by Lila Dubois
“I’m sorry.” She pushed back, wiping her face. “I don’t normally break down like this.”
“Everyone is allowed.”
“I have work to do.”
“You need a moment.”
“Take her to the church.” Jacques was hovering just behind her, looking down at Melissa with sadness.
Tristan urged her to her feet, looped an arm around her waist. She leaned into him as they walked a few steps to the little stone church.
Chapter 9
What was wrong with her?
Melissa knew she was being ridiculous, but she couldn’t stop herself. Telling Tristan about what had happened to her in the Ivory Coast had brought all that fear and pain to the surface. She thought she was past the worst of it, but apparently not.
The interior of the little church was cool and dark. A few wooden pews remained, but for the most part the building was empty. A cross still hung on the front wall, knocked askew in a way that was vaguely disquieting.
Tristan left the door open, so the midday sun spilled across the stone floor. Whatever windows had once let in light were gone, boarded up.
Tristan rattled one of the pews, which creaked and clacked in a less than reassuring way. “It’s best to sit on the floor.”
Melissa sank down, sitting cross-legged. The stones were cold against her legs and butt.
There was a scrape of shoes and then Tristan joined her, matching her pose, his knees only inches from hers.
“What’s the French way?” she asked, not wanting to go back to the topic of her pain, her weight or her anger.
“What do you mean?”
“You said that the Irish way was to pine for someone. What’s the French way?”
A smile played over his mouth as he took the bandana off. His dark hair fell over his forehead and for the first time she noticed how thick his lashes were. They framed his pretty eyes perfectly.
“You are asking how I would let a woman know I wanted to touch her?”
“I, um, I only mean what would you do if…uh.” Melissa was rarely flustered or at a loss for words, but sitting this close to Tristan was making her light-headed. It was as if she were quicksilver and he were a lodestone. He brought her to life.
The other night in the garden he’d been the one to seem flustered and unsure. She’d taken the role of the aggressor, which she was much more comfortable with. Being looked at the way Tristan was smiling at her right now made her nervous. Waiting for a man to make a move meant being vulnerable, which she didn’t like.
But this moment was a world away from the garden at night. Here in the cool church it was just the two of them, no talk of ghosts putting him on the defensive and making her doubt his sanity.
“I prefer to be direct, but never harsh.” He picked up her left hand in his, then cradled her elbow with his other hand, supporting her whole arm. Tristan bent his head and once again kissed her palm, but this time he didn’t stop there. His lips pushed the cuff of her shirt up so he could kiss the inside of her wrist.
“It’s an interesting cultural study,” she stammered, trying to pretend his lips weren’t turning her insides to jelly.
“Tell me,” he whispered against her flesh.
“There are cultures where showing direct interest in a woman is considered rude or offensive.”
“Not in France.” He placed her left hand on his shoulder. She curled her fingers into the fabric of his simple T-shirt. He looked very, very good in a T-shirt and jeans.
“That’s true. For the most part, direct action and intentions are preferred in Western Europe, though I have seen very few people be truly direct.”
Tristan pushed her shirt off her right shoulder, then guided her arm free. She shivered, but it wasn’t from cold. He ran his fingers from her wrist up her arm to her shoulder. They dipped under the strap of her tank top, then under the strap of her bra. He tugged on her bra and Melissa gasped as her nipple pebbled from the slight friction of the fabric.
He was smiling in a way that said that he knew exactly what he was doing to her.
“In England they have an epidemic with young people who are so afraid of being emotionally vulnerable and therefore being direct about their interests that there’s a social culture totally dependent on drinking.” She was babbling but couldn’t seem to stop.
“That’s terrible.” Tristan tsked, then, smooth as could be, moved her left arm and pulled her shirt all the way off. He laid it out on the ground beside her.
“What are you—”
Before she could finish her question, he’d taken command of her body and smoothly lowered her back so she was lying on her shirt. She took a deep breath and his gaze dipped to her breasts.
“Is that how boys treated you? Telling you that you were beautiful, touching you, pleasuring you, only when they were drunk?”
“Um…yes.”
“Foolish boys.” Tristan touched her chin. “Look at me.”
She locked her gaze to his as he ran his hand from her hip up her torso, to her breast. He tugged her top down, baring her simple blue bra. She felt it happen, but didn’t look away from him. The intensity of his focus on her was terrifying, and more arousing than anything she’d ever experienced. No one had ever looked at her the way Tristan did—as if she were the most important, fascinating and beautiful woman in the world.
Cool air brushed her nipple, then fingers covered her breast. Melissa’s eyes fluttered closed in pleasure.
“Are you wet for me, Melissa?” He laid his cheek along hers and whispered in her ear.
“Yes,” she replied, embarrassed at the admission, even though she knew it was natural.
“May I touch you?”
“Please, oh please, Tristan.”
His lips replaced his fingers on her breast and she gasped, clutching his head. His hand slid to her pants, unbuttoning and then unzipping with an ease that she had to admire.
His fingers dipped into her clothes, sliding under the waistband of her panties.
“Spread your legs for me. That’s it. Ah, Melissa, you are so wet. So ready for me. I want to strip your clothes off and pleasure you properly.”
“Oh yes, please. Let’s do that.” His fingers were rubbing the lips of her sex, a gentle touch that was making the ache in her belly worse.
She felt him smile. “Not here. Later.”
“I think now would be better.”
His fingers finally dipped into her pussy, two fingers tracing her from the entrance to her body up to her clit. She hissed and arched up against his hand when he touched the bundle of nerves.
He raised his head, resisting her efforts to pull him back to her breast. “Look at me, Melissa. I want you to look at me when you have le petit mort.”
The little death.
For a second, the intimacy of the moment—their gazes locked as she lay on the floor half undressed, his hand rubbing and stroking her wet, swollen sex—was almost too much. She was struck by the urge to run from him. But then his fingers touched her clit, scissoring around it, and she couldn’t think, couldn’t protest. All she could do was feel, was accept him as he loomed over her, owning her in a base way that she’d never known before.
Her orgasm came faster than she’d expected. From one breath to the next the pleasure went from good to impossible and she gasped, her whole body arching up off the floor. She closed her eyes, and Tristan quickly took her nipple back into his mouth, sucking it while her sex clenched. She wished fervently that his cock was in her, that in that moment of orgasm she could feel him pounding into her.
As it subsided, Melissa opened her eyes. Tristan slowly withdrew his hand from her panties. She blushed when he put his fingers in his mouth, tasting her.
“I can’t believe we just did that,” she whispered. She looked down to see that her bra was half pulled down, her right breast exposed, the nipple pink and hard from his fingers and mouth. She started to pull her bra and shirt up.
“Leave it,” he said.
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She looked at him, finally noticing the hunger in his gaze. He sat up and she could see the stiff ridge of his cock, even through the thick denim of his jeans.
She reached for him. “Let me return the favor.”
He blocked her hand. “That was no favor. That was a taste, a sample.”
“But you’re…” She gestured to his crotch.
“I’m hard for you. I want to fuck you until you cannot remember anything but the pleasure I’ll give you.”
Melissa felt more wanton in that moment than she ever had. Her muscles were still trembling from the orgasm, while at the same time aching for more.
“Remind me why we aren’t doing that right now?”
Tristan laughed. He helped her to sit up with gentle hands. She sighed, sad the moment was over.
Tristan fisted a hand in her hair, pulling but not hurting. She gasped, looking at him with eyes that were wide from a mixture of shock and arousal.
“When I make love to you for the first time, it will not be on dirty stones.” His pupils were huge, making his eyes look almost black. “And when I make love to you, I want you to be so wild, so aroused, that nothing but the roughest, most brutal sex will satisfy you. And then, when we’re done with that, we will make slow love, until there isn’t an inch of your flesh I haven’t kissed.”
He kissed her, hard and deep.
When he released her and got to his feet, Melissa remained on the floor. She watched him stand and stretch. She wanted to rip his clothes off and bite him, claw him until she’d goaded him into doing what she wanted, what she needed.
Melissa tucked her breast back into her bra and fixed her shirt. She’d always thought of herself as sexually aggressive, dominant even, as it was often she who made the first move.
Tristan had showed her, without a doubt, that she was an amateur when it came to sexual aggression. She’d just orgasmed, and yet it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough.
She rose to her feet. Tristan turned, and his expression was less fierce than it had been a moment ago. She realized he’d needed to take a moment to compose himself. She liked that she had that kind of effect on him.
“That was…better than actual sex.”
Tristan smiled. “Then imagine how good the actual sex will be.”
“You’re like a deadly sex weapon. Seriously, you should have a warning label or something.”
“Not to state the obvious, but I am French.”
“I don’t believe in stereotypes.”
He raised a brow.
“You just happen to be a Frenchman who is a sex god.” She shrugged. “And a chef.”
Tristan laughed. “Oh, my pretty Melissa. They will write poems about what we will do to each other.”
“Poems?”
“Graphic, erotic poems.”
She shuddered as her pussy clenched at his words. “I need you to stop talking now.”
“Why?” He took her hips, pulling her against him. He was still hard, and she had an insane urge to drop to her knees. “Do I make you nervous?”
“If I’d known, I wouldn’t have kissed you last night.”
“Why? I liked it.”
“I thought you were nervous or not good at kissing and that I should, you know, initiate. I feel a little stupid. Clearly you don’t need any direction when it comes to physical intimacy. It’s a valuable skill to have, and I’ve always been a bit distressed that my knowledge of human anatomy isn’t a greater asset in planning sexual encounters. I think it’s because I sometimes have trouble reading signals. Body language isn’t an exact science, though there have been some studies that identify…” Melissa lost track of what she was saying. Sighing, she leaned into him, head on his shoulder.
He kissed her head. “Why do you fascinate me, Melissa Heavey?”
“That’s Dr. Heavey to you,” she whispered.
He laughed and she smiled. She was happier in this moment, in his arms, than she had been in a very, very long time.
It was terrifying.
“Shall we get back to work?” he asked.
“Yes, but I have a dress code. No shirts.”
“You want me to dig holes with no shirt on?”
“Yes.”
“Naughty.”
“I’m not even going to get any work done. I’m just going to stare at you and fantasize about you naked.”
He picked up her outer shirt, shook it out and handed it to her. “Then perhaps we should make plans now to spend the evening together.”
Melissa glared at him. “You were going to make me wait until tomorrow?”
“Sometimes the waiting is the pleasure.”
“No. I don’t like waiting.”
“I guessed that when you kissed me.”
“How about we just go back to the castle right now?”
“Ah, but Dr. Heavey, we have work to do.”
She groaned. “You’re a terrible, bad man.”
He grinned, took her hand, and kissed her knuckles. “A bad man who will do wicked things to you.”
“Dead babies.”
He jerked his head up. “What?”
“We’re talking about dead babies for the rest of the afternoon.”
“Must we?”
“Well, I don’t see—”
Wind tore through the church. The door slammed shut, sealing them in near darkness. Melissa jumped, startled by the noise. “Time to go,” she said. “We’ll still be able to work if it’s windy, but I don’t want to be out there when it starts raining.”
“That wasn’t wind.”
Chapter 10
Tristan cursed mentally. After what they’d just shared, and after the plans they’d made for tonight, the last thing he wanted was to have Melissa reminded of the ghosts.
But as he watched the ripples of light dance near the door, he had no choice but to pull her against his side and back them away from the door.
“Jacques?” he said. He really hoped his brother hadn’t been hanging around watching him pleasure Melissa, but at the same time his presence would now be good.
“I’m here.”
“What’s going on?”
“I’m not sure. It’s different. Not ghosts, not like me.”
“Is it a memory, like what was in the nursery?”
“No. I think… You should get light. There are candles.”
“Where? I can’t see anything.”
Melissa was still and quiet at his side, listening to his one-sided conversation. Tristan tried not to think about what the situation looked like from her perspective.
He let go of her hand, then followed Jacques’ directions to a niche in a side wall. The only light came through cracks around the door, but it didn’t penetrate this far back. He gritted his teeth, trying not to think about the spiders or rats that might be nesting in the nook. He found a box of candles, and after some fumbling, a matchbook. He lit a candle, looking at the matchbook. It was from a bar in Trim that he’d been to, and all the candles in the box looked new. He’d grabbed a taper, but there were some pillars too. He lit one of those and turned to Melissa.
“Come take a candle.”
“Why don’t we just go?”
He looked away before she got close enough that he could see her face. The memory of her flushed and gasping under him was better than the pity and derision that he would see right now.
“You can. I need to stay. I need to figure this out.”
She took the pillar candle and set it on the altar. He lit a few more, passing them to her so she could set them out.
“She can’t leave either.”
“What do you mean?” Tristan walked to the altar where Melissa had set out the candles. In the dim light, his brother’s ghost appeared as solid as if he were alive.
“This is about her.”
“What’s about her?”
“The thing in here.”
“Fuck,” he said, using the inelegant English curse word.
“Who’s ‘h
er’? Who is this about?” Melissa asked.
“My brother says this is about you.”
“What’s about me?”
“Whatever closed the door, whatever is keeping us in here.”
“That’s not possible.”
“You say that about a lot of things.”
“Why would it be about me?”
Tristan looked at Jacques. Jacques cocked his head, as if listening. “I think it’s the thing that protects her.”
“What protects her?”
“I still don’t know.”
“Protects who? Protects me?” Melissa asked.
Tristan faced Melissa and carefully grabbed her upper arms, forcing her to listen. “You cannot see ghosts. Even Elizabeth, who none of us, including my brother, knew was a ghost. You are different.”
“Like I said—”
“No, listen to me. I need you to believe. I have this feeling like if you don’t believe, something bad is going to happen.”
“Tristan…”
He squeezed her right arm. “My brother says you’re protected. Something he can’t name is protecting you from the ghosts, making sure you can’t see them.”
“Protecting me…how? Who?”
“I don’t know, but Jacques thinks that who or whatever it is just closed that door, locking us in here.”
“Tristan, I respect you, I like you, and I want you, but I can’t be a part of this. I can’t.” She shook her head, then shrugged free of his hold. “I’m going to walk out the door. I hope you come with me.”
Tristan combed his hair back with his fingers as he watched her walk away. He clenched his teeth to stop from calling her back. He knew that if she walked out that door, whatever connection they had would be gone. She’d never look at him the same way again. No one wanted to deal with the crazy man. He knew that, and it made him sick to think that Melissa would look at him the way his coworkers and friends in Paris had. Running a restaurant in rural Ireland had never been part of his plan, but if he was honest with himself, he’d admit that he needed this place, needed to be where people did not sneer at or pity him. Glenncailty, for all its faults, was a refuge.
Melissa stopped, her right hand reaching for the door handle. She was a shadowy outline in the faint light from the candles.
