Page 35 of Sinning for Santa

I remember when I tried to hold his hand once. How he quickly pulled his away and told me it was inappropriate.

Devon’s words from earlier come back to me making me wonder if perhaps he knows my husband-to-be better than I do.

Is Eddie just an arsehole? Does he do this just to control me?

There’s a possibility that perhaps that’s probably it, because he likes to control everything I do. If I do something that isn’t considered acceptable by the Church, he makes it his mission to make sure I know. Sometimes, he takes me to confession himself if he has to.

But what if it’s more than that? What if he isn’t just an arsehole? What if he is really gay and I’m his beard as Devon suggested? What if he’s repulsed when he looks at me because he would rather kiss a man than a woman?

Tears well in my eyes at that thought. Not because I’m sad that he might not like me that way, but because he would rather lie to me and condemn me to a loveless life with no passion, rather than admit his truth.

And then, of course, there’s the other reason Devon suggested.

Maybe Eddie just sees me as a suitable person to be his wife and the mother of his children, and that apart from the intimacy that’s required to conceive children, he may not ever want to be sexual with me.

Is he still a virgin?

Has he paid for sex?

What does he like to do with other women that he could never fathom doing with me?

“What has you so deep in thought?”

I startle at the deep gravel of Devon’s voice, my eyes going wide with worry that he has a super power of reading one’s mind.

As he stands in the doorway of his bathroom, one arm propped up on the door frame, watching me, I can’t stop myself from perusing his taut body. The way the pants have shifted low on his hips. The defined ridges of his abs and the way the vee disappears below the fabric.

I’ve seen it on men before, of course, at Cloud 9, but I haven’t seen it on this man, and I wonder for a minute if perhaps we’ve crossed paths at that club given he seems to know so much about it.

“Just stuff,” I respond vaguely to his question which makes him frown.

“You still think I’m going to harm you, little mouse?”

“No.” I shake my head, but then I shrug, “Yes… I’m not sure.” I babble, confused by my own indecision.

“Tell me what you were really thinking about just now. Because I get the feeling it wasn’t about me.”

“This isn’t confession.” I point out and he smirks.

“True. But I can take you to the old church here. There’s an old confession booth inside. Not as nice as the one Father Peters has at St Catherine’s, and also not bulletproof, but I can take you there.” His smirk turns sinister. “You can go inside. Close the door. Drop to your knees. And pray. And then, little mouse, you can confess your sins.”

“Do you have a priest here?” I ask, not sure if knowing there’s a man of the cloth here will make me feel better or not.

“I’m the closest thing to God there is here. So when you confess on your knees it will be to me.”

My cheeks flush, and heat pools between my legs as an ache I’ve been trying to ward off all damn night when this man’s around, makes itself known once again.

Why does the thought of me going into a confession booth with him listening on the other side sound so… tempting?

“Ah, I see you like that idea, don’t you?”

“No,” I blurt and he chuckles.

“Yeah,you do.” He tilts his head to study me. “What have I told you about lying to me? Do I have to remind you again that lying is a sin?”

“Do I have to remind you again that murder is a sin? Thou shalt not murder.”

He chuckles at my retort before responding.

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