Sweetest Sin: A Forbidden Priest Romance (10 page)

Honor glanced to
the locked door. “Do you have faith in yourself?”

I tapped my
collar. “Yes, though I struggle, as all men do. But I can control myself. I
vowed to temper those thoughts, those desires, those
sins
.” I held her
stare. “And you will resist as well.”

“How? Do you want
us to…
deliberately
tempt ourselves?”

“Yes.”

“That doesn’t make
any sense.”

“
No temptation has overtaken you except what is common to
mankind
,” I quoted. “
And God is faithful; He will not let you be tempted
beyond what you can bear. But when you are tempted, He will also provide a way
out so that you can endure it
.”

“Shouldn’t
we leave this to Him then?” she asked.

“We
will not be rid of this lust until we understand it. We can hide from it. We
can ignore it. But we will always be a slave to it unless we conquer it
ourselves.”

Her lips parted as
though she would argue.

As though she
feared she would fail.

“I want to explore
our temptations,” I said. “Bend our bodies to our spiritual limit and prove we
are unbreakable in our vows. We will test ourselves so that we can be prepared
to deny our weaknesses.”

Honor spoke
softly. “And if we can’t do this, Father? If we surrender to it?”

“We won’t.”

“But if we do?”

“There is no
if
.
We cannot fail.”

“Then why risk
it?”

I wouldn’t have
her lose faith so quickly. I seized her in my arms, just as I did before, just
as closely and fiercely.

Only this time…I
kissed the words from her.

And in that
moment, she became mine.

Her lips parted,
and a breathy sigh awakened the sinner within me. Her body pressed against
mine, so soft and beautiful, graceful and
holy
that the erection
pressing through my trousers desecrated her with dark urges.

I wanted this
woman. In my arms. In my bed. Forever murmuring a soft prayer and offering
forgiveness in a kiss to my aching lips.

Every nibble of
her flesh tasted of candied apples and victory.

Would she taste as
delicious pressed within my sheets? Would every inch of her skin shiver in
goose bumps as it had now?

Her lips parted
more, granting me that singular joy of flicking a curious tongue against hers.
She groaned, and the quiet, throaty murmur echoed in the adoration chapel.

The praises I
would sing to this woman from now on…

I imagined how the
rest of her would feel, explored with my kiss, my lips, my tongue. Her silken
skin would heat like fire. Her graceful neck would pulse where I pressed my mouth.
I’d bite the hollow of her throat, and I’d earn another breathy cry. Her
breasts would heave in gasping, wanting waves. I imagined cupping her, offering
a sable brown nipple to my lips.

If only…

I’d worship this
woman. Ease my kiss lower and lower until I explored the soft path to the
waiting crest between her legs, the Heaven which begged for its own adoration.

A kiss.

A lick.

A sin turned to
beauty.

Her fingers
tangled in my cassock, and the rosary beads cut into my skin. My soul screamed.
I managed only a bitter and resigned grunt.

I pushed her away
before my thoughts burrowed within a slickness that taunted my dreams.

She panted, torn
from my body, shocked and confused.

My heart cracked,
but it continued to beat.

The guilt of the
kiss faded, cast away as I recognized the strength simmering between our
bodies. I stood tall. Honor adjusted her blouse. Her lips were swollen and
puffy from my ravaging…and yet she met my gaze with every determination I
expected.

My angel.

She would best
this temptation with me.

Or I would break
us both in licentious arrogance.

“I stopped myself
this time,” I said. “Are you strong enough to deny yourself?”

Honor didn’t smile.
Her eyes widened with a naïve ignorance I envied.

“Yes,” she said.

“Are you sure?”

“As you said,
Father…” She seized a breath to end her shuddered gasps. “The consequences are
too damning to fail. I can resist you, and I will deny myself.”

I took her hand.
Her pulse raced, but she accepted this challenge with grace.

“My perfect angel…”

I touched her
face, stroked her cheek, tangled my fingers in her hair. Then I pulled away,
just to prove that I could.

She licked her
lips, and I kissed her again, gently and softly. Her tongue met mine. She
mewed, but she broke the kiss.

Pride would be her
undoing.

If it hadn’t
already conquered me.

“We have work to
do,” I whispered. “I will teach you to resist this temptation, to defy sin, and
to shield your faith from the most dangerous threat to your innocence.”

“The devil?”

“
Me
.”

I shook my head,
memorizing the crook of her nose, the dramatic arch of her brows, the almond
curve of her eyes.

This woman would be
the death of me.

And I prayed I’d
wake in Heaven.

The lights were
out when I got home after the choir audition.

After the kiss.

It wasn’t late—St.
Cecilia’s didn’t exactly have a thriving night life…despite what thoughts
lingered in my mind of Father Raphael and his private sermon.

After I returned
to the nave and earned my spot into the special choir, I schemed with Alyssa
and Samantha about a three-piece harmony. Once it got late, I’d grabbed my bags
and computers and headed home.

Not in any
particular hurry.

It didn’t feel
like home anymore…because it wasn’t. We lost the house after Dad died, despite
his life insurance policy covering the remainder of the mortgage. Mom had used
the money for
other expenses
. It was the polite way to phrase our
misfortune to the few family members and friends Mom hadn’t driven away.

Her new apartment
was small, and my bedroom a corner of the living room. Mom had offered me her
room when I moved back, but it was just as tiny and leaked around the window.
Even closed, the room had a bad draft. Mom didn’t care—said it helped the hot
flashes.
So many things in my life changing, and all of them at once
,
she had joked.

She forgot to lock
the door.

The neighborhood
couldn’t even be trusted to have a communal mailbox without extra locks. I’d
have to remind her to be careful.

I edged inside and
forced the door closed behind me, lifting the handle so it wouldn’t grind
against the peeling linoleum. The lock clicked.

Home
.

The thought still
soured in my stomach. At least the extra choir practices meant another excuse
to get out of the apartment. I hated myself for thinking it, but I hated even
more the uncomfortable, greasy, weird feeling I got being at home.

Like I didn’t
belong here.

No. Like
she
didn’t belong here.

Mom’s shoes
cluttered the entry—two pairs, weather-worn and fading. I kicked them into the
coat closet. The busted hangers had dropped the winter coats onto the floor.
She’d left them there. I shook them out.

A single white
pill tumbled from the pocket.

It crashed against
the rug as soundlessly as thunder.

I sucked in a
breath, checking the other pockets. Nothing in them but lint and crumpled
receipts. The pill was a loner, one lost from over a year ago.

I hated to even
touch the foul thing. If she knew she had an Oxy left…

I glanced over the
apartment, dark and cluttered. Newspapers wadded near the door—she said she’d
take them to recycling later. I made a note to toss them out with the garbage
that night. The pots from last night piled in the sink—she wanted to let them
soak a little longer. I’d start on them before they smelled.

The bills piled up
on the table.

She put them off.
I hated them the most, so I usually did that first.

But the electric
company was closed, and the landlord didn’t like calls after hours. I spent my
afternoon and evening at the church and didn’t have time to sort through the
finances.

Not that I could focus
on anything important now.

I drowned in my
own thoughts.

No.

In my own
slickness
.

And how horrible
and sinful and delightful and amazing had that discovery been?

My body betrayed my
soul, my lips their own cautious whispers, and my heart the only defense it had
against an untouchable, unobtainable man. Yet I had the power—no, the
control
—to
pull away from his arms.

I had ended the
kiss, returned to the sanctuary, and looked upon the altar and the cross and
the sanctity of the church without
guilt
for the first time in a month.

I could do this.

I could fight the
temptation.

At least…in the
church.

At home, in the
dark, those feelings returned. I warmed in the right and wrong places.

I forced a breath
and focused on cleaning the entry and living room so I could get to my bed. I
had homework to do. Plus, I’d promised I’d update the food pantry inventory
spreadsheet. Theirs was made in Microsoft Word and with the aid of an
adding
machine
, and I was pretty sure my head almost exploded when I tried to work
it.

I really needed to
sleep. When was I going to fit it in? Between my two summer courses, the choir
practices, volunteering for the festival, and working at the food pantry I had
no idea where I’d squeeze in more hours for the things we desperately needed.
Like sleep. And working part-time. Or
full
-time, like we needed. I
wasn’t ready to give up on earning my degree before finding a job, especially
since I knew how difficult it’d be to find any good paying work in my field.

Unless…I had to
shift my career goals.

I’d taken business
classes at school. Despite growing up in the church and wanting to help others through
charity and social work…those jobs didn’t pay the bills. The
overdue
bills.

And the debts.

Dad’s lingering
funeral costs.

College.

I bagged the trash
in the living room and groaned as the garbage overflowed.

How did Mom ever manage
this on her own?

The answer was
obvious—she
didn’t
. Not when she was still high and drinking or after
the year she spent sobering up.

No one had said
it, no one had even thought it, but I knew how it would look if I admitted to
only moving home once Mom got clean and times were easier. But it was Dad who said
to leave. He told me to focus on my education, my career, my life.

So I didn’t end up
like her.

The woman sharing
my home wasn’t the Mom I remembered. She wasn’t the woman who raised me. She
was better now. Human again, instead of the raging animal sneaking drinks and
stealing pain medications.

And yet…I still
panicked. I still checked. I still
waited
for the day she’d make a
mistake and reveal that the past year of sobriety was a lie.

I was tired of
sneaking into her bedroom and peeling the bottle from her hands, just so I
could check to see if it was a beer or…

A bottle of water.

Good.

Why was it I could
kiss
a priest and yet feel more guilt for doubting my mother’s sobriety?

I cleared her
nightstand of the extra bottles and magazines. Mom didn’t wake up, snoring in a
twin bed. It wasn’t ours. She and Dad had shared a hand-crafted bed. I never
asked where it ended up, lost and ruined. It’d meant the world to him, that bed.

He was an honest,
generous, loving Catholic man who lived for his family and showed that love
through his trade—carpentry. He’d made most of our furniture by hand.

And it was all
gone now.

Nothing but
memories remained.

I finished
straightening the apartment. It could wait for a deep clean after Mass on
Sunday.

A thrill tickled
through me, something entirely inappropriate for the thought of returning to
the church. I took a cool shower, changed, and snuggled into my mattress in the
corner. My phone buzzed as I rolled onto my side.

I shouldn’t have
looked.

I didn’t have the
contact in my phone, but my secret messenger wasn’t so mysterious.

Sleep well, my
angel.

As if I could
sleep now.

The heat burst
within me once more. I swallowed, but my tummy twisted in such a
good
way.

Who would Jesus
text?

I gripped my phone
and typed back, loving the delicious thrill.

Are you allowed to
text me?

He replied
immediately.
Who would stop me?

This man? This
priest?

No one.

How’d you get my
number?

His message
beeped.
The phone tree
.

Betrayed by the
women’s club and its eternal preparedness. I took a breath, wishing my body
would stop shivering in exquisite goose bumps. I typed a cautious message.

I was just going
to bed…

I counted the
seconds for his reply.
What a coincidence. I’m already in bed.

It’s early, isn’t
it?

I’m up at 5 every
morning.

I giggled.
Good
thing you don’t wake anyone with the alarm.

I also don’t need
to worry about doing my morning prayers naked.

Oh, that wasn’t
fair. Those terrible, wonderful images swarmed my mind. Father Raphael—bowed in
prayer, concentrating,
regal
. Those hardened muscles straining as he prayed
on his knees.

I didn’t let
myself imagine anything else.

The distance granted
by phone made me bolder. I bit my lip.

Lead me not into
temptation, Father
.

I wouldn’t dream
of it, my angel.

Then why did you
text?

A delay.
I knew
you’d be getting ready for bed.

I knew his game.
It might have offended me if it wasn’t so prudent.

Is this a
hand-check, Father Rafe?

Would you prefer
to bind your wrists before bed to ensure your purity?

Nothing
pure
came from those thoughts, though plenty of people
came
from having them.

I dropped the
phone on my belly as I exorcised that riveting imagery from my mind. It didn’t
work.

And the phone
buzzed too low. The sensation bolted between my legs. I whimpered.

Father Raphael
knew exactly what he was doing.

Be strong, my
angel. I will see you Saturday for the festival preparations.

Saturday? It felt
like a lifetime. But better a wait for two days than an eternity in Hell.

I wasn’t ready to
flirt. I had never learned how or bothered to tease, but this conversation made
me smile, filled me with wicked joy. I wished for him to feel the same ache
that would make my night unbearable.

I sent the text
with trembling fingers.
Don’t miss me too much
.

He replied with
scripture.

Matthew 26:41.

I had to look it
up, scrolling through my phone with a bitten lip.

Watch
and pray so that you will not fall into temptation. The spirit is willing, but
the flesh is weak.

I
tossed the phone down, but I’d never sleep.

I
feared the dreams I’d have of Father Raphael.

At
least I’d enjoy confessing them.