“Stay,” he says quietly. “Please.”
I nod, my heart hammering as the others’ footsteps fade. Marcus moves closer, and suddenly the basement feels too small, too warm. I can smell his cologne mixed with something darker, more masculine.
“I need to ask you something,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “About Isabella.”
His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t look away. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything.” I force myself to meet his eyes. “I need to understand the woman who almost claimed your heart.”
Marcus is quiet for a long moment, his dark eyes searching my face. Then he begins to speak, his voice raw with old pain.
“She came to me for counseling. Her husband was abusive—emotionally, sometimes physically. She needed someone to talk to, someone who would listen without judgment.” His hands flex at his sides. “The sessions became something more. I told myself it was just pastoral care, but I was lying to myself. I was falling in love with her.”
I watch his face as he speaks, see the guilt and shame warring with the memory of what he felt. My chest tightens with jealousy I have no right to feel.
“I was going to leave the priesthood for her,” Marcus continues. “Had the papers drawn up, the plan in place. But her husband found out.” His voice drops to something dangerous. “He put her in the hospital. Nearly killed her. And I nearly killed him.”
“What stopped you?” I whisper.
“Adrian.” Marcus’s laugh is bitter. “He pulled me off before I could finish what I’d started. Isabella begged me to stay a priest, said she couldn’t live with destroying my soul too. So I became a deacon instead. A compromise that’s felt like purgatory ever since.”
The question I’ve been afraid to ask burns in my throat. “If she had stayed, would you have chosen her?”
Marcus’s eyes find mine, and the honesty in them is painful. “Yes. Because I didn’t know you existed yet.” He moves closer, his hand rising to cup my face. “But now there’s no choice, no comparison. There’s only you,querida. Only you.”
The words break something open in my chest. I rise on my toes, closing the distance between us, and the kiss is desperate, hungry, all the fear and need and love we’ve been suppressing finally breaking free.
His hands frame my face, tilting my head back so he can kiss me deeper.
I taste mint and desperation on his tongue, feel the tremor running through his body as he fights for control.
My fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, and he groans against my mouth.
“Dios mío,” he breathes, his accent thickening. “You’re going to kill me, Charlie. You’re going to destroy me completely, and I don’t even care.”
His hands slide down to my waist, pulling me flush against him.
I can feel him hard against my hip, can feel the rapid hammer of his heart beneath my palms.
The basement is cold, but his body radiates heat that makes me burn.
“Marcus,” I whisper, and his name on my lips makes him shudder.
He backs me against the stone wall, his body pressing into mine, and I gasp at the contact.
His mouth finds my throat, teeth grazing my pulse point, and I arch into him.
One of his hands slides under my cardigan, finding bare skin, and the touch sends electricity shooting through me.
“Tell me to stop,” he says against my neck, but his hands are already moving higher, tracing the curve of my ribs. “Tell me this is wrong.”
“It is wrong.” I pull his mouth back to mine. “But I don’t care either.”
His control shatters.
His hands are everywhere—in my hair, on my waist, sliding up my thighs beneath my dress.
I’m drowning in him, in the scent of his cologne and the taste of his mouth and the solid warmth of his body against mine.
