Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91847 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91847 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Santos nods and I get the feeling coming here is exactly what he needs. But the thought worries me more now than it did at the house. Something has happened, and it’s not good.
After Father Michael leaves, Santos carries our duffel bag to the bedroom and shows me around.
“I hope you don’t mind the simple accommodation,” he says.
“It’s perfect. I love it.”
He smiles, pleased. “Good.”
“Let me just let Odin know where I am,” I say, thinking to send him a quick text.
“Ah,” Santos says with a grin. “That’s part of the beauty of Hells Bells. No cell service.”
“What?”
“You can use the land line at the rectory. If you can find the phone, that is. Father Michael has a habit of hiding it away. There isn’t enough quiet left in the world according to him.”
“There’s some truth to that. Has he always been a priest?” I ask because that scar on his face tells a different story.
Santos studies me. He shakes his head. “He took vows about ten years ago. Before that, well, let’s just say he has his history. But he found God.”
My stomach growls and although I want to know more, I see Santos is relieved not to have to talk about it.
“You’re hungry. Let’s go eat. You can call Odin tomorrow.” He takes my hand, and we walk down to the kitchen together. Once there, he tells me to sit down, and I watch as he takes the pie out of the oven and sets it on the mat in the middle of the small, round table with its two chairs. There is an opened bottle of wine and two glasses.
“Would you like some wine?” he asks me.
“You’re not drinking, are you?”
“No. But you can, Madelena.”
“I’m fine. Water is okay. Sit with me.”
He does and serves me then himself. I watch him take his first bite.
“You don’t strike me as a chicken pot pie lover,” I say, eating my first forkful and closing my eyes as I savor the perfect texture and rich flavor.
“Mary makes the best. Father Michael used to get me my own pie for dinner when I’d come. Best comfort food anywhere.”
And he needs comfort. I can see it. “Did you used to come here a lot?”
He’s quiet, face darkening. “Not a lot, but when we were up north.”
“We?”
“The Commander.” A shadow falls over his features. “I ran into Father Michael one night when I was out on the beach after a particularly bad event. I was drunk. Being an idiot.”
“An idiot how?”
He polishes off his pie then looks at me. “Wading into the water in winter.”
“Santos—”
“If he’d found me even a few minutes later, I would have died.”
I reach to take his hand, hot tears filling my eyes. I lose my appetite at the sight of him like this.
“What’s happened?” I ask quietly when he drops his napkin on top of his dish and pushes it away.
He shakes his head looking too sad and I get up, pulling him up with me. Without a word, I lead him up the stairs and into the bedroom, where I peel away his clothes and mine and we get into the bed. I don’t put on any lights. The curtains aren’t drawn, and moonlights shines in on us. We lie together listening to the wind and the waves while I hold him, and he holds me.
He’s distant, his mind on something I don’t know. So I take his face in my hands, feel the scruff of his overgrowing five o’clock shadow and kiss him. The kisses are soft at first but as they grow heated, as I feel him harden, I push the blanket away and climb on top of him. His grip on me changes and our kiss grows hungrier. He draws me back to look at my face for a moment, then slides his hands down over my naked body to my hips, to guide me onto himself. He looks at me as he sheathes himself in me and I sit up, straddling him, my hands on his chest as I grind myself into him.
“Fuck, Madelena. You’re so perfect, you know that?” he asks, moving me along his length before winding one hand into my hair, wrapping it around his first and pulling me down onto himself. “Fucking perfect,” he says, shifting our position so he’s on top of me, fucking me deep and slow. We’re so close, closer than any two people can be, I think, with him inside me, his weight on me, our eyes open as we watch each other, see each other in this, our most vulnerable moments. “So perfect,” he mutters as his lovemaking morphs into something harder, darker.
He spreads my arms across the bed and weaves his fingers with mine and I glance at the oversized rosary hanging over the bed. His gaze follows mine and he looks up at it, too, and there’s another shift in his expression, a different sort of darkening.