Priest (A Standalone Bad Boy Romance Love Story) (2 page)

“Sure,” I said. I would probably regret it
in the morning…or before.

CHAPTER
THREE

JACE

I moved to Lexington on Saturday and had
to attend church and be introduced to the congregation on Sunday. I woke up
Sunday morning with a raging hangover because I drank an entire bottle of
scotch Saturday night.

My intentions had been pure; I was only
going to have one drink. But one drink led to the other, and another. The truth
be told, the only reason I stopped drinking was because I ran out.

I had thought about going out for more,
but I was too drunk—and thank God I’d had the sense to realize that. Imagine
the headlines: “New Priest Arrested for Public Intoxication.” Grandmother would
be rolling over in her grave. That’s not to mention what the Good Lord was
thinking of me.

I still felt as if I was strong in my
faith. I definitely had the same fear of God that I’d had before. And of course,
I still loved, God even though I was still angry with him. I just hoped He
still loved me.

So Sunday morning, I woke up riding waves
of nausea that would have rivaled a tsunami. Miserable didn’t describe the
feelings that were tearing through my body. My head hurt so badly that my brain
felt as if it would swell beyond my skull’s capacity and cause it to explode. I
was so dehydrated that my mouth actually hurt. It was the only thing that got
me out of bed that day or I may have skipped Mass and called in sick.

I had to have a drink of water. I swung my
legs over the side of the bed and my feet were met with a cold, sticky floor. I
looked down and realized I’d left the bottle on the floor and the half an inch
or so of liquor left had seeped out and I was stepping in it. I was a pathetic
mess; if my grandmother could have seen me, she would have been so ashamed.

I finally made it to the kitchen for a
bottle of water and then to the shower. After my shower and a handful of
aspirin, I was feeling better. Not normal, but better. I dressed in a pair of
black slacks and a white button down shirt. I made sure my shoes were shiny and
my hair was combed respectfully. I used deodorant and mouthwash, and when I
walked into the vestry at St. Luke’s, I almost felt as if I belonged there. I
at least looked the part.

I was met there by the priest who had been
caring for the parish temporarily until I was put in place—Father Byrnes. The
other priest had just taken off, and as far as I knew, no one knew where he had
gone. I wondered briefly if his grandmother died, then I said a prayer for him
and one for me, too.

“We are so happy to have you here, Father
Jace.” Father Byrnes was a much older man and his hands felt like parchment
paper as he took one of mine between them.

“Thank you, Father Byrne. I’m happy to be
here.” I wasn’t lying. I’d really been excited to be a part of this parish. I
had heard great things about the people there and that they had an active
congregation, which I was looking forward to. The church held dinners and
dances to raise funds for parishioners in need. Whatever was leftover was given
to the Children’s Hospital. That hospital would be a regular stop for me every
week once I took over the parish. I loved kids, so I was looking forward to
that, as well.

But, then my grandmother died and I lost
my mind…and God help me, I couldn't stop drinking. I went through the motions
of Mass that Sunday with Father Byrne, and then I tolerated the meet and greet
with the congregation afterwards. They’d surprised me with a potluck, which was
good, I guess. I couldn’t really remember the last time I’d eaten anything of
substance.

It was excruciating, however, because as
nice as everyone was and as blessed as I knew I was to be there, all I wanted
to do was go back to my dark apartment and drink myself into another stupor. I
was so ashamed.

Monday’s hangover wasn’t quite as bad as
Sunday’s, and by Tuesday, I was actually getting good at maintaining my blood
alcohol level high enough to keep from getting the hangover at all.

The guilt ate away at me each time I began
to sober up, so I made sure that I didn’t. I knew I had to stop. I should have called
my brother, Father Byrne, or my Bishop in Boston. But each time I reached for
the phone, I thought about the shame I was about to bring on myself and I chose
instead to keep my binge a secret and deal with the Lord one on one about it.

I agreed to sit in for Father Byrne at
confession on Wednesday…and then on Thursday it would be my turn to confess and
I would have to make some hard decisions about what I was willing to say out
loud. But today it was Tuesday, so I decided to think about it later.

I wasn’t worried that I’d suddenly become
an alcoholic. Before all of this, a glass of wine once a week was the most I
ever drank. I didn’t crave alcohol and I didn’t even particularly like it.
There was just something about my grandmother’s death that triggered old
memories from when I was a kid…bad memories that I’d suppressed for a very long
time.

Grandma let us talk about them as much as
we needed to, but things were so warm, comfortable, and safe living with her
that we could soon put those feelings in a box and seal them. We didn’t have to
take them out and look at them unless we chose to.

I never chose to, but since Grandma died, I
was forced to. The alcohol helped me forget and it also numbed the pain that
came with losing her. I had so much repenting to do…on Thursday, but not until
then.

I was out of scotch.

I pulled on a t-shirt and jeans and ran my
fingers through my hair. Once I slipped on my black, leather boots I checked my
reflection. There was no sign on my forehead that said “Fallen Priest.” I
looked like any other thirty-one-year-old guy. I grabbed my keys and went in
search of a dark, quiet bar.

CHAPTER
FOUR

DAPHNE

I held onto his arm as we walked. The
night air was cool and refreshing, and I think I may have been sobering up…a
little bit. We hadn’t walked far before he stopped at a two-story house that
looked like it had been converted into walk-up apartments.

“This is me,” he said. “Would you like to
come in for a cup of coffee?”

“Oh no! I don’t…I mean, I…” I was suddenly
afraid that “coffee” didn’t mean “coffee.” I don’t do random hook-ups in bars,
but I was just drunk enough not to trust myself not to accept if he offered.

He laughed. “Coffee is the only thing on
my mind,” he said. “Trust me.” When he looked at me with those soft, warm,
green eyes, I did trust him. It might also be the four drinks on an empty
stomach.

“Okay, maybe a coffee before I head home.”

Famous last words.

“Good,” he said, unlocking the bottom
door. He let us in and we held onto each other and the wall as we made our way
up the stairs to the second floor.

The heat and feel of his body on the
narrow staircase overwhelmed all of my senses. If I’d had any left, I would
have gone home right then. When he let go of my arm to unlock his apartment
door, I was trembling.

He pushed the door open and said, “Welcome
to my humble abode. Excuse the mess; I’m just moving in.” I stepped inside and
looked around. There were boxes everywhere, but it wasn’t really a mess. It was
more of an organized chaos.

“Where are you moving in from?”
 

“Boston,” he said, making his way to the
small, open kitchen. I watched him make a pot of coffee. He filled out his
jeans so nicely.

“Oh,” I said, not telling him I’d just
moved from Boston, too. The next obvious question would be why and I was
definitely not going to discuss that with a stranger.

“I have to pee.” That was the second time
I’d spoken to this man about my bladder. That was another good reason for me to
never drink again.

He laughed. I really liked the sound of
it. I also loved the dimples and the little laugh lines around his eyes. “Follow
me,” he said.

He led me a few steps down a short hall
and we turned into what I could only assume was his bedroom. The bathroom was
through the bedroom. Strange set up—and convenient if you were trying to get
into a drunken girl’s pants.

I narrowed my eyes to let him know I was
onto him. Unfortunately, my bladder was too full to back out. I wobbled into
the bathroom and closed the door. There were still boxes on the counter in there,
too. I thought about snooping through them, but he was probably still standing
there waiting for me. I didn’t want to get caught.

I locked the door and pulled up my skirt.
I started to sit down and suddenly remembered my panties. I pulled those down
and sat. I did my business, washed my hands, and found the hot guy standing in
the same spot waiting for me. I’m not sure why, but I suddenly blurted out,

“I don’t usually drink!”

He smiled knowingly and stepped towards
me. “Neither do I,” he said. He was really close. Too close…yet, I didn’t want
him to back up…not even a little bit. “I don’t usually do this, either.”

Before I could respond, he’d dipped his
head down and our lips connected. He kissed me, tentatively at first, like he
was waiting for me to pull away, or slap him. I didn’t do either.

The feel of his lips as they brushed
across mine sent little jolts of electricity through me and started a fire in
my belly. I did just the opposite of pulling away—I leaned into it and kissed
him back. His lips were soft and full and tasted like sweet alcohol. I wanted
more.

I let my lips fall open and I felt his
tongue begin to probe my mouth. He tasted and licked and even sucked on my
tongue as I melted into him. His strong arms were the only thing holding me up
as my already woozy head became intoxicated by the touch and smell and taste of
him.

When he pulled back to catch his breath
and he looked at my face, I could see another chance for me to protest in his
eyes. I knew that I should. But I didn’t want to. I wanted him. I’d never felt
the kind of passion and need swelling up inside of me that I felt that night.

I moved back towards him, and this time
when our lips met, there was nothing at all tentative about it. This was a hot,
passionate kiss.

His hands were no longer content to sit
chastely on my waist. They were roaming the curves of my body causing me to
quiver all over. I wanted to feel them on my bare skin.

I wanted to feel him. I briefly wondered
if I should tell him that I was a virgin, but as his hands covered my breasts
and his fingers began to massage my nipples through my shirt, all rational
thought became a thing of the past. The decision to walk out of there without
my virginity was as good as cemented.

He ran his hands up to my face and cupped
it. Then he pulled out of the kiss and drew his thumb across my lips, tracing
the outline. It was intimate and sweet and they parted again of their own
accord, a desperate sign of my desire.

I had no idea what I was doing. I didn't
do this; I’ve never done this. I was just winging it. My body was driving me at
that point. It was instinct.

He actually wimpered when I took his thumb
between my lips. I brought my hand up and pressed the rest of his fingers to my
lips and starting with the little one, I pressed each slowly against my mouth
and kissed it, letting my mouth fall open a bit more with each one. He was
watching me in a drunken state of awe, silent.

When I finished with his fingers, I
pressed his open palm to my lips and drew them down to his wrist. I drew my
tongue down along his arm and he moaned. His head dropped back and closed his
eyes. I was encouraged, so I kept going. I licked back up the hard muscle of
his arm until I reached his hand again. I took his index finger into my mouth
and I sucked on it and then bit down very gently. His chest was heaving against
me as I gave his wrist one last kiss and let go. He opened his eyes and locked
them into mine.

“Dear God…” It was said in a reverent
whisper, and it caused my entire body to convulse. I had my hands pressed into
his hard chest now, and he was still staring at me. His eyes were a mixture of
lust, desire, and something else that I couldn’t quite figure out. Maybe it was
because I was drunk…maybe because I knew I would regret it myself…but he looked
a little bit guilty.

I fleetingly wondered if he was married,
but the thought was gone as he pulled me into him again and kissed me hungrily.
Kissed may not even be the right word. It was more like possession. He
possessed my mouth and devoured it as I willingly gave myself over to him.

I boldly slid my hands underneath his
t-shirt as we kissed and slowly moved it up his body. When it got to his arms,
he broke the kiss to pull it off over his head. The light from the moon was
shining in through the window, and he looked like he should be posing for the
cover of a romance novel.

His body was the most beautiful thing I’d
ever seen. Every muscle was hard and defined, like he’d been sculpted out of
concrete. I let my hands roam across his chest, and my fingers happily traced
the taut contours all the way down to the hard ripples of his abdomen.

“You’re beautiful,” I breathed out before
I even realized I was speaking. He smiled, proving my point. He reached up and
ran his hands through my long, blonde hair.

Then he put his mouth close to my ear and
whispered, “No, you’re the one who is beautiful.” The feel of his warm breath
and the vibrations of his voice sent goosebumps racing down my arms and my
spine.

I stood on my tip toes and kissed him again.
This kiss was even harder and more urgent. His teeth scraped along the outside
of my bottom lip, and I whimpered.

He slid his hands down my sides then and around
behind me, placing one on each cheek of my round butt, squeezing and massaging
lightly through my skirt.

I was on auto-pilot. I reached up and
unhooked the button on the side of it. It slid down and he moved his warm
hands, letting it fall to the floor around my ankles. I gasped when I felt the
heat of his hands on my waist underneath my blouse. He pushed it up and I
pulled back slightly and raised my arms so that he could get it over my head.

His eyes roamed my body then, like a man
who had been stranded alone on an island…or imprisoned only with other men. It
was like I was the first woman he’d laid eyes on in quite some time.