Chapter Twelve
After handing Paul to his mama, while pointedly ignoring Conway and even more pointedly ignoring Father Ward—which meant overlooking her own roaring needs—Lassi exited the Riordan’s cottage. As usual, the wind screamed and howled. It billowed around her like the naughty tease of a bully. No sign of stars shone in the twilight sky. Too many stupid clouds. As she walked toward her great-aunt’s house, Lassi’s legs felt heavy. Her heart felt heavier. It’s this goddamned Ballyna-gravity. She needed a good long nap, a good long hug, or...Something to distract me from Cillian...Father Ward...whoever the feck he is.
As she strode down the hill, she passed the place where Father Ward had beelined her to the beach, to the empty grave. She shivered, pulling her coat tight. That could serve as a distraction. What are the chances of getting turned-on standing next to a grave? But then she remembered his kiss. There’s no escape. I’ll head down there, anyway.
Her mood lightened as she neared the beach. The ocean always had a soothing effect on her, even in Ballyna-nightmare.
The waves continued their persistent heaving, lashing the shore like whips. The wind gusted with a fury. She leaned into her trek, determined to visit the grave site. When she stood next to it, her heart began to race. Ripples of fear drew gooseflesh from her skin. She brought her hand to her mouth and stared, unblinking. The dirt around the hole had been freshly disturbed.
“Fecking hell. It’s been razed again. Who in their right mind vandalizes a grave site twice? What’s down there? Buried treasure?” She backed away from the burial site. Her hair whipped around her face, stinging her cheeks and eyes. “So, why did Father Ward not want to tell the police about this? I think they ought to know. I’m going to get to the root of things.” She spun on her heel and raced up the hill toward town.
When she reached the edge of the village, she stood, torn in indecision. Garda first, or confront Father Ward? Her body throbbed its preferences. All right, then. I’ll make this fast.
Her arms pumping, she marched toward the church. She tried to throw open the huge, wooden doors, carved with a cross, but they weighed a ton. Instead, she tugged, heaved, and wrestled them until she could slip through. She crossed over the stone foyer, heading for the pews.
She hadn’t set foot in a church since she was a child. It held more of a museum-like quality than a sacred institution.
The walls were lined with stained glass. At the front, Jesus hung from a cross. Candles, in tall brass holders, burned softly, lending an almost romantic glow to the place. If it wasn’t a church, that is.
A clatter brought her attention beyond a doorway to the right.
Lassi tip-toed toward it.
Father Ward’s voice boomed from behind the door. “All right. Good bye,” he said.
Is he on the phone?
The door hung ajar, giving her an excuse to barge in. “Father Ward,” she said, pushing open the door.
He stood behind his ancient-looking, wooden desk.
She scanned him, swallowing back her lust. No jacket. His forearms are huge. And his hips would support my legs wrapped around him all cozy and naked.
His mouth dropped open. His hand hung mid-air, still clutching the old black handset. He gave her a blank, deer-in-the-headlights stare, like she’d caught him with his pants down—which was a very appealing thought.
When she stepped across the threshold, he shook himself out of his deep freeze, slammed the phone in the cradle, and hurried toward her. “What are you doing? Why are you here?”
He put his hands on her shoulders and tried to turn her around to push her out the door.
She skirted his grasp, confused, and faced him. “I’m here to...” She shook her head and dropped her hands to her hips. “Honestly, why are you acting so weird? You seem to carry a lot of secrets, Father Ward. And I want answers. Like, why are you so fecking strange about that grave and the Garda? I returned from there and someone has dug it up some more. And a Banshee's wind is blowing out there like the place has become unglued.”
His palm flew to his forehead, heralded by lines of anguish.
Her eyebrows drew together. What’s going on?
“Look, Father, if you believe the crimes are linked, then you should tell the Garda. If you believe they’re not linked, you should still tell them because maybe some other freak is out there, desecrating graves.” Her hands gesticulated as she spoke.
“I’ve got it. Leave it to me.” He stepped toward her and once more put his hands on her shoulders, urging her around.
She pushed his hands off and took a step back. “Don’t manhandle me, Father. What’s going on?”
“Nothing to concern yourself with. Village superstition is all.” His face flushed.
Is he pissed at me? “Too late. I’m concerned.”
He took a step toward her.
She whirled out of reach and scurried in front of his desk. With her butt pressed against the old wooden structure, she said, “What’s going on? I demand answers. I can make your life bang-on wicked by telling the village you kissed me, you know.”
“You wouldn’t do that.” He strode toward her, his breath chuffing.
She drew back. “I might if you don’t tell me anything,” she snapped.
He muttered something in Gaelic, a language she hadn’t mastered. His voice sounded different...kind of hollow, like he spoke from a deep well.
Should I be scared? Her heartbeat fluttered in her chest.
He stood close to her, looming over her. More Gaelic flowed from his lips.
She caught something about “the past” and “erase memories,” but not much else. Her head began to swim with dizziness. “Speak in English,” she demanded. “You might be able to charm Mr. Meow but you can’t charm me.”
She gripped the edge of the desk and tried to arch away from him.
He continued speaking Gaelic. It echoed through the room, like he spoke from every corner. The heat rolling off him warmed her like a furnace.
“Cillian,” she whispered in a keening whisper. “What are you doing?” Her fingers white-knuckled the desk.
His entire body stiffened. He frowned. His neck corded with thick veins. “Leave off, woman! You need to learn to leave things alone that don’t concern you!”
His eyes were dark, nearly black.
“No!” she shouted, puffing up her chest. “I didn’t get this far in life by leaving things alone.”
For a second, they both stared at one another, breathing like bellowing beasts.
His eyes bore into her.
She refused to look away.
“Christ, woman. You have no idea what you’ve done.” His voice emerged husky and raw.
“Then, tell me so I know,” she said, her words barely audible.
He brought his scorching hands to her cheeks and inclined his lips to hers.
The kiss was so sudden, so blindingly fantastic, she couldn’t catch her breath.
He lifted her onto the desk and spread her legs. He shoved his massive erection against her core.
She moaned. Her hands fell to his buckle. She fumbled with the belt clasp.
He seized her hands and placed them on his hips. Then, he ground against her, rolling his hips in slow, insistent circles.
“Lassi, you’ll be the death of me,” he murmured into her lips. His fingers found her waistband and he unbuttoned and unzipped her jeans. He slid his hand beneath her knickers and extended his middle finger between her legs. “Oh, Christ,” he muttered as he slid through her sweet silk.
“Oh, God,” she cried. “Get these off me.” She wriggled and pushed her jeans to the floor. “You’d better finish me this time, Cillian.”
“Or, what?” he said with a chuckle.
She yanked away his priestly collar and flung it across the room, not needing a visual reminder of her sins. Then, she quickly unbuttoned his shirt.
“Fecking hell,” she said, as she stared at his chest. You’re ripped. She ran her hands across his muscular chest, belly, and waist. The man was solid muscle and literally burning with heat.
He kept circling her clit with his finger, driving her crazy with lust.
Intense, almost unbearable sensations, built inside. She fell back against the desk, her head landing with a thud.
“Good Christ, I’m going to come so hard, Cillian.” She panted, thrusting against his touch.
A satisfied smile curved along his lips. And, as he studied her face, his eyes—those beautiful eyes, reminding her of sea and sun and mystery—split apart her soul.
“You’re beautiful, Lassi. Pure and unadulterated beauty.” He increased the pressure with his fingertips.
She slapped the desk with her palms. “Oh, God, Cillian. I can’t stop this.”
“Don’t stop, my love. Let go.” His fingers rolled around her clit with uncanny expertise. He rocked his rigid cock against the desk.
Her hips bucked against his hand. “That’s it. Right there. Right there.”
The words fell away into an ecstatic moan as she orgasmed, hard and sweet.
Cillian fell forward on top of her, pressing his forehead into hers. His hands supported him on either side of her face. The ginormous bulge between his legs pulsed against her throbbing core.
She closed her eyes and melted into the desk, his body, his hard-on, everything pressed into her. For a few seconds, she melted into bliss and breath.
Cillian stiffened, breaking the spell. He stayed in place but grew rigid against her.
Guilt whipped against her as strong as the ocean wind. She squeezed her eyes, not wanting him to see her or her to see him. She kept them closed, trying to make sense out of what happened. Only when her body began to cool, already missing him, did she spare a glance.
He stood with his broad back to her, buttoning his shirt. He tugged at his pants, presumably making room for whatever he was rocking in his down below.
She sat up, straightened her shirt, and smoothed her coat. Then, she hopped from the desk and retrieved her pants.
His hands propped on his hips, and he faced the open door. “I’ll walk you home,” he said. “It’s too dark for you to be out.”
“Fine,” she said, too embarrassed to protest. Once she’d buttoned her jeans, she said, “I’m ready.”
“Fine,” he said, not looking at her. “Me, too.” He gestured toward the office door. “After you.”
She slid past him, staring at the floor.
They walked silently through the shadowed nave, their footsteps echoing. When they reached the massive doors, he reached past her and easily pushed it open, holding it for her to exit.
Her brow furrowed slightly. Are you strong, or what? And, you certainly know what to do with your fingers. This isn’t your first rodeo, is it?
She brushed against him as she exited, a sizzle swirling through her from the contact.
They made their way through the town without talking.
When they got to her door, she said, softly, staring at the worn wood, “What are you going to do about the grave?”
“I’ll think about what you said. I need to think, pray, and sleep on it. Perhaps I’ll have a clearer head in the morning and can make a good decision about it.”
She turned, sliding against his solid body, coming face to face with him.
He lowered his head slightly, with parted lips, as if about to kiss her good night.
With her back against the door, words flew from her mouth. “About Ailis. That’s something. She was in the same place as Dylan. Waterford City. What are the odds? What do you make of it? Does that seem like a coincidence to you? Not to me. No, sir. I’ll bet she’s involved somehow. Dylan invited her to dinner, my ass. He loved Siobhan.”
Cillian seized her shoulders and kissed her hard, shutting her up.
She resisted the kiss of all of two seconds before matching the intensity.
He pulled her against him, wrapping his arms tightly around her.
Held secure in his grip, she melted into the kiss.
They stayed lip-locked for several soul-searing minutes. Lassi had never, not in her wildest musings or passionate explorations, experienced a kiss this intense.
Abruptly, he took her by the shoulders and urged her away.
The look on his face was so intense her knees quivered.
In a deep growl, he said, “Go inside, lock the doors, and lock the windows.”
“Okay,” she said, her eyebrows drawing together.
“Lock everything you can think of. Promise me,” he said urgently.
“I promise,” she said, her words sounding small and shaky. “You’re scaring me, Cillian.”
“I don’t mean to. I mean for you to be safe.” His fingers clutched her shoulders. “Will you do that?”
She nodded.
“Good girl. Don’t let anyone or anything into your house tonight, got it?”
“I...I... I’ve got it. I hear you. Locked tight, no one enters.”
“You promise me.” His fingers dug into her skin.
“I said I promised,” she snapped.
“Good girl,” he said again. He kissed the top of her head and gave her one last furtive look before turning to head up the hill.
Only when she was inside, every entrance or opening locked tight, boxes shoved against the doors, did the force of his words hit her.
“Did he say don’t let anything in? Not anybody, but anything?”
Her throat felt parched. She hurried to the kitchen, poured water into a glass without electrocuting herself, and inspected it. The water seemed clear enough. She took a couple of timid sips. Satisfied, she scurried down the hall, heading for her bedroom. Once inside, she slammed the door, placed the water on the floor, and then leaped on the bed, pulling the coverings around her. There would be no sleep for her tonight—not if she could help it. She didn’t want to find out what kind of thing Cillian meant. The only thing she could picture was a vampire—and those did not exist.