Page 149 of Dream House
“Lark, you’re not a bastard.”
His heavy, rough hand settles on my cheek. His fingertips tuck mussed hair behind my ear. The touch feels lovely, but the look in his eyes does not. If I had to give it a name, I’d call it guilt.
When he says nothing, I try a different tack.
“My catechism isn’t very good. Most of my spiritual knowledge comes from Pen.” I roll my eyes. “Explain to me about St. Paul.”
The left side of his mouth quirks. Beneath the covers, he shifts, wrapping one leg over both of mine, pulling my hips closer.
Yeah, that feels amazing too.
“You’re in luck,” he says, his voice deep and lazy. “My catechism is outstanding. I can teach you anything you want to know.”
I want to know you.
I don’t say this aloud, of course. Instead, I tease back. “Show me what you got.”
His tongue peeks out and licks his amused smile. “St. Paul was the most important convert in Christian history.”
This sounds familiar. “He was a Roman, right?”
Lark nods. “Originally Saul. He was a Roman citizen and Jewish pharisee who persecuted Christians until, while on the road to Damascus, he was struck by a vision that knocked him on his ass.”
“Go on,” I encourage.
“He was blinded by this crazy bright light, and God asked him ‘Saul, why are you persecuting me?’ and in that moment, he saw the error of his ways, converted to Christianity, and became one of the greatest theologians and the author of about half of the New Testament.”
This I didn’t know—I’ve never given Biblical matters much thought—but I like that Lark knows this stuff and he’s sharing it with me.
“Really?”
His smile warms. Lark seems to take in my whole face for a moment. Then he leans in and presses a slow kiss to my lips. It’s sweet and chaste, but, still, a torrent of tingles bounce their way into my middle.
He pulls back. “Really. Some of the more recognizable and oft quoted passages belong to him.”
For some weird reason, I like the idea of hearing Lark quote scripture. Hell, I’d like to hear him quote the Tax Code too if I’m being honest. “Like what?”
He licks his lips and seems to think but not for long.
“Like the reading you hear about love at almost every Christian wedding.” When he says it, something shifts in his look and in the way he speaks. Like this is a source of boredom.
Or burden.
“What about love?” I hear myself ask. I’d be lying if I said my heart wasn’t beating a little faster. And not in anI’m-so-excitedkind of way. More likecan-he-already-tell-that-I-love-himandwill-he-think-that’s-a-bad-thing?
“You know. The one that says love is patient. Love is kind.” He shifts from telling to reciting. “‘It does not envy. It does not boast. It is not proud. It does not dishonor others.’”
He stops suddenly, the look in his eyes sharpening. Piercing mine. He swallows and then continues more slowly.
“‘It is not self-seeking. It is not easily angered. It keeps no records of wrongs.’”
My heart starts pounding harder for a whole host of other reasons. Reasons I can’t unravel and reasons I can.
I have kept a long ledger of wrongs done to me. I’m the queen of keeping accounts of all the ways I’ve been wronged.
Shit. Do I know anything about love?
“‘Love does not rejoice in evil but delights in the truth.’”
