Page 16 of Dark Side of the Cloth

Dean knelt in front of her the same way he had at Mabel’s, and she immediately regretted her outburst.

“I must look like a complete wreck.” She wrung the tissue in her hands. Dean reached out and took her hands in his own, giving them a gentle squeeze. She slowly looked up into his eyes, which seemed to switch from honey to hazel with his moods. They captivated her. Truthfully everything about him captivated her, but he was forbidden. God help her, but that only seemed to spur her feelings on more.

“You’re beautiful. You could never be anything but.” Dean reached up, wiping the tears from her cheek. She couldn’t help the little shiver that traveled through her body at the simple touch. “Don’t ever apologize for caring. I love that you are so passionate.”

“What was done to them is terrible, but it’s—bringing up old memories. I’ll be fine. I just need a few moments to collect myself. Thank you for letting me cry all over you.”

She reached out and wiped at the large wet spot she had created on the front of his robes. “Look what I did.”

Dean grabbed her wrist and ever so slowly brought it to his lips. She was powerless to quiet the beating of her heart or the explosion that felt like a million hummingbirds fluttering in her stomach. His lush, oh so kissable lips gently touched over her racing pulse, her body as hot as if she was laying out in the midday summer sun. Wiggling in her seat, she needed to put some distance between them before she did something she’d regret. Standing too quickly, she stumbled over her own feet. Dean wrapped his arm around her waist and rose to his full height.

Another shuddering breath left her lips as she stared up into his eyes, all too aware of his fingertips as they skimmed up her ribcage and the heat pressing into her from his body. She was suddenly very hot and wet—it was as if she were melting in his grasp.

Yasmine opened her mouth and ran her tongue across her bottom lip. She didn’t even care that she looked like she was begging him to kiss her. She would throw away every moral she had for one night with this man. Dean cupped her face, his lips hovering just above hers. Yasmine closed her eyes, hardly able to believe this was happening. She clung to the front of his robes, or she would not have stayed vertical. She didn’t dare move, not wanting to scare him off. Her heart fluttered as Dean’s lips skimmed her own, an electrical shock racing through her body at the light touch.

She wanted to grab his head, deepen the kiss, and devourer the taste of him.

“I’m sorry, Yasmine, I just can’t,” Dean whispered in her ear, his voice warm and ragged.

It took a moment to register what he’d said, but as he took a small step back and opened her eyes to stare into his concerned ones. Like an ice-cold rain, humiliation washed over her and left her freezing in its wake. How could she have been so stupid to think a priest, a man of the cloth, would throw all that away just to kiss her?

It was a ridiculous thought that he felt the same way as she did—she recognized at that moment that her mind was building up his actions as more than what they were intended to be. Heat flushed her body and replaced the cold as shame took over.

“I…I…excuse me.” Yasmine darted for the bathroom, closing and locking the door behind her. She laid her head against the cool wood. Fresh tears trickled from her eyes as the torrent of emotions made her their victim once more.

The death of Raquel had changed her in ways that she couldn’t put into words. Her mother committing suicide, and going to her grave believing that Yasmine had been the cause of Raquel’s demise, was more emotionally traumatizing than she realized.

That was until one day she woke up and didn’t care if she lived or died.

She’d stared into the mirror and reflected on all she was and wasn’t. She had no friends except Mabel. Then, when she went to college, she kept her grades up and slept with men to try and feel anything because anything was better than the aching loneliness that had slowly blanketed her until she had become consumed by it.

Coming home for her father’s funeral had been a step to face her inner demons, and she thought she was failing at that until Father O’Sullivan came to town. She felt alive for the first time, her body burning with emotion and desire. The feelings were beyond her comprehension. But the joke was on her because he was a man that she couldn’t have. A man that she would never have. Once more, the world and God laughed in her face, but she didn’t understand what she’d done to earn their wrath.

What was wrong with her?

Dean cursed as he grudgingly ascended the stairs to the main parlor of the funeral home. He needed to leave. He’d almost crossed the line again—the woman had some sort of bewitching hold over him. It was like he was starved for her touch. The slightest contact from her left his impeccable control almost non-existent. Yes, she had the most sensual lips that begged to be ravished, and yes, she had beautiful green eyes that sucked you into their depths and screamed she wanted to be fucked. Hell, even her shy, quiet nature mixed with her wild ginger hair stirred the beast in his pants. He’d had sex with many gorgeous women over his life, but this one—he just couldn’t put his finger on what drew him to her.

Hand on the front door, he paused and closed his eyes, and shuddered as the sensation of her small body shaking against his flowed through him. He’d instinctively wrapped her up in his arms to cry, and it had felt right like that was what he was meant to do.

He shook his head.

The emotions were confusing and difficult to sift through.

What did he know of love? He knew pain and abuse, he knew hatred and rage, and of course, he knew of loyalty and friendship, but love?

When it became obvious Yasmine was going to stay locked in the bathroom until he left, he decided to give her the privacy she wanted. He couldn’t stand to see her cry or to see her in pain because, in a way, her pain was over something he’d done.

Finally, Dean yanked open the door and stomped out of the funeral home. Feeling eyes on him, he turned to look up at the old Victorian-style home. The curtain in Yasmine’s room moved slightly, and when he smiled up at the window, the curtain promptly slid back into place. A gnawing ache throbbed in his chest as his eyes took in the large home. It had been converted and added onto until it was the fixture in the community it was today, but the warmth and care that emanated from that place—it was all about her, not the grandeur of it.

The good mood that had accompanied his kill and victory over a sexual predator quickly evaporated. As Dean meandered along the sidewalk, his gaze cast down at the skiff of snow. He didn’t mind the cool winter’s bite as it blew his long robes around his legs. He’d witnessed enough heat, sand, and sunburn for multiple lifetimes.

“Well, good morning Father O’Sullivan, and what a lovely morning it is,” Whitney’s all too bubbly voice broke his deep concentration.

He looked up and internally groaned. She was blocking his path. Her bright red lips smiled, showing perfect teeth, and the woman’s equally perfect black curls surrounded a face that had won her many in bed. The distracting curls comically bounced like miniature coils in the wind.

This woman was a sinner of another sort. The perpetual adulterer was on his list—if it weren’t for his little black book, he would’ve lost count of how many times she sat in his confessional. She always gave way more detail of her escapades than was necessary, and it didn’t take much for him to conclude she was trying to seduce him with her dirty talk.

On more than one occasion, she found reason to strip down to practically her underwear in the small booth. He couldn’t deny he’d been tempted to take her up on the offer to slip between her legs, but that would blow his cover, and she wasn’t worth the hassle.