Sweetest Sin: A Forbidden Priest Romance (20 page)

I was once a
perfect, penitent servant for Christ. Now, my blood stirred and thoughts
darkened. Had she but whispered, I’d have given my soul to become a servant for
her.

The readings
echoed over the church, and I sat at the side of the dais. My gaze fell only to
the sacred altar, the looming crucifix, my own folded hands. The choir stood
behind me, and I flinched as Honor sang once more, a beautiful solemn psalm
between readings.

I thought I was
strong enough to save us both.

What if I was just
weak enough to destroy her?

I stood once more,
prepared to deliver the homily for the week. At least it amused me. The parable
of the lost sheep. How apt. One truly repentant soul could make Heaven rejoice
over the prayers of ninety-nine righteous souls who didn’t need to repent.

If I wasn’t a
devout man, I might have overlooked the sign. But I knew what I had to do.

Protect Honor at
all costs, through all transgressions.

And hopefully save
myself.

The Mass was
slower than usual, my motions tripped by trembling fingers or words. A dyslexia
of the soul. I consecrated the bread and wine and deliberately focused on my
actions, but my mind was blessed by images of her.

On her back. Sharing
in a passion so honest and genuine and
pure
I couldn’t banish the beauty
of it as I could cast away the nightmare of sin.

Lead us not into
temptation…

The Lord’s Prayer
meant so much in that moment, and yet, the sound muffled against my ears and heart.
Had the congregation noticed?

Every sound
dragged from my lips. I worried it called the wrong attention to me. That the
congregation didn’t see my collar or my robes or the chalice I lifted in
praise.

I feared they saw
me. The sinner I was. The villain I’d became.

The lost child who
had sought comfort and family within the church when his own blood wanted only
to destroy his innocence.

I broke the bread
and spoke the words, but my hands trembled.

The priest was
always honored with the first gift of the Host. I cracked a small corner of the
wafer, dusting my fingers over the chalice to ensure no crumbs spilled.

I couldn’t take
it. I wasn’t cleansed. I hadn’t confessed. To celebrate communion would only
cause further sins.

I clenched my jaw
and broke it again. Smaller.

The congregation
didn’t notice. Maybe they wouldn’t see my shame.

I mimed the
motion, pretending to take the Host upon my tongue. I drew the chalice to my
lips but refused to taste the wine.

Did anyone notice?

I glanced over the
pews. None whispered. No one thought any differently of the motions, my
prayers, my
guilt
. Hardly anyone paid attention.

Only one person
saw what I had done.

Honor looked away
the instant our eyes met.

My heart had
opened for her. Now it shattered.

If she asked, I’d
have forgiven her. The question remained. Could I forgive myself?

That answer wrenched
from the depths of my crumbling soul.

No
.

Mass ended in
praise and song, announcements and a few pleas for more volunteers for the
Summer Festival. Deacon Smith praised the current volunteers. Apparently they
had signed more vendors and brought more food, games, and activities into the
parish.

They thanked Honor
Thomas especially for her tireless work, and then the faithful filed out.

One ceremony done.
One more to go, the Mass at noon. Larger than the early morning one.

How was I to get
through another ceremony?

I had an hour to
prepare, and I stripped of the alb and chasuble to collapse at my desk. My
rosaries hadn’t offered me comfort last night. They weighed heavier in my hand now.

The knock was
soft, too light and patient for Deacon Smith. I looked up as the door opened.

I’d expected her.

Honor dressed in
black for the choir, a simple and modest skirt and long-sleeved shirt that hid
everything I had cherished last night. Her hair was loose. For some priests, in
some Masses, we asked woman to wear a scarf over their hair. Not in my church.
Honor’s ebony curls bounced, soft and perfect over her delicate form. She
looked no less holy, no less
innocent
than she had while resting in my
bed.

She didn’t let me
speak. She came forward, holding her fist out to me.

Her fingers
unclenched.

The communion
wafer waited in her palm.

“I’m sorry, Father
Rafe,” she whispered. “I couldn’t. Deacon Smith handed them to the entire
choir, and I would have made a scene if I refused. I didn’t know what to do.”

My voice rasped,
hoarse, a harsh and graveled sound. The same tone I took with her in bed. The
grunted and masculine dominion over her.

“You aren’t
supposed to take that,” I said.

“I know.”

I had options.
Return it to the tabernacle. Use it in the next service. The body of the Lord
wasn’t something that could or should be smooshed within the penitent hand. But
I knew what I was to do.

I took her palm,
pulling it close. Her heat stirred me once more, and I caressed her fingers in
mine. I murmured the blessing and took the wafer in my mouth, allowing it to
dissolve upon my tongue as I was permitted to do.

A crumb remained
on her hand.

I drew her fingers
to my mouth and kissed her skin.

She trembled.

“Honor—”

My angel ripped her
hand from mine and bolted from my office.

I hated to swear,
hated the vulgar words and profane meanings, and yet nothing expressed my
frustration more. I bit my tongue and clutched my rosaries before my temper
overwhelmed me.

No.

Not temper.

Guilt
.

Hell wasn’t a
place or an idea. It was guilt. The realization of my sins and of the sins I’d
committed against those innocent to my desires.

And yet, even as I
stood, even as I dressed for the second Mass and prepared myself to lead yet
another ceremony, my mind raced with the guilty thoughts.

Not for what I had
done.

Not for the vows I
broke.

Not for the woman
I lost.

But because no
matter what prayers I whispered or confessions I gave, I’d never forget last
night.

She was a sin I
would never regret.

“I really hope
Jesus is tone-deaf.”

Alyssa declared it
after a particularly poor rendition of the
Alleluia
. Deacon Smith
shushed her.

Samantha giggled.
“Was that blasphemous?”

God only knew. Everything
was a sin—or at least, it looked that way to a sinner.

 “Look, guys.”
Deacon Smith sighed. “We have three weeks until the festival. Can we
please
pick a song so that we can practice said song so we aren’t humiliated at our
own Battle of the Choirs? You know. The one
we
organized?”

Alyssa sighed. “I
vote
Ava Maria
.”

Deacon Smith would
pop a vein. “
Everyone
will sing
Ava Maria
! We need something
stellar. Something that will really show up those other choirs.”

Samantha giggled.
“Amen.”

I couldn’t fault
Deacon Smith. We rehearsed a dozen different songs, but nothing felt right. And
our latest piece was scrapped after we encountered a bit of…competition.

“This is getting real,”
I said. “The other churches we invited? They’re taking it a little too seriously.”
I crinkled the paper in my hand. “The Lutheran Church down the road just
stapled
their set-list to our doors.”

Most of the choir
groaned and laughed.

Samantha tilted
her head. “I don’t get it?”

Deacon Smith
smacked the piano and ordered us to open our hymnals again. “We just need more
practice. I’m thinking of scheduling another night.”

The choir grumbled.
I opened my phone’s calendar. Every day had an event or a crisis or a class or
a job of some sort. Women’s group. Choir practice. Festival organization. Food
Pantry. Classes. Part-time hours I’d begged to work at the library for extra
money.

Mass.

Four days had
passed since my night with Father Rafe and the Mass that followed. I tried not
to think of the passionate moments I’d spent in his arms, but my memories
burned for him. I closed my eyes and saw his body. I knelt in prayer and
remembered his touch. I sang, and I felt the press of his lips against mine.

Lust had blinded
me to everything but him, and longed for more. He had filled me so impossibly,
so perfect that without him I suffered in a terrible loneliness.

No penance was
this cruel.

Deacon Smith
clapped his hands, and everyone stood.

Uh-oh. Had he been
talking?

Yes.

I stood in my
place and tried to peek into the hymnals of those near me. No dice. I’d have to
guess.

“Let’s try again.”
Deacon Smith counted off the song. He gestured for us to hold the first note
before moving to the next chord of the song.

I sang a perfect
C. Everyone else started on an A#.

And
that
sounded unholy.

“Whoa.” Deacon
Smith blinked. “Honor, what song are you singing?”

“I…” My mind
blanked. “
Amazing Grace
?”

“Yeah…” Alyssa
snorted. “We’re on
Mary The Dawn
. What’s gotten into you?”

Good question.

The choir groaned.
After I sang another three ear-piercing mistakes, the cell-phones whipped out
and everyone whined for a break. Deacon Smith finally relented, giving us
fifteen to banished whatever it was that keyed us so out of tune.

It was me.

Alyssa and
Samantha collapsed in the pews, but they waved me over with a smirk.

“Part of me almost
wants to do badly at the festival,” Alyssa said. “Just so I could repent with
Daddy El in private.”

Samantha shook her
head. “Not me. Daddy El’s been a bit too grumpy lately. I’d rather be the one
who makes him smile again. I hate to disappoint him.”

I did too. And I
feared I had in the best possible way.

“Why are you so
quiet?” Alyssa offered me a licorice whip from her bag of snacks. I took it,
but I forgot to take a bite. “You’ve been weird all night.”

“I’m fine,” I
said. “Just running myself ragged.”

“No wonder. You’re
acting like a little Mary. Save some good works for the rest of us.”

No faith or works
would save me now. “Just trying to stay busy.”

Samantha dug
through the snacks until she found the Skittles. “Even God rested on the
seventh day.”

But I hated to
think what would happen if I finally rested, let my guard down, realized the
truth of what I’d done.

“Hey…” Samantha
tossed a Skittle at me. It thunked off my forehead. “Everything okay?”

I frowned and bent
to pick up the candy before Father Raphael had a fit that we were eating in the
sanctuary. “I’m fine.”

My friends shared
a worrisome glance. Alyssa leaned close, her voice low.

“Is this about
your Mom?”

I stiffened. Samantha
touched my arm.

What was going on?

“What about my
mom?” I asked.

“You know…” Alyssa
shrugged.

I didn’t.

“In the bathroom?”
she asked. “After the women’s group meeting?”

I slowly shook my
head. Samantha smacked Alyssa’s arm, and they both silenced.

No, no, no. They
weren’t keeping this from me. My chest tightened, but I didn’t let it show.

“What happened?” I
asked.

“Sorry. I
shouldn’t have said anything. It was nothing.” Alyssa faked touching-up her
perfect ponytail.

Samantha downed a
fistful of Skittles to avoid talking. “Yeah. It was probably just an aspirin.”

Now I did panic.
My jaw tensed so much it popped, and I clutched the pew with trembling fingers.

“What are you
talking about?”

Samantha twisted
her fingers in her skirt—too inappropriate for the church and entirely too
short for anything that would tempt Father Raphael. “Okay.
Some
of the
women said they saw your mom take a pill in the bathroom after the women’s
meeting.”

Oh God.

She rambled a
little too fast. “But they didn’t know what it was. And your mom scooted out of
there pretty quick once the others came in.”

My stomach pitted.
“Have they…told anyone?”

Alyssa looked
sheepish. “It’s nothing. Things have been pretty boring around here, and you
know how these old ladies get. It was just gossip.”

Gossip that would
turn us homeless.

The help we
received from the charities were only offered to those who were clean.
Recovering.
If Mom had started using again…

But she wasn’t.

I’d have known.
I’d have seen it. Heard it in the slur of her speech. She still felt like the
clean and sober stranger in our home, not the lazy and disjointed mother I
remembered.

I hoped.

I hadn’t been
paying that close of attention. And I had been busy, running back and forth
between classes and meetings and work and volunteering. I was hardly at home,
even though I’d specifically returned to help her.

And I
hadn’t
.

I’d been home for
two
months, and I hadn’t done a blessed thing for her besides cleaning the
apartment, organizing the bills, and begging favors from others so I wouldn’t
have to help her myself.

I clutched my
phone and stood. “I…I’ll be back.”

“Wait,” Alyssa
said. “I’m sorry. Really. It was probably nothing.”

Or it might have
been something.

I escaped the
sanctuary, and my heels clipped against the stone. I didn’t escape through the
front of the church. I darted out the side entrance, into the back of St.
Cecilia’s second lot. The corner property was large enough for picnics and
events—or for an entire festival that was coming too fast.

I followed the
path to the shrine surrounded by meticulously trimmed roses blossoming around a
bench. The Mary garden was a small section of earth tended for the Holy Mother,
where the remnants of the communion wine was often poured after Mass.

I plunked onto the
bench, breathing in the cool night air. His footsteps carried behind me. I
recognized them, and that only made the guilt worse.

I didn’t look at
him.

“Do you think Mary
ever embarrassed Jesus?” I asked. “One of those
mom
moments?”

Father Raphael hadn’t
expected the question, but he thought only for a few silent seconds.

“I think everyone
has
mom
moments.”

“Some are worse
than others.”

“Do you remember
the story of when he was a boy, and he was lost for three days in Jerusalem?
Mary found him sitting in the temple with the other teachers.”

“Yeah.”

“It wasn’t
written, but…” He smirked. “I bet she had some choice words for him in front of
the rabbis before she dragged him away.”

I shrugged. This
was a different humiliation. Not the imagined scoldings of a worried mother,
but the pained revelation of a hurt daughter.

Mom wouldn’t give
up her sobriety.

Would she?

“Honor, what
happened?”

I didn’t look up
as he approached. “Do you think we’re being punished?”

“Why would you
think that?”

“I deserve it.”

“Do you?” His
voice lowered to the wonderful and soothing growl I expected from him.

The night pressed
close around us, darker yet with the sway of his black robes. I feared looking
at him, wondering if I would see the proud priest cloaked in humility or the
sensual man, naked and fierce, tattooed with his faith.

“I won’t confess
to anything, Father Rafe.”

“What happened…what
I did to you, it was…”

I expected him to
feel this way. “Don’t mourn for my virtue. And don’t try to save me.”

“Why?”

“Because I won’t
pretend that night didn’t happen.”

His temper was
short tonight. He baited me, poised on the edge of his own patience. I turned,
facing the same man who had invaded my dreams to comfort me in the time we
spent apart.

“Why won’t you let
me help you?” He stepped closer. I stood to retreat into the shadows as he
loomed over me. “I took your virginity. I’ve left you in a state of sin. I…” He
lowered his voice. “I came inside you, Honor.”

“Like a proper
Catholic.”

“I’m serious.”

“And I’ll confess
to being a little more modern than the teachings.” This was the awkward conversation,
but it was good to have. “I’ve been on birth control since high school. It was
meant to help regulate my cycle. We didn’t see a problem with it.”

“And the sins
mount.” He sighed. “Though this one is prudent.”

“Sorry.”

“Honor, I would
apologize to Christ for everything I did, but first I must apologize to you.”

“Why, Father?”

He breathed deep,
through gritted teeth. “I’ve ruined you.”

“Again…I’m more
modern than that. My virginity was mine to
give
, not a man’s to
take
.”

“Wouldn’t you have
preferred to save it? To offer it to someone who could love you, marry you,
give you all that you desire?”

He wouldn’t hear
my honest answer.

“Instead I seized
it. I desecrated it in lust.” His voice lowered. “And if you hadn’t left when
you did, I’d have done it again.”

Silence.

I stared at him,
trembling. He confessed under the moon, the stars, before me and God and the
whole of creation. My voice was a whisper, its own secret and willing
admission.

“Father…now that
we’ve been together…can you imagine letting me go?”

Silence. He didn’t
answer. My soul spoke for us both.

“Can you imagine
me with another man? Someone who would hold me as you have? Spoken those words?
Kissed me like you did?”

He turned from me.
There was my answer.

“Father…can you
imagine another man ever taking me as you did?”

I expected his
hands, his kiss, the fierce closeness of his grip as he dragged me against his
body. Father Raphael kissed me, his tongue stealing my words and transforming
the horrible, ugly truths I might have uttered into a soft mew of desire.

“
No
,” he hissed.
“I can’t imagine it. I
won’t
. It pains me, my angel. Taking you was a
sin, but keeping you will be my final damnation.”

“Then you
understand why I can’t confess.” I clung to him, meeting the fire of his gaze
and expecting brimstone. I saw only haloes of perfect light, etching him in
quiet reflection. “The only sin from that night is regretting anything we did.”