned and left.

  Letting him go was the hardest thing she’d ever done.

  * * * *

  Upstairs, Margaret Mary prepared for bed and then doused the lights.

  For more than an hour she lay awake. Did Jordan know how he affected her? Was he at home right now, imagining her, or did he give her no more thought than an elephant gave a mosquito? Worse, did he laugh at her, recognizing her naiveté? That she knew nothing about the world—or men—had to be as obvious as the white collar on her black gown.

  She slowly inhaled then forgot to exhale. With one hand, she covered her right breast. Her nipple poked her palm, hard as a pebble. She squeezed gently and huffed out her breath when the sensation it caused went right to a place between her legs. She wanted to touch herself there, she needed to.

  With her other hand she pulled up her nightgown, accordion pleating it until her legs were uncovered. She caressed her thigh, the first time she’d ever touched her body with a purpose that wasn’t practical or necessary. Her fingers skimmed softness that surprised her. She thought of her legs as instruments with which to kneel or stand, walk or perform work. She’d never considered they might also be pleasant to feel. Yet they were more—they inspired pleasure.

  With shaky breath, she took the next step and moved her fingers inch by hesitant inch toward the spot between her legs that literally throbbed with need. With Jordan’s kiss in mind, she brushed her fingers through the curly hair at the apex of her thighs and trembled. Her legs parted. It seemed only natural to explore, so she slid her fingers lower, where the lightest contact sent every nerve into paroxysms.

  “Ohhh.” She closed her eyes, wanting only to feel the sensual waves rippling through her. Farther down, she encountered a pool of moisture. Slipping and sliding, her questing finger found the natural cleft of her vagina and edged inside. When she moved back to her clitoris, she took moisture with her.

  She made the trip again, down to the opening, up to the point of nerve endings in her clitoris.

  At the same time, she squeezed her breast, scraped it with her palm, and massaged the fleshy globe that seemed to swell under her hand. She thrashed her head from side to side, not knowing or caring that she moaned and gasped.

  This must be what some sisters were rumored to do in their cells at night—and no wonder. The feeling she instilled through a light touch here, a harder rub there, was nothing short of glorious. That she still knew a gnawing need that hadn’t been satisfied was a bit disappointing. Nonetheless, she’d flown to the moon—surely this was as good as a woman was supposed to feel and far more than any nun had a right.

  Opening her eyes, she pulled down her nightgown and rolled over. She should jump from bed and spend the rest of the night on her knees, petitioning God to forgive her many sins and cleanse her soul after her admission of contrition.

  But somehow, she couldn’t bring herself to be sorry.

  Chapter Eleven

  What the fuck was wrong with him? He kissed a nun, for Christ’s sake. A nun. And God knew he wanted to do more. Much more. He could have, too. That was the hell of it.

  Now he understood Brendan Tipton’s desire, the God damn bastard. She was virginal—she didn’t even know how to kiss. He’d probably been her first. And she had absolutely no defenses against the world—or men. But she trusted him, or seemed to, and that meant the world. He had to hold that trust carefully. And that means no more God damn, fucking kissing, you idiot!

  He pounded the steering wheel in frustration and pain. His dick was still hard and aching to be inside some sweet pussy, any old pussy. Dicks weren’t fussy. But his brain wanted only one—the one he couldn’t have.

  And then he’d brought up Mark, his best friend. For years they’d watched each other’s backs in times of danger and raised holy hell with each other when things were good. He’d never felt so at ease with anyone as with Mark. Was that why he’d brought up his friend to the Sister? He only knew that during lunch he’d gotten a bug up his ass to mention Mark to Margaret Mary. They would be good together, the three of them.

  The three of us together. Tangled limbs and hungry mouths formed an image in his mind. For God’s sake! Mark would die.

  “No,” Jordan said out loud. “He’d kill you first, for wanting a nun’s pussy.” For wanting to share a nun’s pussy. They’d sandwiched a woman once, a prostitute in North Carolina. He’d found the woman willing to do it, and Mark had gladly followed. But Sister Margaret Mary was no prostitute. She was the furthest thing from it. Still, he couldn’t get the picture of Mark and him fucking Sister Margaret Mary in bed out of his head. He was going to rot in hell for sure.

  How the hell had he gotten himself into this situation? It had to be her damned trust and her obvious need for a knight in shining armor. Well, his armor was considerably tarnished, but he’d be her protector. And she’d be safe with him. She’d be safe from him, damn it.

  He pulled into the driveway of his parents’ house, shifted into first, and set the brake of the ‘51 Ford Tudor. The car wasn’t as sleek as Tipton’s Roadmaster, but he liked the roominess and the power he got from the V-8 engine. He’d bought her just a few weeks ago, and though she was used, she had the feel of a fresh young thing under his hands, with plenty of response and the willingness to do anything he wanted. Like a virgin. Get thoughts of virgins out of your head.

  “Mother?” He dropped the keys in the brass tray on the entry hall table and strode toward the living room.

  “Is that you, Robert?”

  Jordan sighed. She had mistaken him for his dad several times in the weeks since he’d returned from overseas. Granted, his dad had only died a couple of months ago, but his mother was not senile. She just chose not to believe her husband was gone.

  “No, it’s Jordan.” He dropped a kiss on the top of her head and took a seat in the wingback chair across from her. A pile of yarn with knitting needles stuck out from it sat in her lap.

  “Oh, hello, dear. Did you have a pleasant evening?”

  Had he? Yes. No. Hell no! He wanted her. He lusted after her. She’s a nun. “I know, God damn it!”

  “Jordan! We do not use such language in this house. When your father reverts to his old ways, he sleeps on the couch a night or two, I can tell you.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

  “Well, thinking it is just as bad.” She smiled at him, and he noticed her gray hair and crow’s-feet. Had they been there a mere two months ago? Maybe she had stopped wearing makeup now that she was alone.

  “I’m not too old to box your ears, young man.”

  He chuckled. “I remember you did that quite well.”

  “No, you were a good boy.” She lost her smile. “Not like Marlene and Brendan’s boy. That David was always into something wicked. I worried about you hanging around with him so much, but your father assured me that you would have more influence over David than he would over you. And he was right. Look at you. A hero in the war, while David is a drunk somewhere in California.”

  “Mother, I wasn’t a hero in the war—”

  “You were indeed! I read the report from the government. You saved a
platoon of men.”

  “—and I’m sorry about David. He was a good friend. It’s a waste.” He sighed, trying to put away the images of the men in that platoon when he and his men had finally broken through to them. “As for the men that were saved, I was simply in the right place at the right time. I did what anyone would have. It was sheer luck.”

  “Jordan,” his mother said quietly, picking up her knitting, “you sprinted through enemy fire to carry out a young man and led the others to safety. Now, perhaps anyone would have done it, but of the men who were with you, only you did.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t destroy a mother’s illusion. I don’t care what you think, I know you’re a hero. You always did the right thing when you were growing up, and you always will as you go through manhood.” She peered over her glasses at him even as she made the needles fly.

  Well, he hadn’t done the right thing tonight. He’d kissed a fucking nun. What would his mother think if she knew that? She’d do more than box his ears. She’d light into him with a lecture about the sanctity of religion and temptation and sin and the whole nine yards. Best she not know.

  Impulsively he said, “I had a letter from a friend the other day. He’s at loose ends, and I wondered if you minded if he came down here for a while.”

  “Not at all. Your father and I always enjoy meeting your friends.”

  He wondered how he would handle this denial of his mother’s. If she insisted on believing his father would walk through the door at any time, could he leave her here, even when the deal over the firm was settled?

  “Is this friend from school?”

  “No. A friend from the Marines. We went through boot camp together and were in the same company in Nam. He was hurt and shipped back here early.”

  “Oh dear. What happened to him?”

  What had happened to him? They’d fought side by side in the Reservoir and taken that long walk out, back to the south, together. After that they’d separated when Mark was assigned to another unit. The last Jordan heard, Mark had been wounded badly enough to be evacuated to Japan and then Hawaii.

  “He was part of an ambushed unit. Got shot up pretty badly. He’s a great guy and smart as a whip. He and I talked about starting our own business when we got out of the Corps.”

  His mother gave him a sharp look. “But Jordan, you know your father is counting on you to join him in the firm. When he received his judgeship, he could have sold the practice, but he kept it for you. You can’t disappoint him now.”

  “Mother,” he said in a quiet voice, “Dad is dead. He’s gone. He won’t know or care if I stay in Ballymeade and practice law.”

  She stared blankly. Good God, should he get her to a psychologist?

  “I never wanted to be a lawyer, and Dad knew that well enough. I went to law school to make him happy, but my heart was never in it.”

  “Don’t be silly. People like us do what they were born to do, what their duty is, not what their heart is in. Not always. But out of curiosity, what is your heart in?”

  A cottage a few miles away.

  Stop it! Lust is not love. Truth be told, probably like Tipton, Margaret Mary’s uniqueness attracted him. Not the woman. As he’d noted when he first saw her, she wasn’t really a woman, anyway. She was just…Softness and wonder and appeal, absolute appeal.

  Shit. That was the truth. When he held her, when he stroked her back in an effort to stop her from crying, he held a woman under all that volume of black and white clothing.

  Forcing his mind back to the conversation at hand, he said, “Business. Mechanics. I like making things and fixing things.”

  “You always enjoyed fiddling when you were a little boy. But—”

  “Don’t say Father wouldn’t approve. He’s—”

  “Dead! I know! Do you think I don’t know?” She bent over her knitting and burst into tears. This was the first time he’d seen her cry since he arrived.

  As easy as it had been to hold Margaret Mary when she cried, he didn’t know what to do for his mother. Finally, he moved to the couch and patted her back. “Can I get you some water?”

  “No.” She sat up and swiped her palms across her eyes. “No, I’m all right.”

  Her eyes were red and splotchy and she took quick, hiccoughing breaths, so Jordan wasn’t all that sure she was fine, but he stayed beside her, his hand on her shoulder.

  “Your father and I were married for over forty years. Don’t dare assume that I don’t know he’s gone after all that time. He was my life.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “They weren’t all good years, but I enjoyed my life, married to a respected lawyer and then a judge. They were high positions, and he wore them well. He was good at his work. He wanted you to follow him, but if you don’t want to, then that’s all there is to it.”

  She folded the blanket or afghan or whatever she was knitting and pushed it aside. “When will you be finished with that woman?”

  She said it so severely, he had to think for a moment who she meant. “Sister Margaret Mary? Maybe a couple of weeks. I had no idea there was so much there.”

  “Oh, there’s a lot there all right.” Bitterness tinged her voice. “The sooner that place is vacant the better. It should have been burned to the ground years ago, with her in it.” Abruptly, she stood and walked toward the stairs. Then she stopped again, just as shortly. Without turning she said, “I’m going up to bed. I will sign the papers for the law practice when they’re ready. I don’t want you to have to stay any longer than you absolutely need to.” Then she was gone.

  God damn it. What in hell had he said for that kind of response? And why the fuck was his mother talking about Hollyhock Cottage? Miss Jacobsen had been a woman unwelcome in the best homes in town, but she had always been nice to him. His dad had handled her legal matters for as long as Jordan had known she existed, so he must have liked her. Jordan had no idea his mother was so narrow-minded or that she held such harsh opinions about fallen women.

  More, what did she mean that her marriage hadn’t been good? He searched his memory and couldn’t think of a single time he had ever seen his parents fight or act unhappy.

  Shit. He rubbed his eyes. The little sleep he’d snatched on Margaret Mary’s porch last night wasn’t enough. He didn’t think Tipton would go back tonight, so he was probably safe to sleep in his own bed. He dragged himself off the couch and started upstairs. Tomorrow he’d call Mark and arrange to get him down here. They had a lot to discuss if the hint Mark had dropped in his letter meant anything.

  And then there was a day to spend with Margaret Mary. An idea occurred to him, and he smiled. He liked the idea of surprising her. Suddenly tomorrow morning couldn’t come soon enough. Despite his exhaustion, he dashed up the stairs.

  Chapter Twelve

  Margaret Mary tossed and turned, unable to erase the image of Jordan’s face from her mind. Or the touch of his thumb on her lip, or the darkness of his irises just before he kissed her. Imagine, she was nearly thirty-two years old and had never been kissed by a man. Hardly kissed by anyone. He had moved his lips against hers, but she had done nothing—not even move her hands from behind her back. He must think her strange. Or maybe disinterested. She should be, but nothing could be further from the truth.

  She touched her face and recoiled from the heat that met her palm. She ran her finger along her lips and shivered with the touch. Her breasts ached, and she knew somehow that they wouldn’t if Jordan were there to soothe them. Then the very thought of his being there beside her brought an involuntary clench to the muscles of her thighs. She wanted to repeat what she had done before, to slide her finger inside and explore the fragrant wetness of her vagina, but she couldn’t bring herself to. It’s a sin. It’s a sin. It’s a sin. She already had so much on her conscience that she couldn’t willingly add more.

  Finally, she climbed from bed. Wrapping a shawl around her shoulders, she went to her mother’s study. If her mother were there now, would
she hold Margaret Mary and insist that every woman feels such confusion over the way a man made her feel? Would she tease Margaret Mary about being in love or warn her not to trust her feelings lest they lead her into a trap from which she couldn’t escape? The church preached that sex was bad. But how many priests and nuns had actually experienced it? And if they had felt as she did now, wanting Jordan’s arms around her with such force it scared her, would they still say it was so wrong? More importantly, as someone who evidently had a great deal of experience with sex, would her mother tell her it was wrong?

  For several minutes, she piddled around, counting the number of glass figures and stopping at sixty-one. She picked up the book beside the chair and saw it was a well-worn copy of a novel called The Young Lions. The inscription read, After two decades with you I still roar. All my love, Leo, your old lion.

  Jordan had said that Brendan Tipton had a relationship with her mother. Could he be Leo, the lion? She decided not. The paralyzing fear he instilled in her could not bring any woman to feel love for Mr. Tipton, and Margaret Mary suspected that he would not say it—particularly in writing—to any woman at all. The man loved himself. And power. There was no room left to love a woman.

  The front of the chair-side table opened, revealing an open place inside. There she found stacks of hardcover books. She pulled one out and flipped the pages. Cramped writing filled every page. Turning to the first page she read Feb 4. Went to town today. Lonnie changed the oil in the car while I bought groceries. Leo called this morning to say he might come for dinner tonight. I bought flowers as a special treat and fixed a beautiful roast. Of course he didn’t come. He called again, hours late, to tell me that he couldn’t get away from the house. He said she had planned guests and he had no good way to get out of it. He said he’d make it up to me, which means another glass dog or horse. Sometimes I hate those figures, because each one represents a missed moment together.