Beautiful Sinner: a standalone forbidden romance

by Sara Cate

  “You’re right. I was jealous.”

  I don’t look her in the eye as I say it, and I’m sure she’s asking herself what or who I’m jealous of, but she’ll have to keep wondering because I leave her with that as I drive away.

  Thirteen

  Cadence

  Bridget lets me have the rest of the day off. I didn’t even tell her anything about what happened, but I also haven’t taken a proper day off since I arrived, so after a long hot shower and a fresh pair of clothes, I start to feel refreshed, like the rain and a good cry were enough to cleanse the heavy emotions dragging me down.

  The weather clears up by the time I get dressed, and I start walking around town with nowhere in mind. I walk to think about Callum. I think about how badly his words hurt last night. How talking to him feels too much like looking in a mirror, the kind I don’t want to see. I think about how cold and harsh he can be.

  Then I think about how it felt to be engulfed in his arms, even while I bawled my eyes out. He smelled like tobacco and cotton. And him. He smelled like him.

  Less than twenty-four hours after I was naked with Taron, and I’m thinking about another man. But in my defense, I was thinking about Callum before, during, and after every moment with Taron. And I knew he was a drifter, only in my life for a quick moment, and unlike the rest of the guys I find myself with, I didn’t picture a future with Taron. I pictured sex, and while we had the sex, I pictured it was someone else towering over me. Someone else’s breath in my ear and hands on my body.

  When I cried out the loudest, it was because my mind would deceive my body and I would believe for a moment that he was really there, inside me.

  After a long, aimless walk, I find myself at the church again. There are voices coming from inside, but it’s not a service. As I walk in, I’m met with the vision of Callum holding a baby dressed in white, cradled in his arms. The woman who I presume is the baby’s mother snaps pictures while the father stands next to Callum.

  My heart swells at the sight. His rough, large hands holding the infant with such tenderness does something to my insides. When he looks up, his eyes meet mine. I’m mixed with warmth and regret as I watch him pass the baby back to its mother. It’s like I’m reminded that Callum is a religious man; he doesn’t just play the part. He is a man with values, family values, and if he knew the things I’d done in my past...

  I know myself well enough to know my aimless walk wasn’t for nothing. I came here to be near him in any capacity. But even if he wasn’t a priest, he and I would never work. We’re too different.

  He walks the family to the door and I make a quiet, polite greeting to them as they pass. Then, I make my way into the church, soaking up the calming presence it promises.

  Walking down the aisle toward the altar, I stare up at the art and stained glass windows. I wonder what it feels like to be like Callum, to have so much faith in something bigger than yourself. To believe with your whole heart that everything is in God’s hands.

  I could stand here in this peace and quiet all day, but suddenly, I hear oncoming footsteps, and I freeze when he enters the room. He’s in his black button-up and slacks. The white collar around his neck reminds me what I said to him this morning. That he hides behind it because it’s the only way he avoids being alone. The regret I feel for saying that is real, but I didn’t take it back because it was true.

  There’s something different about Callum here. He seems more at peace and more comfortable. Less miserable. This truly is where he belongs.

  Further proof that I need to just move on and forget about him.

  “It’s relaxing in here, isn’t it?” he murmurs.

  Solemnly, I nod. “Mind if I hang out here for a while?”

  He answers my question with a question. “Want some tea?”

  “Sure,” I reply even though I don’t even like tea. I just don’t have anywhere else to go. I’m drawn to him, and I don’t understand why. I could be at Yeager’s or in my room bingeing something on Netflix, but I’d rather be here. In a church with the guy who has been nothing but mean to me.

  I follow him back to his office. “Have a seat,” he says, gesturing to the velvet chaise against the wall. It’s soft, like really soft, and so inviting. I can’t help but rest my head against the arm and sink into the deep blue pillows. When he walks back in, I jolt upright.

  “No, relax. I’ve slept on that thing so many times. It’s like a cloud.”

  He takes a seat at his desk across the small room, and I let the chaise swallow me up again as I lay back down. The room grows silent as he works and I watch him. My eyes travel around every inch of the room, wondering if he inherited this office with its golden bronze statue of Mary or if he chose it. Pretty soon, it starts to feel comfortable, just being alone and silent together. The only sound is the click-clacking of his keyboard as he types. I notice the way he chews on his bottom lip as he writes, and how the bright computer screen brings out the emerald in his eyes.

  After just one yawn, I feel myself drifting. This is the most relaxed I’ve been since I got here—or possibly ever.

  “Cadence?” Callum’s voice seeps through my dark and empty dream, but his tone is softer and more gentle than usual. When I peel my eyes open, he’s standing over me, all in black covered in warm light.

  “We should head back for dinner.”

  “How long did I sleep?”

  “Almost two hours.” He reaches a hand down to help me up, and as I slide my palm against his, I register how good it feels to touch him. My mind can’t process anything more than that: not the cruel man from last night, or the comforting friend this morning. Just that touching him feels nice.

  As we walk back together, I feel like there’s a tether between us. The peaceful feeling I felt in the church stays with us. We don’t talk, and it’s a comfortable silence.

  Bridget is busy in the kitchen when we come in. Daisy is setting the table. There are guests today, but they’re not joining us for dinner.

  Callum goes upstairs, and I help out in the dining room. When he comes back down, he’s not in black anymore, and I can’t help but feel a little disappointed. He still looks pretty hot in his tight-fitting T-shirt and jeans, but I like the look of him in black and that collar around his neck.

  Then he does something he never does at home. He makes himself a drink. I hear the ice clinking in the parlor and a moment later he emerges with a short glass of ice and amber liquid.

  I’m looking too much into it. I know I am. Like maybe he’s trying to loosen his own rules. Maybe he wants to relax enough to do something stupid. Liquid courage.

  I shake my head at him with a smile pressed between my tight lips. He gives me absolutely no response which is the typical Callum response. And it’s not good enough for me. Walking over to him, I take the glass and raise it to my lips, keeping my eyes on him as the whiskey attacks my tastebuds.

  He almost laughs when I react with a pained expression. The alcohol burns my throat.

  As Bridget comes out of the kitchen, I realize we’re standing toe-to-toe, and she’s looking at us with suspicion, so I step away.

  Callum clears his throat. “I’ll fix you one, but I’ll water it down.” Then, he swiftly turns away and walks back to the parlor where the liquor is kept. I still feel Bridget’s eyes on me as I help her bring dinner out.

  I manage to drink half during dinner, and by the time we’re clearing the table, I’m feeling warm and buzzed. Callum is too. I can tell by the fact that he nearly laughs, not once, but twice. It’s a low-pitched and gravelly chuckle that comes deep from his chest.

  Daisy rolls her eyes at us and goes to her room after everything is cleaned up and put away. Bridget is not far behind her. I’m not ready to go to bed yet. The night feels full of promise. Promise of what, I don’t know.

  Callum finds me in the parlor alone, and I’m sitting on the floor in front of the large coffee table. They keep a stack of board games in the bookshelf, and I pull out an old
version of Battleship and put it on the table.

  “Play with me, preacher man.”

  He doesn’t say anything, just shakes his head and sits on the couch opposite me. He keeps his knees spread and props his elbows on his legs, leaning forward with his glass.

  “Need some more?” He gestures to my glass, and I pretend to consider it for a moment before finally nodding. We’re playing with fire right now.

  I set up the game while he goes to the bar. There’s a reflection of him in the dark glass with the rolling waves on the other side. I watch him, the muscles in his back and strands of gray in his light curls. I want to run my fingers along his scalp. I want all the things I can’t have.

  When he sits back down, he looks down at me with narrowed eyes. There’s something on his mind.

  “What?”

  “Every time I get a hit, you have to drink,” he says.

  “That sounds like a drinking game.” I can’t help but laugh. My legs are folded up beneath me, and I realize that I’m feeling nervous. What is happening to me? Just last night I was with Taron, but Callum is acting weird.

  “It is a drinking game,” he answers.

  “Priests can’t play drinking games.” I have to bite my lip to ease the smile that’s threatening to stretch from ear-to-ear.

  He leans forward, grabbing his battleships from the box and leveling me with his stare. “Watch me.”

  Naturally, he kicks my ass in the game. My throat is actually getting used to the whiskey, but the room is starting to sway and I lose the game easily because I keep forgetting what spots I already called. He finishes his drink anyway and laughs at me as I rest against the chair behind me.

  “What a lightweight,” he mutters with a hint of a smile. I like what the whiskey does to him. For a moment I get lost in the dimples piercing his cheeks and the way his gentle accent attacks my gut with warm sparks. I stare at him from the floor, and I realize that in some sort of way, Callum is already mine.

  Not like a sexual, boyfriend way, but he doesn’t talk to anyone like he talks to me. Outside of the church, he doesn’t talk to anyone at all, and I wonder if anyone else gets the real version of him like I do.

  I made a mistake sleeping with Taron. I know that now. Sure, Callum has no ownership over me, but I blatantly disregarded what we have, even if it’s not a romantic relationship, and I rubbed it in his face. I don’t blame him for his anger now. I still hate that he called me a slut, but what would I have called him if he took another woman home in front of me?

  It’s only been a month, and already, it feels like there is a tether holding us together. Even if we can’t do anything about it.

  A month.

  Something dawns on me, so I grab my phone and check the time and date.

  Holy shit. It’s the 23rd.

  “Hey Callum…”

  “Yes, Cadence…” he mocks.

  “Do I still work here?”

  His brow knots as he stares down at me, waiting for me to clarify.

  “Of course you do.”

  I jump to my feet with a squeal and raise my arms over my head. “Yes!”

  “What the bloody hell has gotten into you?”

  “It’s over thirty days. My trial is over and I still work here. I did it!”

  The sudden pride is overwhelming, and I almost want to cry. In these six weeks, I’ve learned to care for a horse, drive a stick shift, and fix a toilet. I got a work visa in a foreign country and I haven’t seen a pedicure or a shopping center in over a month. I feel like a new person.

  Callum shakes his head. “Okay, I guess you got me there. You did it.”

  I can’t help myself, and I throw my arms around his neck. He stands a good head taller than me, so I’m pressed against his body, my face close to his neck. Slowly, I feel his hands wrap around my waist. He squeezes me closer, and something in me breaks.

  God may have earned his vows, but I feel what’s in this hug, and he’s not entirely loyal to the one he gave his life to. He’s mine.

  Fourteen

  Callum

  Lying awake that night, I can’t stop thinking about that hug. It was the second time I had her in my arms today. Just last night she was with that kid, but something has definitely changed since then. When I held her this morning, it was for comfort. But just now...that hug was loaded.

  She was squeezing me around the neck, her breasts pressed up against my chest. I felt her hips on mine and her breath on my neck. Not to mention we hugged for longer than the moment called for. It started as a fun, celebratory hug and turned into an embrace we were both craving.

  It didn’t satiate my hunger. It only fueled it.

  Shortly after, we both climbed the stairs together and split into our separate rooms in the dark hallway. She stumbled as she walked to her room, knocking the doorway with her body before laughing her way to her bed, the door closing behind her.

  It’s been over an hour, and I can’t sleep. Unlike last night when we left things tense and angry, I slept fine. It was like my conscience was happy with me for being angry at her, so it could rest. Tonight, with so much potential in the air, so many ideas running through my head and the reckless feeling that I could do all of the things I want to do, I can’t catch a moment of sleep.

  Her door creaks.

  Slow footsteps trail from her door to the bathroom, and I don’t move, waiting to hear the bathroom door close. It is just between our rooms, hers on one side the stairwell and mine on the other.

  Those creaky wood floors may be a blessing or a curse.

  I keep waiting for the sound of the door closing, but it never comes. She must be standing in the hallway, frozen. Or waiting.

  Gently, I stand up from my bed, the floor groaning under my feet. It feels like a response, a call. I know she can hear it. I’m in nothing but my boxers, and it would not be a good idea for her to see me in those, so I pull on a pair of gray joggers quietly and step toward my door.

  Her footsteps creak closer.

  With my hand on the doorknob, I twist and pull it open. It’s the loudest thing I’ve ever heard.

  The hallway is bathed in darkness with just the light from the full moon above shining through the skylight and illuminating her form near the staircase. She’s just three steps away from me as I peel the door open to look at her, in nothing but a tiny shirt and her underwear.

  There is an invisible line between us, one that we are not supposed to cross. I don’t know if it’s fading or growing bolder, begging me to cross it all the same.

  Cadence is staring back, but she doesn’t look as intoxicated as she was earlier. There is clarity in her eyes as she waits for me to do something.

  Neither of us speak, but my heart is hammering so hard in my chest that I’m afraid she can hear it in this silence.

  She licks her lips, snagging the bottom one between her teeth.

  God help me.

  “What are you doing up?” It’s a whisper so faint, only she could hear it.

  “Can’t sleep.”

  I want to believe it’s because she’s thinking about me.

  “Me neither.” Because I’m thinking about you.

  Her gaze roams my face, down my bare chest to my loose pants. It ignites a hunger, and I step toward her, closing the distance until we are standing with only inches between us.

  Being closer to her, I notice the slight sway to her stance. The alcohol is still in her system, and maybe that’s what’s giving her the courage to be here right now. Considering that’s the only reason I made myself a glass in the first place, I know it’s exactly why I can stand this close to her.

  I tell myself I’m not breaking any vows by being here, but that’s a lie. Every thought in my head is a sin.

  Her fingers land softly on the skin at the center of my chest, and I stop breathing. The invisible line shines brighter than ever. With one single touch, she crosses it.

  Suddenly, I can’t keep my hands off her, but I’m still holding onto my res
traint. So I graze my fingertips along her arms from her shoulders to her elbows, and I watch as the goosebumps erupt in the moonlight.

  Her fingers reach my belly button, and my stomach contracts as I fight the urge to start panting. I wonder if she can see my heart pounding as my lungs fight for air. Looking up at me, her touch changes course and glides back up, away from the waistband of my pants. She moves so slowly, I both love it and hate it. It’s a delicious torture.

  With my fingers still on her arms, I move toward her back, feeling every ridge of her spine as I glide my way down between her shoulder blades, all the way to her lower back, where the ridges soften. She has on a tight tank top that lifts easily at bottom so I can feel the hollow of her back just before I reach the hem of her thin underwear.

  I just want to touch her, to memorize the feel of her body, and there is so much still to explore, but I can’t go to bed yet until I know her skin against my lips.

  With my fingers still at the base of her spine, I lean down until my mouth hovers just above her shoulder. Her hands wrap around my body now, and I know she wants more. I can feel her desire radiating off her skin, and I feel terrible that I won’t be able to give her what she wants. But I’m taking this anyway, this one kiss.

  With my lips parted, I press my mouth against the crook of her neck. She lets out a sweet little gasp, and I pull her body closer. Maybe I want her to feel what she’s doing to me or maybe I just want the friction against my aching hard-on, but either way, I know what I’m doing is fucked-up.

  I said I wanted to feel her against my lips, but now I’m desperate for more, so I sneak my tongue past my lips and steal a taste of her skin, causing her to let out a heavy breath again.

  The line has been crossed. Vows were broken, and there is no going back from this. Not fucking her at this point will be near impossible, but it’s not too late for me. I have to know when to step away, so I release her neck from my mouth and peel my hands from her back. The absence of her body against mine is painful as I put space between us.