Sweetest Sin: A Forbidden Priest Romance (19 page)

“No, angel. Not
yet.”

Pleasure turned to
pain. Relief to frustration. I twisted, but the length of his cock invaded me,
punctured me, pinned me to him and this moment and this sin. I couldn’t escape.

How was I supposed
to fight the most natural submission in the world while his body covered mine,
rose over mine, buried within mine?

“Please…” I licked
my lips. It teased him, and he seized my kiss to silence me. “Father…”

His hips pushed
onto mine, sheathing himself completely to hear my squeal. “You will wait.”

“
How
?” I
didn’t understand much about my body, my desire, the building tangle of
confusion and pleasure that heated my blood. “Can’t…you’re so…”

Big.

Powerful.

Everywhere
.

Omniscient in this
pleasure.

My world faded
into him in that moment. His scent. His hands. The crash of his breath and the
crush of his weight. His thickness invaded and pressed and forced through my
core, dragging every blitzing spark of excitement through me.

I clutched at his
hands. His movements shattered my mind, forcing me into the bed, against the
sheets, under his strength.

He was right.

Sex was power. Sex
was invasion. It was desire and surrender and giving of myself for another.

But it tore
through
both
of us. His eyes widened, staring at me. He studied my face
and kissed the desperation from my lips.

He trembled as I
did. Strained as I did. Begged of me the same mercy I asked of him and crashed
in breathless amazements as our bodies slammed together.

Harder. Faster.

I arched to take
more of his impossible length. My body struggled to fit him, too tight to
afford him much movement but delighting him with every clenched strain. I
squeezed the rosaries. Then I did as he commanded.

I let him
overwhelm me as the force of his cock rent through my innocence.

I belonged to him.

Since the moment I
first met him, I knew I’d give myself to him. I’d longed to lay beneath him as
he thrust within me, through me, with me. This was as inevitable as sin and as
inescapable as judgment.

My groans became
whimpered pleas. He gripped me tighter as his thrusts beat against me in a new
and furious force.

“Father…
please
…”
I whispered to him, his straining body and angled jaw. His expression turned
pained. Utterly animalistic. “Father, may I come?”

He thickened then.
I hadn’t meant to tease him. I asked because I didn’t know. Was this still a
test? A way to prove our faith wasn’t lost?

“No, my angel,” he
grunted. “Be strong. I want to feel you for a moment longer.”

His movements quickened.
I angled my hips, offering him a deeper, more torturous bliss from my weakening
body. It exhausted me. It delighted me. I lost myself in the prayer for his
permission as every filling moment conquered me for him.

His cock
thickened. I needed it. My heat raged, and every thrust into my core wetted me,
slickened me, prepared me for his release.

“Father,
please.
”

“Do I say. Exactly
as I say.”

I would have
followed him to the ends of the earth. I think I did. His motions blinded me in
sin and repentant pleasure.

He gasped in a
shuddered whisper. His chest strained, damned with sweat and heat. He prayed,
words I couldn’t understand and a struggle I understood too well.

His eyes flashed,
maddened with lust. He rutted through me. Completely.

Father Raphael
stared at me, tensing and crashing and praying and gasping. We came undone, and
his words whispered as blessings.

“
Come
, my
angel.”

I cried out as he
slammed within me once more.

The heat jetted
from him. Once. Twice. Three times. Maybe more. I clenched upon him, called his
name.

And I was lost
into the paradise he promised.

Beautiful, sullen
sacrilege.

Perfect, miserable
desecration.

Unending,
conquering pleasure.

No wonder it had
been forbidden.

I tasted of this
fruit and sacrificed my own body, my desires and thoughts, beliefs and needs,
sins and virtues. It fell away in an instant, forsaken for that pin-prick of a
moment in all of eternity where my soul belonged to him.

And I loved it.

I ached for it.

I crashed again
and again in consuming lust, until my body ached, my soul cried, and I couldn’t
breathe with the strength of him inside me.

We fell to the
bed. Panting. He pulled from me, but a part of him stayed, a tremendous heat
and delirious remembrance which coated me in seed.

I struggled to
breathe, fought the tears, and surrendered to the crippling aftershocks of a
body desecrated and blessed, lost to darkness and reawakened in the wonder of
warmth.

He rested beside
me as the world returned. Dim. Dark. Lost from the eternity that Heaven
promised to us.

Was it a sin to
admit that I was happy?

I would not have returned
to that innocence. Not if it took me from him.

Not even if it
cleansed my soul and protected me from the sins to come.

And there would be
many.

The silence
stirred through me.

I expected
hellfire. A rain of sulfur. A burning bush or a slithering serpent.

Instead, I covered
our nudity as the scripture said, and I waited in the darkness for morning.

Honor napped, but
her sleep was not deep or peaceful. I watched her, amazed and enlightened,
terrified and lost.

Such a beautiful
girl.
Woman
.

She offered me a
wondrous gift, but I was not worthy of that virtue. Not worthy of her. Of my
name. My collar. My thoughts. My prayers.

Or that sensual
and
gifted
celebration of our bodies and desire.

Our union was
something moving and unexplainable. As precious to me as my calling to serve
the Lord, and as genuine as all of my vows.

How was it
possible?

I took her, but
she wasn’t in pain. I hadn’t frightened her. Honor didn’t look upon me with any
disgust. I thought sex bruised and hurt. Left one sick and damned.

This was not what
I remembered.

It was nothing
that I had ever experienced.

“You look so sad.”
Honor’s voice lifted my spirits, like church bells and song. She whispered to
me as if she, too, feared the feminine sound in my home. “Did I do something…
wrong
?”

“No, my angel.”

I sat on the edge
of the bed. My feet struck the floor, and I pulled the sheet over my waist to
cover my nudity. It did little to hide me. The lovely sable brown of her skin
contrasted with the ivory of my sheets, I hardened again.

One sin wasn’t
enough.

Once would never
be enough.

And that thought
frightened me more than the realization of my broken celibacy, my lost soul, or
how I threatened her with Hell.

“Did I hurt you?” I
asked.

The words tumbled
from my lips. I feared the worst, knowing how delicate she was as a virgin.  

Knowing how it had
been done to me.

“No, Father.”

She sat up and the
sheet wrapped over her navel. Her hair cast loose, and she let it cover her
chest. Just as the children’s Bibles drew Eve before she obscured her beauty
with a fig leaf.

I didn’t believe
her. “Are you sure I didn’t hurt you?”

Her words
emboldened. “No. Just the opposite.”

I should have wept
in relief. Instead, I gritted my teeth. I’d given her pleasure, and she gave her
heat, her tightness, her need. She’d surrendered to me.

Christ, I was not
worthy.

Honor slipped from
the bed. She took her bra and panties from the floor and gathered them to her
body. I said nothing as she retraced her steps to the living room to find the
rest of her clothes. The light from the powder room flipped on, and I listened
for the door to shut behind her before I moved.

My body ached. My
brain cried for sleep. Hormones. The only blessing for a man once the sin was
done, the seed was planted, and the bodies desecrated in lust.

But I hadn’t
desecrated her. Had I? I’d prayed too much, too hard, too
deeply
to have
let sin with me. I swore to carry her burdens, and yet I knew the instant I
rose, the moment I donned that cassock once more…it’d have been for nothing.

I dressed in the
pants and t-shirt. My hand stilled over my collar, wrinkled and buried under clothes
on the floor. I kissed it.

Honor was dressed
when I returned to her. We stood in silence, and I lamented that I was not some
other man. One that might have held her, kissed her, whispered poetry that
declared her the most beautiful woman in the world.

Instead, I didn’t
know what to say. God had given me many words to share, but the devil stole
them all in a moment of weakness.

Honor’s voice was
too loud, even in a whisper. We both flinched.

“I didn’t park out
front,” she said. “My car is in the church’s lot.”

“I should walk
with you. It’s late and dark.”

“No, Father. I
need…to be alone.” She held her hand out, preventing my approach. “And so do
you.”

I didn’t wish her goodnight.
I couldn’t. No night could be better or worse than ours.

She bowed her head
and rushed from my home, quietly. Like a little church mouse fearing she’d be
discovered.

But no one would
see her.

No one but me.

…No one but God.

I watched her go,
and another sliver of my soul shattered at my feet. I should have made her
stay. I should have welcomed her into my arms, into my bed.

I never should
have touched her.

The night came and
went, and morning drew too near.

Sunday morning.

I had sinned
before Mass. Somehow it made my wonderful, amazing, mind-altering experience
seem even more…wrong. Or did it? I waited for a sign that I was damned. A
smiting. A strike against me. Tears. Anything that might have moved me.

I showered and shaved,
but I felt nothing beyond the tranquility of my body. Calmed. Protected.

But if God
wouldn’t punish me, I’d do it myself.

I walked to the
church to prepare for Mass, twisting the rosary beads in my fingers without
murmuring a single word or prayer. Normally, I’d bless them before celebrating
Mass. Not today. The beads had grazed her skin, were held in her hand. Nothing
holier existed than her touch, and I cherished the rosaries even as they burned
through my conscience.

My head and heart
weren’t connected. I tripped on the loose stair in the rear of St. Cecilia’s—the
one I’d always managed to skip in the past. My toe ached, and I limped the
halls in silence as the church came alive for worship.

The sacristy
buzzed with activity. My altar servers and deacons dressed and joked. Some
gulped coffee to stem hangovers. Others struggled to find a working lighter for
the candles waiting in the sanctuary. They greeted me with smiles.

They had no idea
of the sins I’d committed, and they never would. They needed me—to lead, to
guide, to serve the congregation in the joy of Mass. I couldn’t let them see
how I had weakened. My faith fed theirs. If I faltered…

It wouldn’t
happen.

I turned to dress,
but my shaking hands knocked every vestment off the hangers. They crumpled on
the bottom of the cupboard. Deacon Smith groaned.

“I just organized
that, Father.” He waved a hand. “I pity what your mother went through on
laundry day.”

“She had her hands
full.” The joke appeased them, but it hurt me.

I refused to let
myself think of my home, my parents—that nightmare—while in the safety of the
church. I suffered enough this morning.

I helped Deacon
Smith hang the vestments, but my mind blanked.

Which one was I
supposed to wear today?

I stared at the
cabinet, at the red, white, and pink robes.

I fought to
remember.
Green
. Today was green. On the liturgical calendar, these
days, when not celebrating any feast or moment in particular, were called
Ordinary
.

But this day was
anything but
ordinary
.

I dressed, and my
heart pounded in my chest. The rapturous beating buzzed my ears with the rush
of blood. I couldn’t hear my deacons, the organ’s music, or the conversation of
the parishioners as they filled into the sanctuary for Mass.

I couldn’t let
myself get distracted. Mass was a time of
celebration
—a few minutes of praise,
glory, and gratitude for the Lord and his blessings upon the church.

And yet I could
think only of myself—on my own selfish desires and mounting sins.

I deserved to burn
myself on the charcoal we used to light the incense. Rookie mistake. I tossed
the charcoal into the censer and gave it a quick swing.

Too much.

Puffs of
sandalwood escaped in a thick cloud. Deacon Smith and my altar servers coughed.
The smoke detector gave a warning chirp.

Not what we
needed.

Deacon Smith leapt
onto a stacked pile of chairs and climbed to the smoke detector, silencing it
with a thud of his fist before the incense forced an evacuation.

“Easy, Father Rafe.”
He laughed and removed the battery. I helped him down from the chair. “Are you
feeling okay? You don’t look so good.”

“I’m fine.” I
handed the censer to the attendant who promptly adjusted the cage. “I didn’t
sleep very well.”

“Happens to us
all.”

Not like this.

Not before Mass.

Not when the souls
of my entire congregation depended on me to bless them, honor them, and deliver
them to salvation.

As if I deserved
that right.

A priest was no
different from a lay person—I was in mortal sin, and I was to confess what had happened
and beg for my forgiveness. Fortunately, the sins marred only
my
soul.
The communion I’d offer to the parish was still valid, even when administered
by a sinner’s hand.

Even if I had no
right to take the communion.

And I had no idea
how to hide that.

Deacon Smith
offered me a bottle of water. I chugged without tasting it.

“I can assist you
today, Father,” he said. “The choir can sing without my direction. Usually.
Most of the times. Somewhat. I don’t think they’ll sing Lady Gaga without me to
direct them…”

The choir.

Honor
.

Was she here?

My thoughts corrupted
images of my sweet, smiling Honor into the memories of her naked, writhing, and
impaled upon my cock.

“Go to the choir,”
I said. I gestured to the others. “I have my altar servers to help.”

And I’d be fine…provided
I remembered my words. The Missal would be before me, the words and actions and
ritual instructions were always upon the altar so we did not commit a mistake.
But my head clouded as the incense fogged my thoughts. What was once muscle
memory and rote memorization faded in the uncertainty of my sin.

I’d never faced a
sin I couldn’t conquer. And I never fought so hard only to lose. I suffered in
my humiliating, humbling defeat.

Honor was right. I
had prided myself on my ability to overcome temptation and sin. My caution
became arrogance, and my arrogance my undoing.

I ruined myself. I
broke my vows. I damned her.

And still I waited
for the moment when the heralds would call and the angels would descend and
that fiery sword of justice would strike through my blackened heart.

It didn’t come.

And the
congregation awaited me to lead them in a celebration of the Lord.

I marched the processional
to the altar. Nearly two hundred good, honest souls in attendance looked to me
to guide them during this celebration.

And all I heard
was her singing.

Heaven.

She sang in
beautiful, pure harmony with the rest of the Choir. Her voice burst over the
sanctuary, bright and solemn and angelic.

It haunted me.

The incense swung
from my hand. Once. Twice.

Had I swung the
third time before the candles?

I couldn’t
remember now. The servers said nothing, and I moved to the altar. I bowed and
rested for a moment, clearing my mind.

It didn’t work.

My concentration
was broken. I listened for her voice above all others.

She wasn’t just a distraction.
I never knew an angel could damn someone so completely.

At least I had a
chance to cleanse my soul. The Penitential Act was written and spoken to
beseech the Lord for forgiveness, for an honest confession of sins and guilt.

My voice led the
congregation, strengthening as I spoke the prayer. The words had never meant so
much to me.

“…I have greatly
sinned in my thoughts and in my words, in what I have
done,
and in what I
have failed to do…” My gaze fell over the church—the bored parishioners in the
pews, the children and adults on their phones, and the handful who listened.

She was there.

Honor clutched her
hymnal in the center of the choir. She dressed in concert black, covered and
pure once more. She, too, spoke the words of the prayer with
meaning.

I clutched my
trembling fingers into a fist, each repeated word a strike over my heart.

“…Through
my
fault, through
my
fault, through
my
most grievous fault…”

And I meant it.
Everything that happened between us was my fault.

Would it change
anything? I felt no relief. No hope.