Read Online Saints and Sinners by Shawna Moore - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Shawna Moore
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eyes. She peered over the Newell post. How she loved the way his laughter creased the skin beside his bright-blue eyes whenever she teased him.
“Not today. Have to go upstairs to get things ready.” From the stairwell, she waved and waited until he turned his back to her. Then, with Reilly’s present clutched tightly against her chest, Moira headed for the small closet-sized space she called her own. At least she didn’t have to share it with a dozen other people like some she knew.
* * * *
Once in the room, she closed the door and sucked in a deep breath. Wrinkled sections of papering curled away from the wall. Poor Papa and Mama, they worked so hard.
She bit into the crisp apple. Sweet juice dripped from her lips and onto her sweater. Had Eve been this excited when biting the forbidden fruit for the first time? Moira pressed her lower belly. How good it felt when Reilly touched her there and tugged her curls. What might he have done had there not been that flimsy fabric separating her bareness from his hand?
A strange sensation shot through her fingers and loins. Wetness pooled in her drawers. However much she might want to dwell on shameless thoughts about Reilly Dunne, one thing prevented her—today’s sopping-wet laundry. At least with the weather being a bit warmer outside, the sheets wouldn’t be quite so stiff when she brought them in. She giggled. Reilly couldn’t claim the same. He stuck out like a hot poker.
From the hallway, she gathered the wicker basket filled with sheets and pillowcases. Water dripped down her arms as she separated the wet laundry. Floorboards creaked in protest as she reentered the room and crossed to opposite wall. With a sigh, she set the heavy basket down and plucked a splinter from her palm. Her fingers fumbled with the stubborn window catch, and she welcomed the rush of cool air as the window opened.
The family’s makeshift clothesline stretched between the greengrocery and the tenement building beside it. Several of the pins spilled from the linsey-woolsey bag, and she gave them more than a blessing in Irish.
“Hah,” came someone’s cry through the window. She straightened and stared out. Only one person laughed that way.
No one appeared at the open window directly across. Moira leaned out and looked down the airshaft. Wedged between the two buildings was a bathtub that used to belong to the Bertolucci’s. In a drunken fit, the elder Mr. Bertolucci, and one or two of his half-witted sons, tossed it out the window late one summer night last year.
Her mother disliked Italians and often worried about having to share living quarters with them. Nola Monaghan complained they were only after a good time. Moira grabbed the half-eaten apple off the windowsill and sank her teeth into its center.
“ Suchiare il mio gallo , Moira.” Loud suckling sounds reached her ears. “Be careful or I might take a bite out of your soft bum one day.”
Curious as to the heckler’s identity, Moira looked in the direction of the tenement. Salvatore Bertolucci stood shirtless in front of his window. How she despised his crooked grin and teeth. Was he hung as well as his cousins were rumored to be? She shot him a nasty glance. As though reading her thoughts, the lusty Italian gripped his crotch.
She knew very little Italian profanity, but she’d heard that one many times from those loud mouths. What a filthy thing to say to someone. What made them think she’d want to put her mouth on their privates? Rather than encourage him by answering, Moira busied herself hanging up the linens.
“Come out in the sunshine, sweet Irish Rose and let me pluck your petals.” This voice was different. Moira looked up and noticed a taller figure. Guiseppe Bertolucci. He was her age and attended school for a short time before dropping out. Moira sniffed. She’d almost finished high school and could read better than most.
Giuseppe had a muscular build. Strong arms and broad shoulders. Those served
“Not today. Have to go upstairs to get things ready.” From the stairwell, she waved and waited until he turned his back to her. Then, with Reilly’s present clutched tightly against her chest, Moira headed for the small closet-sized space she called her own. At least she didn’t have to share it with a dozen other people like some she knew.
* * * *
Once in the room, she closed the door and sucked in a deep breath. Wrinkled sections of papering curled away from the wall. Poor Papa and Mama, they worked so hard.
She bit into the crisp apple. Sweet juice dripped from her lips and onto her sweater. Had Eve been this excited when biting the forbidden fruit for the first time? Moira pressed her lower belly. How good it felt when Reilly touched her there and tugged her curls. What might he have done had there not been that flimsy fabric separating her bareness from his hand?
A strange sensation shot through her fingers and loins. Wetness pooled in her drawers. However much she might want to dwell on shameless thoughts about Reilly Dunne, one thing prevented her—today’s sopping-wet laundry. At least with the weather being a bit warmer outside, the sheets wouldn’t be quite so stiff when she brought them in. She giggled. Reilly couldn’t claim the same. He stuck out like a hot poker.
From the hallway, she gathered the wicker basket filled with sheets and pillowcases. Water dripped down her arms as she separated the wet laundry. Floorboards creaked in protest as she reentered the room and crossed to opposite wall. With a sigh, she set the heavy basket down and plucked a splinter from her palm. Her fingers fumbled with the stubborn window catch, and she welcomed the rush of cool air as the window opened.
The family’s makeshift clothesline stretched between the greengrocery and the tenement building beside it. Several of the pins spilled from the linsey-woolsey bag, and she gave them more than a blessing in Irish.
“Hah,” came someone’s cry through the window. She straightened and stared out. Only one person laughed that way.
No one appeared at the open window directly across. Moira leaned out and looked down the airshaft. Wedged between the two buildings was a bathtub that used to belong to the Bertolucci’s. In a drunken fit, the elder Mr. Bertolucci, and one or two of his half-witted sons, tossed it out the window late one summer night last year.
Her mother disliked Italians and often worried about having to share living quarters with them. Nola Monaghan complained they were only after a good time. Moira grabbed the half-eaten apple off the windowsill and sank her teeth into its center.
“ Suchiare il mio gallo , Moira.” Loud suckling sounds reached her ears. “Be careful or I might take a bite out of your soft bum one day.”
Curious as to the heckler’s identity, Moira looked in the direction of the tenement. Salvatore Bertolucci stood shirtless in front of his window. How she despised his crooked grin and teeth. Was he hung as well as his cousins were rumored to be? She shot him a nasty glance. As though reading her thoughts, the lusty Italian gripped his crotch.
She knew very little Italian profanity, but she’d heard that one many times from those loud mouths. What a filthy thing to say to someone. What made them think she’d want to put her mouth on their privates? Rather than encourage him by answering, Moira busied herself hanging up the linens.
“Come out in the sunshine, sweet Irish Rose and let me pluck your petals.” This voice was different. Moira looked up and noticed a taller figure. Guiseppe Bertolucci. He was her age and attended school for a short time before dropping out. Moira sniffed. She’d almost finished high school and could read better than most.
Giuseppe had a muscular build. Strong arms and broad shoulders. Those served
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