Tempting Daddy by Ava Sinclair
Chapter Nine
Father
“My mother called you?”
I was just about to go check on Carmen when she walks into the office. This is the first thing she says.
“Yes,” I reply. “She said she was going to tell you.”
“I wonder why she didn’t call me first?” Carmen walks to her desk, looking puzzled.
“I don’t know.” I walk over to the coffee pot and pour her a cup of coffee, which I take to her desk. “Here,” I say. “I made it fresh.”
“Thank you, Father.” She glances up briefly as she takes it.
“Your mom was worried about the roads. And she’s right, you know. Tough going out there. I have a guest room.”
“She told me.”
“If you’re not comfortable...”
Carmen looks up again. This time we lock eyes. “No. It’s fine. I’m grateful. Really.”
A tendril of hair has fallen across her brow. There’s snow stuck to it. I stare as the heat from the coffee melts it away and resist the urge to push the damp strand off her face.
“Well, I’m going to get back to work.”
“Okay, Father.”
I shut the door of my office and take a seat at my desk. I have plenty to do. There are homilies to write, calls to return, event plans to oversee or sign off on. I have a hard time focusing, though, and I find myself staring at the small photo on my desk.
“Greetings from Saudi Arabia,” I say quietly to the smiling man in the photo, and touch the image with the tip of my finger before gazing at the door. On the other side is a young, vulnerable woman. I think of her words: You obviously had a perfect family. You’re a priest.
Can I blame her for assuming? Carmen’s father raised her to equate Godliness with success and blessings. Would she revere me less to know the truth—that I wasn’t inspired to become a priest so much as driven? Growing up, the proudest mothers I knew were the ones whose sons joined the priesthood. It gave them some distinction among their devout friends. If my mother weren’t already dead when I joined, the shock would have killed her. Or the grief of what pushed me to the life I now live.
“If you only knew,” I say quietly, looking towards where Carmen sits on the other side of my door.
The rest of the day grinds along. Carmen comes in, concerned about the weather, and we pull up the forecast on my computer. I joke that soon she can check it on her own and she smiles. The smile fades, however, when we see the swath of purple that now covers our community on the weather map.
“Two feet?” she asks.
“At least,” I say.
The storm has moved in ahead of schedule and with a vengeance. No wonder Laura Angelo didn’t want to come all the way to the church. Outside the wind is howling.
“Do you want me to lock up the sanctuary, Father?”
“No. I’ll do it,” I say. “And we should probably knock off early if you’d like. I’ll fix us dinner in the rectory, provided the power doesn’t go out.”
“You don’t have to cook for me.”
“Maybe I want to cook for you, Carmen.”
She nods and bites her lip, and I feel my cock stir in my pants and wonder if having her stay is a good idea after all.
“I’ll get my things together,” she says, and I’m relieved when she leaves the office. I lean back in my chair, willing down the erection that only grew larger when I watched her leave.
When I finally gain control of my body, I go lock up. The storm is fierce. I think of my old life, before the upheaval, before celibacy. I think of Jenna, whose warm body and welcoming pussy would sustain my attention on snowy nights. Jenna, who said she loved me but couldn’t be bothered with a man who needed anything beyond physical sustenance.
Carmen is so different. I sense a sweet vulner-ability in her and daily find her nearness fueling those raw feelings that drew me to the priesthood—the need to care, to protect, to nurture. All the parishioners call me father, but coming from her, it feels different. I feel different. Holding her in my arms when she cried awakened old stirrings. Father Morris said I would be tested. Now God is testing me with her presence. My cock stirs again. Haven’t you tested me enough?
Carmen is waiting for me when I get back to the office. She’s bundled in her coat. I don mine and we walk out the door. There’s already several inches of snow on the ground. I open my coat and fold it around her, pulling her to my body in what I tell myself is a chivalrous move to further shield her against the wind and cold. On the stoop of the rectory, my fingers are nearly numb as I put the key in the door.
Once inside, I turn on the light, bathing the living room in a warm glow.
“Let me take your coat.”
She turns her back to me and slips her arms out. She’s wearing a fitted blue sweater and slightly flared tan skirt, but even in modest dress she elicits a wave of attraction that has me catching my breath.
“Are you comfortable?” I hang the coat on the rack by the door. “Do I need to turn the heat up?” “I’m fine,” she says.
“Home sweet home,” I say. “It’s modest but I like it.”
“It’s pretty.” She glances around. “I haven’t been in here for years until the other day when I let the plumber in.”
“Yes.” I walk to the kitchen, beckoning for her to follow. “It’s old, though. Things keep breaking. The pipes need to be replaced at some point and I think there’s a leak in the attic. I know there are squirrels getting in. I hear them having squirrel parties.”
She giggles, and I’m surprised and enchanted. She has little dimples that are only visible when she smiles broadly.
“You like squirrels, do you?” I smile back at her while I fetch two mugs from the cupboard and put on the kettle for hot chocolate.
“Not particularly. But I think I might like to watch a squirrel party.”
I fix hot chocolate and grilled cheese sandwiches with chips. In all the turmoil of the day, I realize, I haven’t had lunch and I’m pretty sure Carmen didn’t eat, either.
We chat as the storm howls outside, keeping to safe topics like the history of the rectory and funny stories of Father Morris. Yet even as the conversation turns to old Mrs. Crabtree, an elderly parishioner who is resisting the idea of entering a retirement home, I can’t help but notice how long Carmen’s lashes are when she casts her gaze downward, how delicate her slim hands, the soft mounds of her breasts under her sweater. I let the thoughts wash over me. At this point, I can’t stop them and the best I can do is not dwell on them, lest they stick like snow on the trees outside.
When we’re finished, she takes the plates to the sink and washes them. A woman in the kitchen. My heart twists in my chest, thinking what I’ve given up. I had a traditional streak, even before I became a priest. There’s a softness to Carmen, a sweet domesticity. She’s the kind of woman a man wants to come home to.
I ask her if she’d like me to build a fire. I’ve not used the fireplace much, but I have a nice stock of wood that needs to be burned. We go to the living room, and I kneel and arrange the kindling in the cold hearth. When everything is ready, I fish through my pocket for my lighter and realize I’ve not wanted a cigarette since I walked in, which is pretty unusual.
“Father Morris had the chimney swept before he left,” I say. “He was really good about upkeep.”
The blaze is lit now and I rub my hands together before it’s warmth. I stand up, expecting to see Carmen, but she’s not behind me. She’s at my desk looking at the photos, and when she sees that I’ve noticed, an odd expression crosses her face. She looks wounded somehow.
I walk over and join her. “Looking at the photos, are you?”
“I… I thought you said you hadn’t traveled,” she says. She’s looking away, and suddenly I remember her question the other day about whether I’d traveled, and it makes sense. So does her hurt reaction.
“You saw these the day you came to let the plumber in?” I ask gently.
She doesn’t answer.
“I was telling the truth. I haven’t traveled, except to Rome just as I told you. This isn’t me. It’s my twin brother, Rory.” Relief floods her face. She thought I was lying.
“I wouldn’t hide anything from you, Carmen.”
She flushes and pushes a strand of hair behind her ear and nods. “So where is he now?”
I hesitate before answering. It’s still hard to say the words. “He’s dead.”
“Dead?”
“Yes. Rory spent his adult life looking for something he could never find and fleeing demons he couldn’t escape. Not literal demons the church worries about, but the real dangerous ones. The ones up here.” I tap my head. “He battled for years with problems my parents didn’t want to acknowledge. Even at thirteen, I could see that my twin needed help, but they just told him to pray or asked the church to pray for him. Rory never got a diagnosis for his mental illness. He was so bright, but so troubled. He never stayed in one place for too long. It’s like he was trying to run from it and he did find some happiness in helping others. Eventually, though, it just became too much and when he decided to leave, there was no warning.” I swallow the lump forming in my throat. “No goodbyes.” I pause for a moment. “I made him call me every Wednesday. That was our thing. Wednesday night, no matter what, just so I could hear his voice and make sure he hadn’t… left me.”
I feel Carmen’s hand on my arm. She gives me a gentle squeeze, and the look she’s giving me is so soft and caring that I don’t stop telling the story I haven’t told in years.
“But one Wednesday night he didn’t call, and I think I just knew.”
“Did you have any other family?”
I sigh. “None that I was close to. My mother was gone. My father was in an assisted living facility for Alzheimer’s and wasn’t even aware of what happened. I had a fiancé, but…”
I should stop. I know I should. I’m walking onto an emotional plank, and I have no business doing that in the company of a young woman who is supposed to see me as an authority.
“What happened?”
There’s no lurid curiosity in her voice. Only caring. Only kindness.
“She left,” I say. “She said I was becoming a downer. And I guess I was. Losing a twin.” I shake my head. “I mean, losing a sibling is bad enough, but when you lose someone you shared a womb with… When we were young, Rory and I had our own secret language. We did everything together and when it became apparent he needed caretaking, I looked after him. I beat up his bullies. I did his homework when he couldn’t focus so he wouldn’t get punished. I would have traveled with him if I could, but I was trying to build my own life, my own career. I still wonder if I could have saved him.”
“Is that why you became a priest? To save people?”
“That’s what I wanted to think, but maybe it was to save myself. I was afraid that I’d do what he did in my grief. The church is opposed to suicide. I knew it would give me structure and a chance to spend my life helping people. I want to give people like Rory more than just prayer. I want to help them understand that spiritual help is important, but so is medical help. I want to reach out to religious parents whose dogma makes them…”
My voice trails off and Carmen’s finishes my sentence.
“Oblivious?” Her hand is still on my arm. “I’m sorry, Father Dominic. I’m sorry I assumed you had a perfect childhood because you became a priest.”
“No need to apologize.”
“Rory was lucky to have someone who cares, someone who wanted to guide him.”
“There were times I wanted to stop him, to make him do what he was told because I knew it would keep him safe.”
“That’s love, too,” she says. “If it’s done with caring.”
“Yeah, but I wasn’t his father. So I became father to a whole community.”
“Father.” She says the word softly and the sound of it is intensely alluring escaping her lips. It stirs something deep inside me, something emotional but also carnal. The desire to gather Carmen in my arms is powerful. The desire to give her all of what I wanted to give the people is overwhelming. I am Father to the whole of St. Thomas parish, but in this moment, I only want to be father to one. To her.
“Would you like to watch a movie?” I ask suddenly. I can’t trust myself to stand here with her a moment longer without diversion.
“Okay.” She follows me to the television stand where I kneel and open the double doors.
“We don’t have Netflix. No chilling for priests.” I smile up at her, injecting some levity into the moment and she laughs. “I have DVDs though.”
I scan the titles, looking for something suitable. I’ve long purged movies featuring romance or sexual situations on the advice of my mentors, leaving me with a collection of mysteries and dramas. I start to recommend The Godfather, but decide against it.
“I haven’t seen this one. I heard it’s good.” She points to The Last Samurai, which happens to be one of my favorites.
“Excellent choice,” I say. “I’ll make some popcorn.”
“But we just had lunch!” she says.
“I’m going to spoil you,” I say, the words coming out before I can stop them. The look she shoots me—one of surprised gratitude—makes me want to do more than spoil her.
I go to the kitchen and make the popcorn and more hot chocolate, my mouth moving in silent prayer for strength. I wasn’t lying. I do want to spoil her. The good Father in me wants to feed her and hold her and tuck her in and make every hurt she’s ever had disappear. But the bad priest wants more. He wants to slide a hand under her skirt, push aside her panties and finger her pussy.
I reach for the mugs in the cabinet and one slips from my hand and falls to the floor, breaking.
“Fuck,” I say softly. “Fuck.”
“Are you okay?” Carmen is at the kitchen door.
I look up guiltily. I hold up a piece of the mug. It was a heavy stoneware one and broke into three pieces. “Sorry for the salty language.”
“It’s okay,” she says, walking over. I want to tell her to go back to the living room but she stoops down, her nearness stirring me all over again. I feel my cock bob in my pants and hurriedly pick up two pieces as she reaches for the other.
“Priests are human, right?
Our fingers touch as she hands me the other piece.
“Right,” I say, knowing she’s completely unaware of just how human I’m feeling right now, how tested, and even though I didn’t ask, Carmen helps me make the hot chocolate. She suggests adding a dash of cinnamon, and it really is so good.
We spend hours watching movies and playing Scrabble as the storm rages outside. The lights flicker but don’t go out. It feels like we are the only two people in existence, and as the world freezes outside, I see Carmen’s shell of hurt melt away as the evening goes on. She laughs with delight when she wins at Scrabble and accuses me of losing on purpose, which I swear I would never do. I take my Scrabble very seriously.
“You’re smart,” I say, and she drops her eyes.
“Not really,” she says.
“Carmen. You are. And I’ll not hear you say otherwise. Do you understand, child?”
My words were delivered firmly and she looks up to see if I’m joking, but my expression is as serious as my message.
She nods.
“Yes, Father,” she says, and my cock, already stiff, hardens even more, and I’m glad I left my frock coat on since the cut of it hides my erection. I’ve stopped fighting it by now. God made my body. He made me a man. My body is doing what God designed it to do. That doesn’t mean I have to act on it. I adore Carmen, and know I will do so as long as she is in my life. But she will be in my life as a friend. I will not cross the line and do what a man wants to do with a woman, no matter how strong the need. I cannot. I must not.
“It’s getting late,” I say after the last game. “We should turn in. The guest room is actually pretty nice. There’s a little private bath and the bureau has a drawer with some t-shirts. You’re welcome to wear one to bed.”
“Thank you,” Carmen replies. She smiles at me as she puts the Scrabble board and pieces back in the box. “I had fun tonight, Father.”
“So did I. It’s nice to have company.”
She bids me goodnight and we go to our rooms. I hear the sound of the pipes as she showers and lay on the bed before taking my own shower, not just because if I turn on the water it’ll freeze hers, but because I don’t want to be naked in my own shower stall with the thoughts I’m having.
I practice my breathing. My cock is so hard it hurts. Would it really be a sin to relieve myself of the tension? I clench my hand and roll over, moaning into my pillow against the pain and doubt I feel, against the ache that rolls through me in waves, against the want that goes deeper than sex.
Outside the wind howls like a hungry, trapped animal.
My last, shameful thought as I go to sleep is that I can relate.
