Chapter 65

65

Mira

He scooped me up in his arms and carried me inside our—his—okay our home. I was feeling better, and wanted to tell him so, but I also sensed this need inside him to take care of me, so I let him. He carried me into the living room and placed me on the couch. Then, proceeded to fluff the cushions behind my head and pull a comforter over me. Then, he handed me my Kindle, along with a large glass of water he commanded me to drink and told me to occupy myself while he got my dinner.

Yep, he did order me there, like the bossy-pants he is, but it felt right. I barely read a couple of pages before he came back with a tray of food. He'd heated up the chicken soup—which he’d called ahead and asked his housekeeper to prepare. There was also crusty bread, which he buttered for me, and he made me eat it all as he watched. Then he gave me the medicine Doc Weston had prescribed—something safe, in case I am pregnant. I told Ed I was feeling better, but he’d hear none of it. He insisted I swallow it down, then offered me a cup of herbal tea.

When I finally lean back with a sigh, he slips onto the couch and replaces the cushion under my head with his thigh. For a few seconds, I lay there, once again, enjoying the feel of his firm flesh. I rub my palm over the silky material of his pants, and he places his much bigger palm over mine.

"Don’t," he murmurs.

"Why not?" I look up at him.

"Because we need to talk."

"I don’t want to talk," I pout.

His features soften. He pushes my hair back from my cheek and tucks the cover under my chin. "Tomorrow then."

"Okay," I murmur.

He begins to drag his thumb over my lower lip, then catches himself. "What do you want to watch?"

"Watch?"

"On the streamers. I have all of them."

"Anything romantic, like?—"

He groans, "Don’t tell me The Notebook ."

"— The Notebook ." I nod.

He rubs the back of his neck. "Okay."

I blink. "You don’t mind watching The Notebook with me?"

"There’s a first for everything, I suppose." He raises a shoulder.

"You’ve never seen The Notebook ?"

"Not my normal taste, but I've heard about it, like it's the most romantic movie ever."

"It is," I agreed with a smile.

"Also I’ve been… Otherwise occupied for a lot of my life."

"You took your role as a priest seriously, didn’t you?"

He hesitates, then rubs at his stubbled cheek. The sound of his nails over his whiskers pulses goosebumps over my skin. Oh, my gosh, I’ll never not be attracted to him. And at some point, he discarded his jacket and rolled up his shirt-sleeves so the tendons of his veiny arms flex. And everyone knows, forearm-porn is the easiest way to turn on a girl. Also, he’s still wearing his vest, and the way it contours the planes of his chest should be banned.

"—Belle, you okay?"

"Yes, of course, why do you ask?" I clear my throat.

"You had a dazed look in your eyes." He touches my forehead. "Your fever hasn’t increased, has it?"

"Nope, the medicine I took is making me drowsy, is all."

He runs his fingers though my hair. "You should rest."

"You evaded my question again."

He sighs. "There’s nothing to evade. I tried to deliver on my responsibilities toward my congregation with the utmost sincerity. I felt I was making a difference in peoples’ lives. I tried to be a spiritual guide, a counsellor for couples, and I loved teaching young minds. It was deeply satisfying and yet"—he swallows—"something was missing. I knew I wasn’t addressing the real reasons I was pushing myself so hard to feel needed. And when I had a crisis of faith, I left."

"You did what felt right at that time."

"I turned my back on everything that defined me." He firms his lips.

"That took courage."

"That was cowardly of me," he says at the same time.

I begin to sit up, and he doesn’t stop me. "It’s all about how you look at things, isn’t it? It’s your mindset. You think you were running away, I think you knew it was time to leave and find yourself, so you could deal with whatever happened earlier in your life."

His lips curve. "When did you become so wise?"

"I was born wise." I smile back.

Our gazes hold; the air between us shimmers and grows heavy. My thighs clench, and my pussy feels like Niagara Falls opened up between them. OMG, I did not just think that!

"I can read what’s on your mind," he warns.

I scoff, "You cannot."

"I did, but I’m not going to elaborate because you need your rest." He urges me to pillow my head in his lap, then reaches for the remote. Between the familiar scenes of The Notebook playing on the screen and the gentle touch of his fingers combing through my hair and whispering down my neck—which is both soothing and a turn on—a warmth steals over me. I close my eyes and drift off. I have a vague recollection of him carrying me to bed, me protesting, and him kissing my forehead.

He slides me into bed, pulls the covers over me ,and I’m asleep again. When I wake up, dawn is breaking through on the horizon. The silver light pours through the un-curtained windows. I turn on my side and realize, he’s stretched out on the bed, on top of the covers. He’s still wearing the same shirt with his sleeves rolled up, and he’s folded his arms over his vest. I take in his shoulders, his chest, those lean hips, the powerful thighs, his bare feet. He must have discarded his socks at some point in the night. His toes— Oh, my god, his toes—why do I find the sight of them so erotic? I manage to drag my gaze back to his face, and the sight of his thick eyelashes fanned over his cheekbones, that hooked nose, the mean upper lip and that plush lower lip, now parted slightly in sleep, draws me to him.

Before I can stop myself, I throw off the covers, then inch closer. I play my mouth over his, not touching him, but drawing of his breath. That scent of woodsmoke surrounds me. That sharp tang in the air, which reminds me of an incoming storm, a sensation I always associate with him, envelops me. I lean in and touch my lips to his. That’s when he opens his eyes.