Will was kissing down her spine. “Such erotic words.”
“We have been in bed all night, and a full day.”
“We have.”
“Well, I would have thought your inspiration would run dry hours ago.” The light was turning evening blue. “I need to get Adam’s dinner ready soon.” Her own stomach growled.
“Just read the letter before we return to real life.”
She began again. “‘I am writing to introduce myself. I am Father Arlo Northcott, and I am delighted to be selected as your replacement after your distinguished forty-two-year tenure as priest of the parish of Salisbury. Whilst I do not consider myself worthy of the appointment, given your reputation and service, I hereby conduct to do my very best—’”
“Apparently, my ink was not in short supply,” Will interrupted. He was kissing the small of her back. “You can skip the dull parts.”
Over her shoulder, she said with humor, “So can you.”
“I haven’t found any yet,” he said, and continued to prove he meant it. She didn’t know that her hips held such sensitivity, or that he liked them so much.
“It’s a well-written letter,” she defended, back to the task at hand. “And if it was indeed you who wrote it, I say well done. But I will skip over these sentences where you kiss Father Porter’s derriere.” As soon as she said it out loud, she realized what she’d invited. “Oh, no,” she giggled as the first kiss was pressed slowly onto her buttock.
He invited, “Please, keep reading.”
She tried to focus. “Here’s where it gets to a proper introduction. ‘Whilst I am only thirty-three, I believe I am fulfilling a calling to God that I first felt when I was six years old. I was fortunate that my dear parents saw my propensity for religious study alongside academics.’”
She had to stop to take some breaths.
The whisker-scratch kisses on her backside were unsettling, and delightful, and he knew it. “I knew you were a fine young lady who occasionally needs a little kiss on the backside to feel properly appreciated.” He moved lower.
“No, no, I’m ticklish there,” she begged, but his hands held her tight as he slid his mouth down the back of her thigh. “Oh, oh, stop!” Struggling was futile. He was very strong, but he always held her in careful ways.
He reached up to her buttock, squeezed it, then smacked it. “Keep. Reading.”
That felt rather nice, especially coupled with an order.
“I think I’ve forgotten how to read.” There was something in this letter that he obviously wanted her to get to. She fixed her eyes on the letter and concentrated on the handwriting. “It’s technically very good penmanship, but it has a nice quick feel to it. The little flicks of the letters as the sentences run on . . .”
Now she’d done it. Will’s tongue made its own little flicks on the inside of her ankle as he held her feet in a tight grip.
“It says here that you, or Arlo, lived in a seminary from the age of eight until the date of this letter. That’s a very secluded life.” She mustered some courage. “Do you remember anything from your past yet?”
“I remember things from last night,” he said with seductive intent, moving off the bed. When she looked over her shoulder, he was kneeling at the foot of it. Her stomach flipped in anticipation.
“So I’m not really defiling a priest if you can’t remember, am I?” It was a thought she’d swatted away throughout their varied, and filthy, couplings.
“I thought you wanted to know everything about me, but you keep dallying when the letter holds so much.”
“But we still don’t have absolute proof that you are Arlo Northcott.”
“It is a high probability; Father Porter recognized me, plus the ring I wore. I think you will agree with me if you just keep reading.”
She maintained her dignity as he took her ankles in each hand and began dragging her. As she slithered facedown across the sheets, she craned her neck to keep summarizing.
“You have a special interest in providing quality confessional services, and spent months attending wards for recovering scarlet fever patients. That’s nice of you.”
“I’m a very nice person,” he said when her knees reached the end of the bed. “I really do hope you believe that I am.” He rolled her onto her back, and now she was expected to do the impossible: keep reading. The words shimmered on the page.
“You’re the nicest person I’ve ever met,” she said with honesty. To feel him smile between her legs? She would never recover from this moment. “There’s a big paragraph here about your views on the future of the Church of England, which I’m going to skip—”
She got distracted for a long moment, luxuriating and stretching, flinging her arm out straight with a paper-crumple sound. “I don’t want to read this letter anymore. I have a new resolve to live in the moment more fully.”
“Fine. But the last paragraph is really the only one you should read. Keep your temper,” he warned, and she glared up at the ceiling. How on earth could he have known that frustration dipped her in ice water? “Be good and I will reward you.”
“You’ll have to do this every time you want me to do something,” she said, relaxing her body, and he spread her thighs wide with his palms. “The final paragraph—let’s see what’s so important.”
As her exhausted body received pleasure, she read:
“‘In summary, I am delighted to make your acquaintance, and to learn how I may serve the parish of Salisbury in what I understand are socially and economically trying times. And on a personal note, I was also pleased to be informed that the rectory boasts a garden famous across the counties. My passion is—’”
(He showed her.)
“‘My passion is—’”
“Read,” he growled, and she felt the vibration.
She whimpered out the last sentences. “‘My passion is all forms of botany, and gardening was the labor I gladly undertook at the seminary. I cannot think of an earthly pleasure more exquisite than putting my face to the petals of a rose.’”
“Indeed.”
“How sweet and innocent you were,” she said to the ceiling. “What have I done to you?”
“Concentrate on what I’m doing to you.”
She obeyed, and this time when she unfurled in rapture, she said his name with more conviction: “Arlo.”
*
Memories of his old life were returning to Arlo Northcott, in snips and pictures and smells, but it seemed a shame to worry Angelika about it. She was happy tonight, and for the first time since he’d known her, she had no apprehension in her expression.
She looked at him like she was rapturously in love, but then again, she always had.
Arlo’s cobbled-together body never felt hungry, but he made sure to eat enough dinner to not arouse concern. Angelika noticed his every mouthful—again, she always had. And while Victor told a lively story about a goose hiding in a hedgerow that had caused Athena to shy and himself to fall, Arlo allowed himself the luxury of staring back at Angelika, noticing how the firelight cupped her cheekbone like a warm kid glove.
(Arlo’s father—whose name eluded him still—had owned a pair of kid gloves, and the fingertips were oily-looking and worn smoother than baby’s skin. When they were left on the table by the door, they remained curled in disgusting phantom fists.)
There were surely only a few days left before Arlo’s fingertips dipped into unfeeling, oily shadow.
“Jelly,” Lizzie said around a mouthful of bread, “after you were accosted in the orchard, where did you disappear to, for an entire night and day?” The naughty girl knew exactly where, and her dark eyes were sparkling.
“I was busy,” Angelika drawled, then bit her lip to hold in whatever she was thinking now. It was for the best.
“I don’t want to know,” Victor advised from his seat at the head of the table. “Anyhow, it’s a pity Chris insisted on the night watch removing the corpses. I would have reanimated them all, just to kill them again myself.”
“Your huge representative handled it,” Angelika replied. The memory made her reach for her glass and take a gulp. They were both their usual sardonic selves, but Arlo had seen the siblings embrace in the hall.
Victor was monitoring Lizzie’s plate. He was similar to his sister; they both loved so ravenously. “Eat up, Lizzie. The chicken is succulent. Sorry, Will,” Victor amended to Arlo. “I hope your vegetables are just as good.”
“They’re fine, thank you,” Arlo replied. He could pick the exact moment Victor made a mental note to question his diet during his next examination. It would make a change from the same questions over and over: Are you still fatigued? Are you healing? Is your pain any less? Can I trouble you for a sample of your seed?
Yes, no, no—and absolutely not.