Saving Sins (Forbidden Erotic Romance) (6 page)

He seemed to waver where he stood at the end of the pew.
She knew he was remembering what she had done in the parking lot. She knew he
was remembering how he had responded. She had shaken him.

She didn't want to have shaken him. She wanted to help
him. She couldn't stand disappointing him any more.

"I won't bite," she said. "You can come
over here. I think I might puke if I move anyway."

"Tara," he said again, but this time she heard
the rustle of his clothes, and then he was edging down the pew until he stood
next to her.

She stared up at him. He was tall, strong. A port in a
storm, a man clinging to the rock of faith, throwing out lifelines to whoever
was brave enough to grab one. She imagined him in the lashing rain and wind,
screaming at each coward that swept passively by him, flowing out to sea to
drown.

He loomed above her. If he bent down to claim her lips,
she would give herself over to him entirely. They would strain and fuck, here
on the pew, the ancient wood groaning beneath them as he filled her over and
over again, as she ripped him from his foundations and used him to feel alive,
rode him into a sweet, fleeting oblivion. Love held her back. Fear filled her.

"I don't want to be afraid," she said.
"I'm tired of being afraid."

As she said those words, his face softened, though not
with tenderness. As though she had swept away some sort of foundation, his face
crumpled.

"I will help you," he said, and then she was
crying, sobbing, and his arms were around her, and she was spilling her secrets
onto his robes, the fear and dread, the pain and loneliness, and beneath her
cheek she felt the burning heat of his body, heard the pounding thunder of his
heart.

"There, there," he whispered to her.
"There, there."

A man of the cloth with no God. What had pulled her from the
undertow, if not his steadfast faith? What did his vows mean to him? And why
had he told her his secret?

They rode back to the church in silence, and it seemed to
Tara as though between them stood a scale, and on the scale teetered two fates,
though she couldn't have said what they were, or what actions would lead to one
or the other.

Pulling up to the back of the church, they got out of the
van and into the parking lot, empty except for her ancient little Honda. Snow
was falling harder now, great fluffy flakes sticking to the pavement and the
dead grass, covering up the ugliness of the world. In the morning it would all
be hidden.

“I've never driven in snow,” she said suddenly. The muffling
silence of the falling snow made her words so soft she was afraid Michael
wouldn't hear them, and she knew she wouldn't be able to repeat them because
they were a lie.

But he did hear them. “Perhaps you should wait in the
church,” he said. “Until it lets up.”

Her heart pounded. “Thank you,” she said. “I will.”

Together they mounted the steps, into the vestibule, and the
snow followed them in flurries, melting in the warmer air. Once inside,
Michael's hand extended toward the holy water. Then he paused.

Then, very slowly, he retreated.

“Tara,” he said, “why did you decide to come back here?”

And that was it. The big question. She could lie and say it
was because she wanted to give back, could say it was because she felt indebted
to him and wanted to help, could say she felt a tinge of that famous Catholic
guilt for living while others fell.

But she didn't.

“I wanted to see you,” she said.

He turned and stared at her.

“I wanted to see you as well,” he said. His brows furrowed,
and he suddenly looked older, and sad, and tired. “Did you know that you are
the only girl I have saved?” he asked. “Of all the women, in all my years...
you are the only one.”

She couldn't speak. Didn't even know what to say. That
faith, the faith she was so sure had anchored him, no longer existed. She could
feel him being swept out to sea.

She wanted to save him.

And then she didn't know who moved first, only that one
moment they stood apart in the vestibule, and the next she was in his arms and
his lips were on hers and she was moaning, aching, writhing.

The world melted away, receding as dark recedes from a
blaze. The pounding of her heart roared in her ears as he pulled her to him.
When she was young, their kiss had been untidy, frantic, but now, with the
weight of longing and time behind it, it consumed her.

His hands were everywhere, as though he could taste her in
his fingertips, and her lips thrust against his, her tongue flicking over his
mouth, begging him to open to her, to let her inside, to let her past the
austere priestly garb, the solemn vows, the dark sadness that shrouded him, and
with a moan he complied. She tasted him.

She was overcome, overwhelmed. He pushed into her, forcing
her back and back, until her body hit the heavy wooden doors with a
teeth-rattling jar, and he trapped her in the cave of his body, his mouth
plundering hers, drinking from her like a man in the desert dying of thirst. He
smelled of coffee and snow. The cold clung to his coat, and as she reached up
her chilled fingers grazed his cheeks, sampling the cool skin there.

"Please," she begged him as he broke away, his
ravenous mouth traveling down her jaw, tracing a path to her ear. Hot breath
curled in her head as he panted against her.

"Tara," he whispered hoarsely. "Tara, I've
wanted this, Tara, I shouldn't, please, Tara—"

His words cascaded together, needy, begging, helpless to
deny the heat between them. Hitching her hip, she wrapped her leg around his
and urged him closer as she buried her fingers in the cold locks of his hair.
Snow fell from him as she arched into his body.

"Michael," she moaned. She was drowning in him, in
the smell of him, the taste of him, the feel of him. The wood of the doors bit
into her back, trapping her against him. Heat rolled from him, heady and
intoxicating. Her greedy fingers wandered lower, finding his clerical collar,
feeling the rapid beat of his heart flutter against her skin. The collar was
stiff, unyielding, and impatiently she tugged at it, her need bowling her over.
She wanted nothing more than to rip his clothes off, reveal the person beneath
the severe garb, beneath the severe calling, the severe dedication. He was
bending beneath the weight of his burdens. She ached to take them from him, let
him lay them down, just for one night, relieve him of his cares, as he relieved
her when she was scared and alone, when she was dying on the inside and didn't
even know it.

"Michael," she whispered. "I need you."

"God, Tara," he said. "God. I can't, I
shouldn't—"

"Please," she begged. "If you don't,
I..." she didn't know what to say. "I can't stand it. Please."

For a long moment he held himself against her. Then, almost
tentatively, he nudged her hips with his, and she felt, once more, the
wonderful, hard steel of his erection probe her. Her mouth went dry and her
hands abandoned his collar, tracing over the hard chest, scraping over his
stomach, feeling the muscles there leap and clench at her touch. Then her hands
were on his waistband and she was pulling him against her again, grinding her
mound against his hidden, straining cock, and he came apart in her hands.

"Tara," he said, and then she was undoing his
belt, her fingers frantic and fumbling as she forced her way past his defenses,
conquered his unknown territory.

He wore plain underwear, serviceable cotton. Gently she
worked her fingertips past the tight elastic, feeling the soft, springy texture
of his pubic hair. Just as thick and luxurious as the hair on his head, she
thought and she had to laugh at her own little joke. The laughter died quickly,
though, because she found the base of his cock, and he moaned, collapsing into
her, only the doors behind her holding the two of them up.

Tentatively, she let her finger wander over the base,
feeling the velvety skin there sliding over the steel beneath. He was hard as a
diamond and
big.
What a waste it was on a priest...

Dipping her hand farther into his trousers, she pulled the
skin of his cock back, toward his pelvis, giving him the tiniest taste of what
she could make him feel, and he shuddered against her.

“I can't... I shouldn't... this isn't right...”

His shoulders were stiffening, though he didn't pull away.

She lifted her face to his. Desire-drugged green eyes gazed
down, his lips parted as he panted in time with her.

“Don't let me go back out there,” she whispered. “Don't let
me remember myself...”

And that was it. She didn't want to remember the person she
had been. He was her unfinished business. She needed to do this, needed him to
give this one night to her, and then, maybe, it could all be behind her.

For a moment he hesitated, his body trembling as inside, he
warred between his vows and his desires.

She licked her lips.

“Save me, Michael,” she said.

He groaned and gave in.

His fingers dug into her back as he dragged his hands down,
down past her hips to her ass, scooping her against him, cradling his body in
hers as his ravenous, unpracticed mouth traced over her throat, down to her collarbone,
and she reached around and pulled him to her. Angling her pelvis, she pushed
his erection into the space between her legs, feeling the hard steel swell and
press against the hollow of her pussy. She was empty, needy. She needed him.

His mouth grazed the swell of her breasts beneath her shirt,
and she retreated from him for a moment to undo the buttons of her blouse. Her
fingers stumbled over each other as, shaking, she pushed each button through
its hole, pop pop pop, until her breasts, constrained by a lacy bra, were
exposed to the cool air. Goosebumps pebbled over her skin, and she felt her
nipples harden as Michael placed frantic kisses over her flesh. The heat of his
mouth was an erotic contrast to the winter night, and she shivered and squirmed
beneath his onslaught as his fingers, buried in the abundant swell of her ass,
tightened on her almost painfully. He was like a river unleashed, all his
longing and desire held back by the dam of denial, and now at last he was
freed. His body moved against hers restlessly, aimlessly, as though he wanted
to press every inch of flesh against her at the same time.

"Michael," she said, and then he scooped her up,
slamming her into the door, hitching her legs around his waist as he thrust,
fully clothed, into her pussy. His erection ground against her clit, sending
her flying, her head spinning as he thrust against her. His mouth was on her
breast, the dark, wet heat of his mouth devouring her nipple through the lace
of her bra, and she clung to his broad shoulders, helpless. Behind him, the
statue of Mary watched them, and she closed her eyes as he slammed her against
the door again, the strength of his need surging violently.

"I need you in me," she whispered. "Please,
Michael, I need you inside me."

"Tara," he groaned. "You can't say such
things..." But it his arms, clamping her torso to his, shifted, and he
tore her bra from her breasts. They bounced from their cups, and at last his
mouth was on her, sucking one nipple into the hot darkness of his mouth. She
mewled and squirmed as he swirled his tongue against her skin, and then they
were sliding down the hard wood of the door, sinking to the floor of the
vestibule.

Cold tile bit into her back as he covered her body with his,
his fingers at her waistband, struggling to undo her jeans. She wished she'd
worn a skirt, but it was too late now. Her hands tangled with his as she undid
the button of her jeans and ripped the zipper down. Then he was working her
jeans down over her hips and the cold floor hit the skin of her ass with a
shock that made her gasp.

"We can go..." he started to say, but she didn't
want to go anywhere. She pulled him to her in a kiss that seared through her,
jolting straight through her body like a bolt of lightning, grounding in her
pussy, sending warmth out over her limbs, and then the cold didn't matter so
much any more.

He pulled back. "Turn over," he said, and his
voice was so rough and hoarse that it almost didn't sound like his any longer.
If it had been substantial, she could have rubbed it over her clit and come
from it alone. Wordlessly she turned over, and he pulled her back until she was
on her knees, her bare ass in the air, the tile biting into her knees through
her jeans. Her coat bunched over her head, and the sound of their shared breath
filled the vestibule.

The calloused pads of his fingers slid against her slick
lips, teasing her quivering channel with the promise of more. It was going to
happen. She'd dreamed of this moment. She'd dreamed of him for years. And now
it was coming true.

In her chest, her heart clenched, and she forced herself to
concentrate on his fingers as they dipped and retreated, tried to memorize
every move he made, every detail, from the smell of incense and snow to the way
the tile stuck to her cheek, to the sound of her tiny cries echoing in the
vestibule as he slowly explored her most secret spaces.

This is it, she thought. This is the night. After tonight,
they would never be together again, and the knowledge was a lump in her throat,
a weight in her stomach.

Then the heat of his mouth grazed against her pussy and she
squeezed her eyes shut, choking down a sob of pleasure, a sob of pain and loss
and need.

Slowly, his tongue skimmed over her pussy, exploring,
probing, and the tip of his nose ghosted against the puckered entrance of her
ass, his breath heating her flesh. She bit her lips so hard she tasted blood.
She heard him fumbling with his pants, and then he was rising up, straddling
her legs, and the tip of his cock touched her pussy.