“You said— You said—” Hoo boy. Staggering to the desk, Kady put her arms out to brace herself. When Tristan made a move to help her she waved him away. “I’m all right.”
“Don’t be stubborn.” A corded forearm belted her waist.
“I’m fine,” she insisted.
As he walked her back to the bed, the possibility she might be faking it did cross his mind. He couldn’t help wondering why she seemed so helpless lately. Despite her diminutive size, Kady had never been physically fragile. Now it was like she was made from eggshells.
Lowering her to the mattress, he sat down beside her with his arm still curved around her lower back. If he realized their hips and thighs were touching he didn’t scoot over. Kady still felt a little lightheaded, and momentarily forgetting herself she dropped her head against his chest. The second she registered what she’d done, jerked it back up, mortified.
A large hand gently pressed it back down. “It’s okay,” Tristan hushed. “Relax.”
His unexpected tenderness acted as a balm to her wounded soul and she sagged against him. When he turned his lips into her forehead, she thought she felt—
“Tristan?” Was it was wishful thinking on her part or did he really just kiss her?
“Shhh…” Keeping her head cradled to his chest, he began stroking her hair. “Don’t speak.”
They stayed like that a while, the silence surprisingly companionable. Against her cheek Kady could feel his heart beating rapidly and it churned her insides into warm butter. More than anything right now she wanted to wrap her arms around his waist and hug him like she was never going to let him go. But afraid to push her luck and ruin their truce—or whatever this was—she kept them clamped to her sides.
“The other day…” Tristan’s low rumble vibrated his chest. “You really intended to tell me everything? All of it?”
Hope filling her, she bobbed her head.
Debating himself, he stalled for time by winding a wayward strand of hair over her ear. “Saturday,” he decided finally, inhaling a deep breath in order to continue. “After evening Mass. I’ll hear your confession.”
Kady was elated and relieved but the feeling didn’t last as she detected a subtle but sudden change in his demeanor. She felt his body tense, turn almost rigid. Heard his breathing become shallow and ragged. His heart rate picked up even faster but was no longer considered a positive. Tendrils of apprehension entwined her like a prickly vine as he resumed petting her head with long, rough strokes.
Before she knew it he was lifting her chin, bringing her head up with his large hand against her jaw. As their eyes locked, she watched his pupils expand to the rim of his irises making him appear almost hypnotized. She felt half mesmerized herself, incapable as she was of anything but inhaling and exhaling air. And had his face drifted closer? She could practically count the whiskers on his chin. No, it wasn’t her imagination. Tristan was definitely leaning in. As he if he was going to—
But instead of kissing her, he slid his hand down to Kady’s throat. Without taking his eyes off hers, he encircled the smooth column of her neck, carefully so as not to hurt her yet firm enough that he could feel the carotid artery pulsing against his palm. He eased her backward, downward. Her head sank into the pillow. Wide-eyed she stared up at him, expecting to be released, experiencing a prick of alarm when his grip tightened ever so slightly. The action felt strangely like a claiming.
Though she didn’t fear Tristan would physically harm her, Kady nevertheless sensed something dangerous about him. Even in her ignorance she knew instinctively that his possessive hold and heated gaze had nothing to do with anger and everything to do with hunger. Raw, sexual, masculine hunger.
To her mortification her nipples hardened to jutting points, tenting the front of her gown as his hot, damp palm began roaming her neck in a sensual caress. He removed his hand from around her neck only to slide his long middle finger down the length of it as languidly as sap dripping from a sugar maple. Down… down… down until he reached that little hollow at the base of her throat. Circling it a few times, he skated over her collarbone and across her upper chest, leaving goose skin behind in his wake.
While his gaze continued to hold Kady hostage, he slipped the finger under the strap of her nightgown and gingerly lifted it off her shoulder, carefully watching her face as he coaxed it slowly down her upper arm. Down… down… down until the top edge of the gown snagged on a rock-hard nipple, impeding its descent but exposing part of a pink areola.
He sat staring at it, his expression turning grim, hand starting to tremble barely perceptively. As to what to do next, he seemed at a loss. One tiny tug. That’s all it would take for the gown to float away and her breast to be bared.
Do it.
Kady’s silent plea took her aback. She hadn’t even known that’s what she wanted until she voiced the wish in her head. Yet hadn’t she longed for such a moment as this?
Touch me.
Oh yes. She’d fantasized about Tristan putting his hands on her. All of her. Everywhere. Leaving no area of her body untouched. His lips leaving no part unkissed. His tongue leaving no surface unlaved.
Want me.
He must’ve received her telepathic messages because the next thing she knew he was palming her bare breast and intently scrutinizing her face, silently asking if it was okay, if he had permission to go further. All Kady could do was lick her dry bottom lip, which he took for her answer. Returning his gaze to her nipple, he lightly brushed it with the pad of his thumb. Over and over. Slow, gentle strokes. Getting acquainted with the feel of her, marveling at how hard yet velvet-soft the bud. Between caresses he again caught her eyes. This is how I would do your clit, his dark gaze told her.
Kady’s breathing was harsh and ragged. Tristan’s chest was rapidly rising and falling. Neither was thinking about anything besides that thumb now tracing her areola. Around and around. Circling the taut tip. She sunk deeper into the mattress, bracing herself against the unbearably erotic sensation.
In her twenty-nine years, Kadence Janacek was finally finding out for herself what all the fuss was about. What a man’s intimate touch felt like. What Tristan’s touch felt like. Arousal pooled in her vagina and her thighs parted slightly in unconscious invitation. The gesture didn’t escape his notice and he lowered his head with the intent of taking the nipple between his lips.
Kady felt his hot breath waft across her breast, and in anticipation arched her neck backward, which thrust her chest upward. “Tristan…” she moaned on a sigh.
Hearing his name seemed to have an instantaneous sobering effect on him and he lurched back as if an alarm clock had gone off by his ear.
Wake up! Strengthen what remains and is about to die, for I have found your deeds unfinished in the sight of my God.
Kady didn’t move—waiting, praying for him to continue. She held her breath in suspense, only to release it in disappointment when Tristan’s hand clenched into a fist and retreated. Her gown was abruptly yanked up, her breast covered and the strap looped back over her shoulder. And just like that, the moment was over and all of her hopes squashed to a pulp.
Gray-green eyes darted to the door. Gone was the heated look glazed with hunger and need, and back in its place was Tristan’s signature icy scowl. Whatever spell he’d been under was suddenly broken. The temptation was conquered. Lust kicked to the curb. And the chance to fulfill dreams once again lost.
“Saint Ben’s by eight-thirty,” he practically growled at her. “Don’t be late,” Then Father Cleary shot to his feet and strode across the room as if he couldn’t get away from Kady fast enough.
“Tristan,” Silvie appeared in the doorway, almost crashing into him. “You can’t be leaving already.” She was carrying a tray with a glass of OJ and a sleeve of Saltines.
“It really was great seeing you again, Mrs. Janacek,” he said slipping by her. “I’ll see myself out.”
Silvie’s eyes followed him down the hall before turning on he
r daughter. “Mishka?”
Waiting for her heart to recover, Kady remained flat on her back and stared unblinking at the ceiling like a dead body waiting to be autopsied. Her brain, on the other hand, was like a washer stuck on spin cycle, whirling with thoughts both hopeful and fearful. Hopeful because she was going to tell Tristan what she should’ve eleven years ago. And fearful because of the devastation it would surely wreak.
fifteen
“Another slice?”
Not waiting for her grandson’s reply, Charlotte Cleary was already cutting into the cherry pie.
“No thanks, Nan,” Tristan said, slumping back in his chair. “I’m stuffed.” He patted his stomach for emphasis.
Nan was having none of it. “Boy, you call that a belly? Now your grandpop… there was a belly.”
Picturing Cleveland Cleary’s outstanding girth, Tristan couldn’t help chuckling. The man resembled Santa Claus minus the red suit. When he and Reese were little, Pops used to challenge them to see which of his twin grandsons could hit him in the breadbasket the hardest. Reese always won, of course, because Reese always played to win. Always.
The random memory caused Tristan to knit his brows. As to why, he was at a loss. Reese’s “winning isn’t everything, it’s the only thing” mentality was one of the many things he’d admired about his older-by-nine-minutes twin. Now it left him feeling… Well shit. The word that sprang to mind was, annoyed. Discomfited by the thought, Tristan flung it aside, as was his tendency to do with any emotion he didn’t want to confront.
Pops had passed away when the boys were in middle school, surprisingly not from Dunlap Disease (as in, his belly dun lapped over his belt). Instead of a health-related issue claiming their grandpop too soon, it was a freak accident. A slip in the bathtub of all things.
Shortly after his death, Tristan’s parents insisted that Nan install one of those walk-in bathtubs marketed toward seniors. Stepping out of their vintage cast-iron tub was how Pops fell. Still, she was reluctant to part with her beloved clawfoot until Tristan finally convinced her. Do it for him, he’d told her. He didn’t know what he’d do if anything happened to her. Without Charlotte Cleary in his life he’d be lost.
After heaping a second helping of her blue-ribbon-winning pie onto his plate, Nan started for the fridge. “Bet a glass of cold milk would go real good with that.”
Tristan pulled a face. “Milk? What am I, five?”
“Does a body good.”
He rolled his eyes but wasn’t about to debate the merits of milk consumption with a woman raised on a dairy farm. “Don’t suppose you made coffee?”
Tristan got his answer when she parked a tall glass in front of him and filled it to the brim with whole milk. “Nan…” he mock-admonished.
“Drink up and dig in.”
He shook his head but picked up his fork. “Between the milk and the pie I’m going to have to add another half-hour to my workout.”
“Or you could skip the work-out altogether—now don’t look so scandalized—and take your old granny out to dinner. I was thinking this Saturday. We haven’t been to the IHOP in ages.”
“Saturday?”
“Seven. After evening Mass.”
“Seven?”
She glanced around. “Is here an echo in here?”
“Sorry,” he mumbled.
Grandson and grandmother often ate out together but one night a month was reserved specifically to have breakfast for dinner at the local IHOP. Tristan always ordered fried chicken and waffles and without fail she had pancakes topped with as many sugary accoutrements as would fit. They’d done it so many years it was practically tradition.
Nan pulled out a chair and sat down beside him. Placing both hands flat on the knotted-pine table, she watched him shovel in a couple more forkfuls of pie before saying, “Did you know that this is the first time in two weeks you’ve been by?”
Tristan looked up from his plate, genuinely surprised.
“Not that I keep track, of course. It’s just that we haven’t been hanging out as much as we used to. And damnit, boy, I miss you. Miss our time together.”
“God, Nan, I hadn’t realized.” He put down the utensil and covered her hand with his own. “Guess I’ve been a pretty crappy grandson lately, huh.”
Tangling their fingers together, she gave them a loving squeeze. “Tristan, honey, I couldn’t have asked for one better, you know that.”
While Reese had been Grampa Cleary’s favorite, Tristan was always Nan’s and she made no apologies for it. Of the two brothers he was the one she felt closest to—the introspective twin she’d forged a special bond with at an early age. It hadn’t been a complete surprise to her when at just nine years old Tristan announced he was going to dedicate his life to God.
Reese, on the polar opposite end of the spectrum, had his heart set on becoming a Marine. Though none in the family expected him to enlist right after high school, anyone who knew the boys knew Reese Cleary was meant for the military as his brother was for the priesthood. They were peas in a pod yet in many ways different as night and day. In high school, while Tristan had his nose buried in the Bible, Reese was lettering in sports. And where Reese was gregarious and spontaneous (more like impulsive), Tristan was quiet and could often be too guarded. The twins were fraternal and shared similar physical attributes but like their personalities no one would ever confuse the two.
Nan shook her head to herself. Oh Reese, she lamented.
“I’ll make it up to you, I promise.” Tristan brought his grandmother’s hand to his lips and all trace of melancholy left her as he sealed his pledge with a kiss on her knuckles.
“Hell yes you will, boy. On Saturday.”
“Saturday?”
“Don’t start that again.”
“Uh…”
“Rooty Tooty Fresh and Fruity. You forget already?”
“No, I—”
“Pancakes, glazed strawberries, whipped cream…”
“Yeah, no. I know what—”
“Okay, boy, out with it.”
“Uh…”
“The reason you can’t take your sorely neglected granny out this weekend. And it better be good. Well, that’s it, isn’t it? Why you’re suddenly acting all squirrely?”
Tristan sighed. Hadn’t he already learned he couldn’t hide anything from his grandmother? “Astute” was Charlotte Cleary’s middle name. She’d deduced pretty quickly he already had plans for this Saturday night. Plans that didn’t have anything to do with hot cakes and everything to do with a hot mess. Plans the mere thought of which was now giving him a stiffie. (Highly inappropriate given the presentcompany.)
He squirmed in his seat and let out a cough. “Nan… Nana… I am so, so sorry. But yeah, you’re right. I can’t make it. Next week for sure, though, okay?” Rubbing the back of his neck, he added sheepishly, “Truth is, I wouldn’t be very good company now, anyway. It’s been… I’ve had a rough week.”
His grandmother broke into a knowing smile. “No shit, Sherlock.”
Tristan cocked his head at her like a robin listening for worms.
“I know this week’s been hard on you,” she explained. “It’s always hard when Kady blows back into town.”
He gave her a pointed look. She shrugged. “Heard it through the grapevine.”
Tristan threw back his head in frustration. “Lord Christ Almighty.”
“Small towns and gossip go together like old men and ear hair,” Nan quipped. “Honey, come on…” She touched his shoulder. “It isn’t any secret Kady’s presence always gets you agitated as a damn washing machine.”
“That—that’s not true,” he sputtered. “I don’t get agitated.” Under his grandmother’s unblinking regard he could feel himself getting warmer. Hooking a finger under his suddenly too tight collar, he insisted, “Damnit, Nana, I don’t.”
“Whatever you say, honey.”
Tristan wearily shook his head. “I assumed after all these years I’d been relegated to
being just another cog in the rumor mill. Now here I find myself the damn wheel again. How’d you put it? ‘Isn’t any secret’? Apparently I’m not just the town’s only Catholic priest but also its resident laughingstock.”
Nan sighed sympathetically. “Don’t get your panties in a bunch, boy, nobody’s laughing at you. You’re not a source of entertainment, simply a source of fascination. You and Kady both.”
“I don’t want to talk about her, Nan.”
“Not talking about her isn’t going to make her go away. You can’t bury your head in the sand every time she comes back. Even if you’re not ready to face your feelings head on, simply acknowledging them is enough to get you on the road to recovery.”
“You make me sound like an alcoholic.”
“You’re an addict just the same. And that girl’s your drug of choice. And like a drug, when you don’t get enough you start to suffer. Too much and it can destroy you. You’re still not over her, honey, and you need to—”
“Jesus Christ on the cross, can we just not!”
Tristan rocketed out of his chair so fast it fell backward with a jarring crash. Running his fingers through his hair he took a deep restorative breath. And letting her know without words he was fine, patted the hand his grandmother had placed on his arm.
“Sorry, Nana,” he mumbled, righting the upended chair. “Guess I’m running on too much caffeine and not enough sleep. Either that or it’s all the sugar you’ve been feeding me.” He offered her a watery smile.
“Sit down, Tristan,” she instructed gently. “You and me are going to have us a serious heart-to-heart. Something that’s been long overdue.”
Despite pursing his lips and shaking his head, Tristan complied. Reluctantly. His expression was both mulish and childish, reminding Charlotte of the time when he was a boy and had stubbornly refused to rat out Reese for breaking a table lamp. He’d clamped his lips together, much like he was doing now, determined that no one, no how, was going to pry anything out of him.
FATHER: Men of the Cloth - Tristan (Forbidden Priest Romance 1) Page 11
