Sweetest Sin: A Forbidden Priest Romance (4 page)

“Yes,” Benjamin
said. “You are a very young, very passionate man. This life was never going to
be easy for someone like you.”

“But it is my life.”

“Yes.”

“Every day, men
and woman are faced with temptations. They fear those uncertainties as much as
they want their desires. It is that fear which traps them in sin.”

Benjamin sighed. “Are
you so different?”

Yes
. “I see no reason
to fear what tempts us.”

“Why?”

“Because I would
rather face it. Seize it, understand it. Then I would destroy it.”

He silenced,
leaning against the pillow in a quiet prayer. Benjamin eventually looked to me,
his eyes hazy with drugs and face jaundiced by the illness raging through his
body.

“Do not put your
Lord God to the test…” He groaned. “That’s in Deuteronomy. You don’t even have
to read far into the book to find that command.”

“I’m not
challenging God. I’m challenging myself.”

“
Why
?”

“So I can fight
the temptations that endanger the virtue of those around me.”

“
Virtue
?”
Benjamin tried to sit up. He didn’t make it, and his grimace of pain rolled
through me. “Be careful, Rafe. You are a strong, fierce man, but temptation
exists for a reason—to take advantage of those who would fall to their pride.”

“I am not proud of
this.” My voice steadied. “Pride means I’d underestimate the danger. I do not.
But the only way I will overcome this is if I face it. Challenge it.”

“This is a risky
game.”

“It’s the only game
that matters.”

And I meant it.
Nothing meant more to me than my faith or my soul…except the sanctity of
others. While other priests would run to avoid that confrontation, I met it
head on.

And so would she.

“I will only say
this once…” Benjamin leaned close, taking my hand. “I understand you, Raphael.
I have, ever since you were the lost little boy that came looking to join my
flock. You are a devoted priest, and every man finds the Lord in his own way.
But…” His voice dropped. “You are young. You are attractive. You are a man who
would draw attention, even if you were not wearing a cassock.”

“I understand
that, Father.”

“You don’t.
I
know you are a faithful man. But the diocese?” He frowned. “You wanted a home,
and so I spoke with the bishop and made it happen. Three years is a long time
in a single parish, especially for a man…like you.”

“I know, Father.”

“When I am gone,
you will be moved. Frequently. To avoid any…”

“Scandal?”

“
Sacrilege
.”

Right. Like what
occurred last night. Like the thoughts and desires and
need
that still
surged through my body and blood.

Maybe it was for
the best. Maybe a change in diocese would shield Honor from my intentions, my
presence.

Or maybe she was
sent to me because I was the only one who could save her?

Maybe we’d save
each other.

“Don’t worry about
me,” I said. “You’ve taught me well.”

“You still have
many lessons to learn. Unfortunately, they’ll be the toughest you’ll face.
Please…don’t do this alone. I know you, and I know how you sink into your head.
If you find yourself struggling—”

“I won’t falter.”

“If you do…don’t
internalize. Pray, seek guidance, and don’t be afraid to
retreat
. Life
is not all action, and sometimes having faith means accepting what you can’t
fight. During those times, let the Lord lead those battles for you.” Benjamin swallowed,
his voice fading. “Where you lead, others will follow.
The
righteous choose their friends carefully, but the way of the wicked leads them
astray
.”

I
didn’t need proverbs thrown at me. I’d spent the night reading anything that
might have given me wisdom. When that hadn’t worked, I’d prayed in silence.
When that made it worse, I depended on a cold shower to rid myself of Honor’s
candied apple scent and mewed groan, captured by her bitten lip.

If
I were a weaker man, I’d have tasted that lip.

Bitten
it myself.

Caused
that tiny gasp that cried for me as she slid her fingertips over that sacred
secret.

I
faked another smile for my friend. “Thank you, Father. You’ve…relieved me.”

“No,
I haven’t.” He waved a hand. “Go, you have an evening mass. You know I hate
when you’re late to your own celebrations.”

“I’ve
been on time to all three this week.”

“I’ll
nominate you for Pope.” He coughed. “Go. I’ll be here when you come back.”

He
always said that, but I had no idea how much longer it’d be true. I squeezed
his hand.

“Thank
you,” I said.

“Stay
out of trouble.”

“Always.”

Never.

Becoming
a priest was never meant to be an easy path. We abandoned most earthly concerns
to serve all of humanity, and the cost was too high to fail.

But
I was close to failure now.

That
meant I had to work harder, not just to protect myself, but to shield Honor
from any further evil that would target a girl too innocent to realize when the
world conspired beyond her control.

She
was young—only a senior in college. And her family had endured enough tragedy
without me inflicting any spiritual scars. 

I drove back to
the church, heart pounding as I thought of her. I wished the elevated pulse was
my only concern. I had no idea how to soothe my uncomfortable, persistent erection.
The only logical and sinful way to relieve the strain was forbidden to me. I
wasn’t celebrating Mass distracted.

I slipped into the
back of church and splashed cold water on my face. It was the best I could do
in the church bathroom. But it worked well enough, especially as I only had ten
minutes to prepare for the one evening Mass we held each a week.

Usually Mass
comforted me, put me at peace. It didn’t matter if I celebrated it with the
full congregation on Sunday, the fifteen or so people who attended during the
evening’s mass, or the few lonely times when it was just me and the Lord.

Tonight, I didn’t
enjoy the Mass.

I felt it. I
believed in it. I concentrated on the words, read out the prayers, and
delivered my homily as a dire warning.

The most important
prayer and speech I’d ever given, and the congregation wasn’t in attendance to
hear it.

But I could. And
I’d learn from every word of it.

“
No temptation
has overtaken you that is not common to man - 1 Corinthians 10:13
,” I
recited to the church, the altar, the world, myself.

And to the woman hidden
in the back of the sanctuary.

She waited.
Watched. Honor threaded her rosary through her fingers as she stared at me, too
torn to step foot within the sanctuary to take the gift of the Host that I
offered to all
penitent
souls.

I caught her gaze.
We both stilled, silent.

And she turned,
leaving the church. Honor ran before the Mass had concluded and I could follow
and find her, bless her as I blessed the others.

She left before
she accepted forgiveness for the mistake last night.

I wouldn’t allow
that. Not when she’d returned to me and sought that promised absolution.

It was mine to
give, and she would receive it.

Honor Thomas was
my greatest temptation, but I was her darkest sin.

Together we would
heal.

Or together we
would be damned.

How many chocolate
chip cookies did it take to redeem a sinner’s soul?

Probably more than
the two dozen I baked for the weekly women’s group meeting. Good thing I also
brought a carafe of coffee.

But was it really
penance if I made the cookies and coffee because I knew the women’s group had a
loose definition of medium roast and dessert? I had only attended one meeting
so far, but once was enough to know I should serve my community with a plate of
freshly baked guilt.

I probably
couldn’t bribe my Lord and savior with any form of chocolatey cookie—even if
they were made from scratch. I didn’t even use the egg beaters. I did
everything by hand, and I doubted it made the least bit of difference to my soul.
But at least I felt somewhat prepared to face St. Cecilia’s parish if I came
bearing treats.

Besides, it gave
me something to hold so the women didn’t see me shake. My hands hadn’t stopped
trembling since I pulled into the church’s lot. Every hallowed step echoed in
the stone halls and chiseled that fracturing courage in my soul.

I was scared, and
that wasn’t what the church taught. I shouldn’t have been nervous in the hall,
shouldn’t have twisted when I cast a side-long look at the confessional.

And yesterday I
shouldn’t have run from the evening Mass.

Mass was supposed
to be a gift to the faithful, a way to commune and meditate on matters beyond
ourselves. I’d even corrupted that. I’d attended to try and understand why I
acted the way I did in the confessional, but Father Raphael’s sermon, his
prayers, his soothing baritone had stirred too many feelings in me.

The feelings
weren’t holy. They weren’t pure. Those shivers delighted me and nearly made me
squirm in the back pew. When I closed my eyes in prayer, I imagined him there,
with me, beside me.

Over me.

Even now, I fantasized
about it. I took a breath. It didn’t soothe me nearly as much as that last
touch, that secret sin within the shadows of the confessional. In that moment,
everything had calmed, quieted, and blessed me in a simple peace.

If only I could
feel that way again. Was wanting that peace a sin?

Was
anything
I wanted not a sin? Even self-doubt and insecurity was dangerous. I was
supposed to be filled with grace. Instead I had cookies and coffee.

And waiting
outside the women’s meeting did nothing when my mother was already inside.

Laughing.

Grinning.

Preaching the good
news of her sobriety to anyone who would listen…and those who hadn’t asked to
hear.

“There she is!”
Mom grinned and patted the wooden folding chair at her side. “Honor, baby, I
saved you a seat.”

The vivacious and
grinning woman was thirty pounds heavier, ten decibels louder, and three
hundred and ninety days soberer than the mom I remembered just a few years ago.
Her skin had cleared, though the dark was still a bit splotchy over her arms
and legs. She chose vibrant outfits to cover up instead. Her hair grew back,
styled with more enthusiasm than gel. She wore bright red lipstick—so she could
smile and our Lord could see it all the way from Heaven, she said.

The chairs on
either side of her remained unclaimed. It didn’t surprise me. The dozen or so
other women clustered tightly on the opposite end of the circle, politely nodding
as Mom enthralled them with a story from rehab. The radio played a quiet song,
and Mom yelled over it, waving with an animated gesture to ninety-year-old Mrs.
Ruthie.

“There she is.”
Mom pointed at me.

Ruthie grunted. “
Eh
?”

“There! That’s
Honor. That’s my baby.” She frowned and shouted louder, her voice echoing
through the small room. “My
daughter
! All grown up.”

If Ruthie could
see past her cataracts, she was certainly blinded by the brim of her burgundy
hat—complete with a lace nest and beads. She nodded just the same.

“Lovely girl.”
Ruthie said. “Just lovely.”

Mom patted her
hand over her heart. “She looks just like her father, God rest his soul.”

That comment
gained the attention of the women in the circle. I should have remembered most
of them, though my family had stopped attending most of the public events when
I hit high school, when Mom’s addiction got worse.

They appraised me,
murmuring about my curly hair or the polite shade of my lipstick. At least I
wore the professional, responsible, knee-length skirt, though it meant nothing.
I could just as easily pull up the pleads and shed whatever virtue I had left.

They murmured
something about my father. I knew I looked like him. So did Mom. She mentioned
it every day, every time she looked at me. She saw Dad in the mocha shade of my
skin, the dramatic arch of my eyebrows, and our shared, silly smile.

I was better than
a picture to her, she said, but I doubted she
really
remembered Dad
towards the end. Most of that time was still a blacked out blur to her.
Another
life
.

She didn’t even
remember the day Dad died.

I did.

Mom gave me a kiss
on the cheek. I shrugged her away as I nearly tipped the cookies and coffee.

“I’ll be right
back,” I said. “Just dropping this off.”

“You brought
cookies!” Susan, one of the youth group troop moms clapped her hands. “Your mom
was right. What a blessing you are, coming home and helping her and us like
this!”

Now I wished I had
baked a cake. I offered her a cookie and passed the tray around as she murmured
her praise. The leader of the woman’s group, Judy Galbraith, scrunched her nose
and gave me a sheperding smile. She loved cookies almost as much as she enjoyed
moderating the parish’s drama, and, as head of four separate organizations, she
earned plenty of both.

“Oh, what a
sweetheart.” Judy seemed relieved to have another Thomas to address. “Look at you.
Getting involved in your community. Just like your…mother.”

I recognized the
tone. I would have thought a redeemed member of the parish would be welcomed
home. Mom wanted so much to join the groups and sing the praises and help the
community that she sometimes forgot just why she’d left in the first place. St.
Cecilia’s didn’t. The collective memory was a little too long.

They all meant to
do the right thing, but their philosophies sometimes did more harm than good.
To them, some people belonged in the community. Others were remembered as lying
in the gutter when the parish offered a blanket and a few dollars. Mom insisted
on giving back, and the women had no idea how to accept her gratitude.

I set the cookies
and coffee on the table, and two women stole me away. I recognized their
giggles. One perk of returning home after attending a college across the
country was the high-school reunion with old friends.

Of course, the two
giggling women who welcomed me home weren’t the…established members of the church.
Last I saw them, they owned the cool kids’ section of the choir. Alyssa and
Samantha had stayed in the area after high school, attending the local Catholic
college in the city. Neither had changed. Alyssa dyed her hair a brighter shade
of blonde, and Samantha still didn’t fasten the top two buttons on her blouse. But
it was nice to have friends my age in the church. My generation rarely stayed
in the congregation once they were able to order a drink at the bar.

“We really ought
to start making the coffee Irish around here.” Alyssa dumped four sugars into
her cup. “Even Jesus brought wine wherever he went.”

Samantha giggled.
“Could you imagine these old bitties drinking on a weeknight—or at all?”

I said nothing. It
was still too easy to remember Mom drinking at all hours of the day. I glanced
at her, hooting at her own joke with Judy and Susan. The program’s chip, the
year-long declaration of sobriety, hung around her neck.

“You don’t often
come to these meetings, Honor,” Alyssa said. “Don’t tell me you’re bored now
that you’re home.”

“I wish,” I said.
“This summer is killing me. I don’t have time to be bored. I’m taking three
classes to make up for the credits that didn’t transfer, and I need to do a ton
of community service. Plus I’m trying to get a couple extra hours of work in
each week. But you know how it is.”

They didn’t. Both
Alyssa and Samantha were endowed with more than what they stuffed into their
size-too-small blouses. Their trust funds grew by the hour.

I nibbled on a
cookie. “Besides, Mom wanted me to come. She said it’d be…fun.”

That wasn’t quite
it. Mom asked for me to join her so that we might
experience life together
.
It was part of her programs and therapies, and it was a good way to get to know
my new, sober mother. I thought it’d be easier when we were in a group. Less
pressure that way. Fewer questions.

Not as many awkward
silences.

I didn’t trust my
friends’ eager giggles and glances to the door. “So…why are you guys helping
the woman’s group? I thought you hated most of these church functions?”

“Oh…” Samantha bit
her lip and gave Alyssa a side-long glance. “We have our reasons.”

“Solemn reasons,”
Alyssa agreed.

Samantha sighed. “And
brooding.”

“Very brooding.
And
so
worth the hour or two a week.”

“Three if you
count Mass.”

“Six or more if we
do the festival.”

I counted with
them but had no idea what they meant. “Well, that’s a lot of church activities…”

Alyssa twisted her
finger in a lock of spiraling blonde hair. “Oh, come on. Like you don’t know.”

I shrugged.

“
Daddy El
?”

How long had I
fallen from grace? Was I missing
another
new phrase? It was hard enough
remembering
And with your spirit
, but as far as I knew, the Vatican
hadn’t changed anything else. All the lessons taught by the church were set in
stone—or papyrus—centuries ago.

“Daddy El?” I
asked.

Samantha rolled
her eyes. “Daddy El? Father Rapha
el
? Don’t tell me you hadn’t noticed
him.”

Oh
.

I shuddered,
wishing my heart would beat steadily instead of flaring to life in a dramatic
rush every time his name was mentioned.

“I don’t know…” I
said.

Alyssa’s smile was
wicked and completely unapologetic. “Oh, Daddy El. He brings out the Mary
Magdalene in me. Don’t tell me you haven’t looked.”

“I don’t…we can’t
think about him like
that
.”

“Why not? He’s
absolutely
divine
,” she teased. “Those dark eyes? His voice. God. I
could listen to him preach for hours.”

Samantha gave a
wiggle. “He’s the best thing that’s happened to Mass since Vatican II.”

They laughed. I
forced a smile, but I didn’t
dare
indulge in speaking of him that way,
thinking of his eyes, his commanding voice that had demanded my confession and
so much more.

It wasn’t harmless
fun. I feared my desires had become a dark obsession.

I couldn’t
stop
thinking of Father Raphael, and he wasn’t just a danger to my fleeting
attention span. Surrendering to any indecent, wicked, or alluring thoughts of
him would only unravel me more.

I was better than
this. Stronger. I vowed to fight that attraction.

So why did my skin
pickle as they giggled over his name? I silently chastised them, but the true
shame centered solely within me.

“Yesterday?”
Samantha lowered her voice, hiding her lips behind her coffee cup. “He played
basketball in the courtyard with the youth group.”

“In the cassock?”
Alyssa’s eyes widened.

“And
sunglasses
,”
Samantha said.

“Oh, that man. Nothing
is as sexy as the cassock, but under those robes? He’s totally ripped. Who’d
have thought a priest would put so much effort into his appearance.”

Samantha winked.
“Our body is a temple.”

“I’d worship his
all night.”

“What a waste.”

I bit through the
cookie so hard I was lucky I didn’t shatter a tooth. Father Raphael’s cassock
symbolized something impenetrable and mysterious and
intimidating.
It
hid what was once the man and presented only the priest.

And they were
right. It was unbelievably sexy.

I shrugged. “It’s
certainly…formal.”

“He says he likes
it that way,” Alyssa whispered. “He’s strict about almost everything, including
his presentation.”

“Wonder if he’s
strict in other places besides the church?” Samantha asked.

“I bet he has
other uses for that cincture around his waist.”

Thoughts blinded
me. Desperate, unholy images of silks and bindings, bodies and heat.