There he is. The man that controls my life right now. The man I should want to push off the stony cliff outside my window.
But, I don’t.
“Twelve minutes late.” He nods, looking at his wrist where I see the hint of blue tattoos showing just under the cuff of his white shirt.
That view makes my toes curl. Just a little.
He’s out of the suit he wore at the airport and instead is wearing a floor length black robe with black fabric buttons down the front, a gold cord draped over his shoulders and a different sort of white collar that shows off his Adam’s apple and a bit more of the ink that is hidden below his neckline.
“It’s your first day, I’m sure you are tired and out of sorts. But, being punctual is important, Kitty. It shows you value your own time and that you respect mine.”
I swallow against the tightness in my throat.
I should have changed my underwear at least.
So I could ruin another pair?
“Well, it’s not like you have a line of wayward youth beating down your office door. Your schedule seems open.” I click my tongue on the roof of my mouth.
Stay in control. Keep the defenses up.
He stands from behind his desk and I swear, my ovaries flex.
“Come,” he says, ignoring my snarky comment as he extends his arm toward the session room he pointed out when he showed me around earlier. “You brought the notebook and pen like you were told. Pleases me.”
Pleases me.
Why does that hit me in the center of my chest? Why do I care if he’s pleased or not?
Slick warmth spreads between my thighs, and I make a mental note to ask where the laundry facilities are, because I’m going to be doing a lot of panty washing if this nonsense keeps up.
As we enter the adjacent room, his body radiates heat. I feel it as I pass by on my way to the worn velvet sofa, across from a Mini Cooper sized cut stone fireplace where a small stack of logs is crackling and sparking, making this room warmer than the chill of the hallways and office.
“Sit where you like,” he says as the door clicks closed behind me, then out of the corner of my eye I see him move closer, like a floating phantom with his robe brushing the tips of his black shoes on each smooth step.
I decide on the sofa. It looks soft and there’s a few pillows. I decide I need to make sure I’m not powerless in this whole deal, so as Father Martin turns his back, grabbing a wrought iron poker and tending to the fire for a moment, I tap on my phone screen, swiping on the audio recording app, then stuff the phone half hidden behind one of the pillows.
I’m not sure what my plan is here, but making sure I have some collateral seems smart.
His black eyes grab mine as he turns, the hem of his robe widening in a draping circle.
He takes his time as he heads for the little sitting area in front of the fireplace, lowering himself into a carved wooden chair with red velvet cushions that match the sofa, then crosses his legs, drumming his fingers on the carved lionheads that roar at me from the ends of the armrests.
I hold the journal up from my lap as I lower my butt toward the sofa next to the phone, hidden behind its pillow. “So, what’s this for? Am I here to take dic-tation?”
My forwardness spills from me in a mix of spite and hopefulness. I nip at my lip, taking in the sight of him in the throne-like chair. Light from the window behind gives him an ethereal glow as he shifts in the seat, a grimace of discomfort lashing across his stone-cut face. I thrust my chest forward, nearly missing the sofa as I sit, more focused on his lap than where my butt is going. I fall forward, dropping the journal and pen as I squeak and right myself with my hand on the edge of a thick wooden table, crossing my ankles like I intended to do a bend and snap but failed miserably.
When I look, he’s leaning forward, concern brimming in his eyes. “Are you okay, Kitty?”
He’s halfway off the chair as I gather up the journal and pen, waving him off, holding it like a shield between us. “I’m good,” I manage, averting my eyes because every time I take him in, I feel like I’m falling.
Which, I almost did.
He settles back into the chair as my gaze skitters over the hardness of his jawline then down the front of his black robe. Do priests wear anything underneath? He raises his hands, pressing the palms together and rubbing them as his elbows rest behind the lion heads. As he considers me, my knees press together in an attempt to stem the tide of desire I seem helpless to control.
“Why are you here?” he asks.
I squint on a huff. “You asked me that in the car already.”
“I’d like you to tell me again.”
I leave the journal on my thighs, the pen resting on top as I turn my palms upward in a ‘what the heck’ gesture. “Same as it was earlier. I don’t want to be here, but I’m here, so if you’re just going to keep asking me that, it’s going to be a long thirty days. Or, however long my reservation at Chez Margaret’s is.”
He nods, clearing his throat, not a flash of distress in his dark features. “It could be a productive thirty days if you’ll let down your guard. I’m here for you, Kitty. I think we can at least agree, your life was not on the path you would consider ideal. Can we agree on that?”
I nod, wishing I could say otherwise but I don’t see the point. There’s something about him that simultaneously has my libido turned up to ten while making me feel comfortable and unjudged.
I have a vision of me sitting on his lap, his hand wrapped around my head so it’s tucked into his chest as I confess all my sins, my hopes, my dreams, my sadness as he stokes my hair. Somehow, I know, he’s going to fix all the broken things in my life.
Including me.
Stop. Focus. Don’t let him lead the way. You have a plan here, stick to it. Get some dirt on him so you can have some leverage. Just in case.
“Well, if you are going to be here anyway, why wouldn’t you want to get the most out of it?” The toe of his shoe moves up and down in slow, hypnotic waves, crossed over his other leg so that it points my way. I catch sight of the cuff of his dark trousers under the robe, killing my dirty dream that he’s commando under all that black fabric.
Stick to the plan.
“You’re right. I should get the most out of it.” I shift my body a quarter turn so my ass raises from the cushion, my shorts riding up with the friction from the velvet into the crack of my rear end.
“That’s a girl,” he says and that minute hint of approval tugs at some magical part of me I didn’t know I had. “Your journal is going to be important here. It’s a safe place where you can share anything with me without repercussions. It’s between us alone. I’m bound by our fiduciary relationship to keep everything we discuss confidential. I’m your safe place, Kitty.”
His breathing seems a tad rushed and unsteady as my heartbeat kicks around in my chest. I push my tits forward, knowing my nipples are praising Jesus right now as the seam of my stretchy yoga slash booty shorts soaks through. I clench my inner muscles, desperate for the rising tide inside me to crest.
“I believe you,” I say in my most sultry voice, trying to focus on my plan. I bite my tongue between my front teeth on an innocent sigh. “I need a safe place.”
I think he starts to groan but instead coughs, adjusting himself in the throne chair, covering his mouth with those long, incredible fingers before continuing. “I will give you an assignment at the end of each session. Something I want you to write about—not talk about, but write about. Then, you’ll leave your journal with me at breakfast, and I’ll write in it also. Giving you my thoughts on whatever it is you wrote.”
“Do you do this with all the girls that come here?” Jealousy prickles over my skin. This journal exercise feels astonishingly intimate and it’s ridiculous, but I want this to be special. Only for us.
What do I care about the other girls? Good gravy, he’s a priest, Kitty. Nothing is happening here besides some hormonal bi-polar disorder I developed on the flight from Orlando to Cape Highsmith, Maine.
“Some. But not like this. I want to know about you, Kitty.” The way he says it makes me feel seen and heard in a way I haven’t since my dad passed away. “Not this version of you you think will either attract men or repel them. It’s a costume, it’s not you, is it?”
I’m torn between wanting to tell him to fuck off and caving, confessing my sins and my dreams and letting him pick up the pieces and weave me back into the girl I thought I would be, not what I’ve become.
“You sound like my stepfather.” I harden, remembering how Hoover always said how I dressed made me look like a slutty clown.
“Hoover?” Our eyes clash in the heat from the fireplace that wavers between us, sweat prickling under my boobs and down my back. “I assure you, I am not your stepfather.”
Something crosses over his features, but it’s unreadable. “Yeah, but he’s the one that sent me here. You must have talked to him.”
“Yes, early this morning.”
“I guess you know each other.” I narrow my gaze as he flicks his eyes to the fire.
“Enough only to have him trust me with your care. He and I have spent time together in the past. He knew you would be safe here with me and that possibly I could help you.”
Safe. Help.
Hoover’s never cared about me being safe or helped. Just quiet. Or gone.
“Trust takes time,” I mumble, wanting to believe him as my heart launches into hopeful flight.
“I’ll work my hardest to make that time as short as possible.”
God, why does he have to talk like that? Why does he have to look like that?
I mean, I’ve kissed three boys in my life. Well, two boys and a man. And none of them were memorable in any positive way. The first one barely counts. It was third grade and Jimmy Feilmeister who was in fifth grade asked me to dance at the Harvest Festival. I was a kid, for heck sake, I didn’t know the moment he got me out in the middle of the dancefloor he’d turn into the tongue monster. I went crying into the girls room where I hid in the last stall until my father came looking for me when I wasn’t outside waiting for him at the end of the night.
Then, there’s Hank.
I didn’t like him, really. But he poured on the attention and when I finally leaned in for that beer-soaked first kiss… Well, it was a cavern of open lips, extended tongue and more saliva than should ever be involved.
The third kiss, that was the cherry on top of last night and until right this second, I don’t think I allowed myself to honestly put together the pieces of the horror show that could have been.
It wasn’t the kind of kiss you swoon over in your diary or with your girlfriends. More the kind you should write in a police report. I didn’t tell anyone I was with what happened.
Not even Hank. For all his moral ambiguity, he never tried to force anything on me. But, he wasn’t overly protective either.
I remember falling into the cinderblock wall, spilling margarita number seven all over my boots, slurring I needed to find the bathroom.
I hear Hoover’s voice in my head. Dress like you’re offering a free meal and don’t be surprised when someone shows up to eat.
I shake away the fuzzy memory of the filthy bathroom in the basement of the afterhours club on the wrong side of the wrong side of town. Somehow, that wasn’t the worst thing that happened to me yesterday. The worst thing was coming home to find that my new stepfather took my cat away and I have no idea where she’s gone. Or if she’s safe. Or if there’s any way I’ll ever get her back or even see her again.
For a moment, a thick wave of guilt settles on my shoulders remembering the phone by my hip that’s recording everything.
Father Martin lightly scratches at his lower lips with his thumb, his gaze flickering from my face to my chest, lower, lower, then licks its way back up leaving a trail of quivering tension in its wake.
“What do you want to talk about, Kitty?”
I lift a shoulder to my ear, rearranging myself, uncrossing my legs, recrossing them, giving him a view of my other butt cheek as I sniff and debate which way to take the rest of our ‘session’.
“You’re the boss. You tell me.”
He answers with a slow blink, hands unmoving, gaze pinned on me as I start to break into a flop sweat.
He’s…unflappable.
And infuriating.
I count to ten, panic prickling over my skin as he waits.
And I crack.
“Sex,” I blurt out, expecting him to wobble in his seat, gasp or set his jaw in anger.
He does none of those. Just…holds my eyes with his and I’m melting into the velvet seat, crossing and uncrossing my arms and my ankles until I think my skin is about to flay from my body.
Kill me now. I have no game.
Whatever this plan is, it’s got holes in it bigger than the Grand Canyon.
He sits there in all that sexy silence. Then shows me the most heavenly smile. It’s sexy, sure, but not like lecherous. Not condescending. I tuck my hair behind my ears, then wind my fingers together in front of my lips lest they vomit out more awkward revelry.
“That’s a deep, broad, enticing subject.” His voice is liquid flame nipping at the gasoline that’s been spritzed over my skin. He reaches for my journal, taking it in one hand, the pen in the other.
He lowers his eyes as he slips the lid from the thick pen and starts writing on the first page. I count to ten. Twenty. Thirty.
How is he so calm about everything?
“What are you writing? About sex?”
He shakes his head, uncrossing his legs, laying the journal back on the table. “No. Just writing down my first assignment for you. Two questions. Make sure you answer them by our afternoon session tomorrow. After your morning chores and studies, we will meet here again and I’ll go over the rules.”
“I have chores? And studies? And rules?” I narrow my eyes, trying to get a read on him.
He meets my gaze steadily, his diamond black eyes unwavering. It feels like it lasts forever, like I’m more at home falling into his eyes than anywhere else in the world. “Chores and studies are important. Routine is important. Discipline is important. Don’t for one second think I’m expecting something of you that I do not expect of myself. I have chores and studies of my own.” His words might sound authoritarian, but he smiles. “But if you didn’t have chores and studies, what would you do with that time?”
I shrug. What else would I want to do? Right now, I’m not sure.
“Something to think on then,” he says kindly.
“It’s just… I’m not stupid,” I tell him. “Believe it or not, I was a straight-A student until…”
My voice trails off. Until my mom married Hoover, I want to say, but how do I say it without sounding like I’m shifting blame onto someone else for my own fuck ups?
“I believe it,” he says without any hint of sarcasm. “What’s your favorite subject?”
“Science. Chemistry.”
He tips his head with an upward tick in the corner of his lips, and he lets out a deep laugh that connects with parts of me I didn’t even know I had until I met him. “Mine too, Kitty. I teach chemistry and some of the other science classes here when we have students. Tomorrow afternoon, we’ll blow some shit up, how about that? In my chemistry lab, I mean.”
I stare, dumbfounded.
Did he just say blow some shit up? Like he’s some sexy action hero not a member of the Catholic clergy?
I find myself nodding before I’ve even formed an answer, and my panties take a hit.
Turned On By The Bad Boy Chemistry Headmaster: The Kitty Tennant Story.
“Yes,” I croak, my hand going to my throat as I try to remember how to breathe. So much has happened in the last 24 hours. My mouth is dry, my body tingling. I need a moment away. Away from him before I word vomit something I can’t take back. “Can I… I mean, may I use the restroom?”
Again, he stares at me, and I imagine him making me wait. Making me beg. Making me…
Oh, God. Please. This isn’t happening.
“Of course, Kitty.”
I’m up off my seat and out of the door so fast I don’t even remember crossing the room. As soon as I’m out in the corridor I gasp like I’ve just resurfaced after freediving, which would be ridiculous since I can’t swim and being under the water is my worst nightmare. I run a hand through my hair, tugging it back as I moan at the lasting image of him imprinted on my brain.
What. The. Heck. Is. Happening. To. Me?
I need to find some calm. I need to find some focus.
I need to find out who the hell I am right now.
