Sweetest Sin: A Forbidden Priest Romance (12 page)

“No, Father. I’m
just nervous.”

“Why?”

“You have a very…overwhelming
presence.”

She meant
intimidating
.
That hardened me more, shattering my control and straining my cock within the
confines of my clothing. My saving grace was a fashion style encouraged from
the Vatican. I should never have doubted the wisdom of two thousand years of
celibate men wearing cassocks.

“Do you have
something you wish to confess?” I teased.

Honor bit her lip,
but her coy smile remained. She shook her head only once, a proud movement.

“No, Father Rafe.
Nothing to confess.”

Really? I wasn’t
so convinced.

“Nothing?” I
asked. “Not a touch?”

“No, Father.”

My perfect angel,
doing as I commanded, doing as our faiths required.

And yet...sin
worked in more devious ways, and temptation lingered even when the body obeyed.

I held her gaze,
stilling her breath and earning a secret shudder. “Have you indulged in impure
thoughts?”

“Father—”

“Answer me, Honor.”

She twisted in her
seat. Not uncomfortable, but desperate. She arched to wiggle a greater pressure
against the sacred secret I imagined in my darkest, most perverse of sins.

“Yes, Father.” Her
whispered words pulsed in my cock. “I’ve had impure thoughts.”

“How many?”

“Does it matter?”

“Contrition
requires specificity, so that a priest may better grant you the forgiveness for
your transgressions.”

“Okay…once.”

That wasn’t true.
I arched an eyebrow. “Just once, my angel?”

Her eyes drifted
lower, staring at the snow-pure white of my collar. “Just once, Father. Because
every thought of you I have is impure—from the first time I met you until this
very moment, I’ve suffered through a continuous desire. One thought, one
fantasy after another. I sleep, and I dream of you. I wake, and I think of you.”

I swallowed, my
mouth dry.

Was it possible to
envy my angel for her sins?

I no longer had
impure thoughts. The images of my lust didn’t take a recognizable form. They
centered inside me, manifesting as the surge of blood from my veins to my cock,
as the involuntary clenching that twitched my shaft.

Instinct overruled
sanity. I wrapped my rosaries tight in my palm and squeezed.

It didn’t quell the
desire to rut. To thrust. To
overpower
.

Heaven help me
.

“Tell me,” I
ordered.

Honor watched with
wide eyes as I stood. She clutched the chair, panting a quiet breath.
Embarrassed? She would be, revealing those naughty thoughts about a man who
could not lust.

“Father, I thought
priests didn’t need specifics.”

But where was the
torment in that? “Tell me, Honor. Unburden your soul. What sin do you fantasize
about the most?”

I stalked to her
chair, circling behind her so she could not see me unless she turned. I doubted
she would be brave enough to face me as she described in detail what dark
secrets tangled her mind.

“I can’t speak
them out loud,” she said.

“Afraid it might
come true?” I drifted close.

“I know it won’t.”

“Then speak these
evils so we can cast them from our minds. Confront this temptation, Honor. Tell
me what it is you dream about, and we will fight it together.”

Or lose ourselves
trying.

She trembled as I helped
her from the chair. I stood her before my desk, facing the crucifix hanging on
my wall. She stared ahead.

My gaze never left
her.

I prayed, but I
glorified her—the bobbing curls of her hair, the elegant slope of her shoulders,
the perfect curve of her hips. Every inch of her was worth worshipping. She
licked her lips.

The pink of her
tongue stirred me.  I had tasted it. Teased it. What I wouldn’t have given to
feel that tongue upon my body…

“Father…” She
nearly turned away before confessing to her sins and delights.

Unacceptable.

I gripped her hips
and held her in place. We both stiffened as I threaded an arm over her
midsection. She went still.

This woman was
burning alive.

She fit within perfectly
against my body. My hips pressed against her lovely curves. I could no longer
hide my shameful erection, but the hardness shocked her, stole her voice and her
strength.

Her legs wobbled,
and I captured her before she collapsed into me. Honor permitted my lecherous
touch as I kept her standing.

I pressed my hand
against her thigh, amazed by the stretch of the denim over her perfect legs. I
palmed the jeans, wishing I could feel her soft skin. Her head fell back
against my shoulder.

Was this the path
to Heaven or my first descent into hell?

I’d never touched
anyone like this before—her body so tightly pressed against mine, the beautiful
swell of her thighs tucked against my swelling cock.

Honor moved only
to wiggle against me.

Shameful, blessed
shimmies.

“Father…” She kept
her eyes forward, upon the crucifix. My sorrowful, lusting angel. “
This
.
This is what I’ve thought about.”

“An embrace?”

“No. No, it’s more
than that.” She mewed, a pitiful and aching sound begging for a release. I had
no idea if she longed to be free of my hands or released from the peaking
desperation of her body. “I imagined this, Father. But without clothes. You
behind me. Over me. Touching me.”

My body racked
with pain as I strained to imagine that wondrous moment too. She bent, back
arched, the curve of her hips inviting me to lose myself within the beautiful
folds of her virgin slit.

I stepped us
forward, pressing against her back to lower her onto my desk.

Her breathing
stopped.

So did mine.

This was more
beautiful, more powerful, more precious than anything I’d imagined before.

She waited,
timidly, her legs pressed together but her body presented to me.

This was why they
called it
mounting
—that animalistic declaration when a man overwhelmed
with lust gorged himself on the surrender of another person.

I leaned over her,
grateful for the barrier of her jeans and my robes. She groaned, eyes closed, lip
bitten as I trailed my hands over her arms. Her hips accidentally—or
purposefully—bumped as I covered her hands with mine.

Her palms
flattened against the desk. She arched for me. I kicked her feet to spread her
legs.

And she
became…vulnerable. Waiting. Wanting.

Irresistible.
Dangerous.

The destruction of
my faith.

“Did you imagine
this, my angel?” I breathed over her ear. “This moment?”

“Yes, Father.”

“And what was it
we did?”

“Everything,
Father.”

“Tell me.”

“I imagined…I
wanted…you to take me.”

My innocent Honor,
willing to bend over, to be straddled, to be overpowered by her priest…

…And yet she
couldn’t speak that profane word.

I wouldn’t say it
either.

That foul, raw expression
had no place in my dignity…and it was far too tempting to indulge in it. Giving
it life meant giving it cause to corrupt me.

More than I had
already been corrupted.

“Was it like this,
Honor? With me behind you?”

“Yes. And other
ways. Beneath you. Me over you.”

“These are the
wicked thoughts you’ve suffered for over a month?”

“Forgive me,
Father.”

The shiver built
from the base of my spine. The tremble when she called my name, the reverence
in her voice. I wanted to hear it. I wanted her cry it aloud. To call my holy
title as I rammed within her, giving life and meaning to her sinful
precognition.

I arched, pressing
against her. She groaned.

Music. A choir of
angels.

My fingers
tightened over her hips. She breathed, sighed, wiggled.

Forward. To get
away. Her breathless words shadowed with indecision.

“Father, we should
stop.”

Stop
.

The desire burned
in me. I could stop. I could also enjoy the soft swell of her flesh pressing
into the hard demands of mine.

“I can’t…” Honor
clenched her eyes shut. “This feels too good.”

My little angel,
overwhelmed and undone by a simple press of my hips.

If only she might
have felt more. A touch. A lick.

The true taking of
her willing body.

I moved again. The
tightness of my robe and pants aided the strain against my wretched flesh. I
could give myself pleasure with a simple movement. The natural position of her
body offered a channel for me to rut.

How much greater
would it feel without her jeans…

My fingers groped
over her hips, searching for the waistband, the button, the zipper containing
those beautiful curves.

“Father Raphael.”

Honor gripped my
hand. She squeezed, protecting the button.

Protecting us
both.

I sucked in a
ravenous breath and hauled myself from her. She immediately turned, her hands
covering her face.

What had happened?

We sweated,
panted, ached as though we’d rolled on the floor for hours.

Too close.

Much
too close.

“Father…” She
swallowed. “I’m sorry, I…”

I held up a hand,
surprised that the rosaries were still clenched between my fingers. “I know my
limitations now.”

“Good?” She
cleared her throat. “So do I.
You
are my limitation.”

“It’ll become
easier.”

She eased away
from my desk. “And if it doesn’t?”

“You’ll have to
trust me.”

Because I no
longer trusted myself.

Honor pressed a
hand to her cheek. She appeared panicked. Desperate.

Poor thing.

 “We passed the
test.” I faked a smile. “Go now. Set up for the meeting. I’ll…step out. Pick up
the pizzas.”

“And I’ll…” She
laughed, a surrender in itself. “Splash water on my face.”

She deserved only
the holiest of waters.  Consecrated and cool.

She retreated from
the room, her hands raised. “And I promise to behave.”

It did nothing for
my cock, but it gave me confidence. “So do I.”

The door closed
behind her, and I fell into my chair, uncomfortable and pained. My body
betrayed had me.

This was a
punishment from God—a warning that I had gone too far.

Nothing would ease
that ache, especially as I had a full night of meetings and groups to attend.
Thank Christ for busy schedules.

I doubted it would
help.

I prayed—Latin,
the entire Rosary. Twenty full minutes of intense, soul-wracking prayer.

And my erection
hadn’t diminished.

My penance would
be this discomfort. My ache, my shame.

At least it was a
just punishment.

I added more hours
to my rotation at the food pantry.

It wasn’t a magnanimous
donation of my time. Guilt motivated me to work, and I had to do something to
save my thoughts and my soul.

Not like my antics
with Father Raphael would help me.

I’d been bent over
a desk by a priest. We fought the temptation and won, but it hadn’t shielded me
from a wicked curiosity. The sneaking, unrelenting
What ifs
plagued me.

What if he had
unbuttoned my jeans?

What if we had
touched?

What if we
surrendered, just for the briefest, most amazing, most fulfilling of moments?

And I knew the
answer to that. I felt the hellfire a little closely.

So I added another
shift to the food pantry, and I volunteered to help make the flyers for the
festival. It was the least I could do, especially as every time I tried to
pray—even my rosaries—I thought only of Father Raphael.

The pantry received
a large, monthly delivery from the diocese’s county collection program. The
rest of the goods—cereals, canned products, and household supplies—were donated
from the parish and from collections. Most of the boxes had yet to be unloaded.
I looked forward to doing the inventory, stocking the shelves, and filling out
the spreadsheets.

It was all good
busy work that prevented my mind from wandering. Especially since I wielded an X-acto
knife to open the delivered boxes. The last thing I needed was to get
distracted with the blade and come out of my shift looking like I endured the
Stigmata.

The older ladies
who ran the pantry weren’t the kind of Catholics who liked that joke. I was
willing to bet Father Raphael would laugh though.

And he had a
wonderful laugh.

The shift passed
quickly. It took an hour before the little bell rang in the reception area.
Judy manned the sign-in sheet out front, but she called for me to join her, a
slight catch in her voice.

“
Honor
!”
She peeked into the shelves. “Your…mother is here.”

What in the world?

I dropped the box
and snuck to the front, my heart stopping as Mom picked up the sign in form and
jotted down her name in huge, bold script. She grinned and waved her hands to
gather me in a hug.

“There’s my busy
little bee! I feel like I
never
get to see my baby anymore.”

It might have been
deliberate. The more hours I had with the church and classes, the less time I
had to spend in the apartment.

I greeted her with
a forced smile. “Mom, what are you doing here?”

“What’s it look
like?”

I prayed she meant
she was volunteering. “Um, you’re…”

“
Shopping
,
silly!”

Judy grabbed her
cell. She twisted a finger through her devil-red hair, just waiting for the
gossip to spread through her rumor-mill phone tree. I took the clipboard from
Mom and smiled politely to Judy.

“I need a couple
minutes. Can you cover me?”

Judy hummed. “
Absolutely
,
sweetheart.”

The door jingled
as I led Mom outside. I made a mental note to rip the metal bell off the frame
the instant I returned. 

“Mom, what are you
doing?” I kept my voice low. “We don’t need food from the pantry.”

“The house is
empty
,
Honor.” She sighed. “I’m not used to having two mouths to feed.”

I silently
calculated the amount in my bank account, subtracted gas and my cell phone
bill, and hated the number that returned. But I’d make it work. If I lived on
Ramen last semester, I could certainly make a better meal with a real kitchen
instead of an illegal hotplate.

“I’ll go shopping
after this shift, okay?” I said. “I’ll bring us home dinner too.”

“Don’t be silly.
That’s why the pantry is here. The women at the church told me to come by, and
here I am.”

“You have to be
pre-qualified.”

“And we are. Times
are tough, but you knew that.”

“No,” I said. “I’m
working. I can afford groceries. This food is for—”

“Those who
need
it.”

“And that’s not
us
.
It’s young families. Women who left abusive husbands. The elderly who had
nothing for retirement. Disabled veterans. But I can make ends meet, Mom.”

“And you
are
,
baby.” Mom brushed my cheek. “But you’re working so hard. You’ve taken on so
many responsibilities in the church. If I had half the ambition that you did…a
lot of things would be different now. No drugs. No booze. No jail. But this is
the reality. Your father is gone, God be with him, and we fell on harder
times.”

I wouldn’t let the
bitterness eat through me. “You’re not taking food from the pantry.”

“
We’re
not.
You mean,
we’re
not taking food, right?”

It wasn’t often
Mom’s newfound optimism faded, and a harder edge shadowed her voice. But the
program and steps made it clear that she was to accept herself and others and
be grateful for life. No resentment, no anger, no sorrow anymore—not when she
was alive and free from the addictions.

“I know this is hard,”
Mom said. “Your father worked long hours to avoid charity—”

“Dad put in fifty
or sixty hours a week until…”

“Until he died.”

No. Until
she
had needed his help. Until he had to reduce his hours and sacrifice his ability
to support the family to enable Mom as she drank herself almost to death.

I swallowed the
lump in my throat. Mom’s lips pressed thin, and she folded her hands.

“Honor…I lost the
appeal for the SNAP program because of the drug conviction.”

I wish she’d kept
her voice down.

I smiled politely
at Mr. and Mrs. Popp as they headed into the pantry. The entire congregation
would spread this gossip by the end of the day.

“We’ve survived
without it before,” I said. “I can pay for groceries.”

“For now…” Mom
took my hand. “Honor, baby, I didn’t want to burden you with all this. It’s
just been so nice having you home again. I missed you growing up, even though
you were right there the whole time. Now I hoped we could reconnect and…really
become a family again.”

A family without
Dad.

“But there’s a
problem,” Mom said. “The diocese was kind enough to give me a little money
every month for rent. However, it was only temporary. It runs out next month.”

My stomach
curdled, and any hope I had of staying even a part-time student vanished.

We needed
more
money?

I’d have to cut
back on the volunteering. Get a full-time job. I had no idea if I could find
anything good without a degree.

“We might be able
to renew the program,” she said. “But we need a letter on our behalf.”

“A letter?” I
liked that spark of hope. “From who? The charity’s manager?”

“No, from someone
in the church.” She gave me a sheepish glance. “Father Raphael would be
perfect. And you seem to have a good rapport with him. If you could convince
him to write a letter to the diocese—”

“You want me to
ask Father Rafe for
charity
?”

“I want you to ask
him for
help
.”

I could reveal my
innermost fantasies to him.

Kiss him.

Arch as his aggressive
and gentle and fierce and confident hands gripped my hips.

But this? Asking
anyone for help was mortifying, let alone wishing for a favor from the man who
explored such terrible and wonderful feelings with me.

I’d been
humiliated by my desires, but still had my pride. I’d survived childhood and
adolescence without charity.

Except now? I didn’t
have enough money or any contacts or any leads for work that could help me
support her.

But if taking food
from the pantry seemed wrong, living in the women’s shelter wouldn’t feel right
either.

I nodded. “I’ll go
shopping after my shift…and then I’ll talk with Father Rafe.”

“You’re a good
girl, Honor. A good
woman
.” Mom hugged me. “But you listen here. Don’t
you spend all your energy on me. I ask for help when I need it, and I
acknowledge that my life is my responsibility now. Your money and time is still
your own.” She pulled away to study my face. “But you always did love family.”

I loved Dad.

Did that count?

God, what was
wrong with me?

I said goodbye and
headed inside only after I was certain Mom left. Judy waited with a box.

“No food tonight?”
She practically salivated, like she couldn’t wait to tell the rest of the
church of our misfortune. “Honor, you can’t go
hungry
.”

“We won’t.” I took
the box from her and returned it to the shelves. “Cross our name off the list.”

She didn’t take
the hint. “The other women and I are concerned.”

“Concerned?”

“If your mother
is…relapsing.”

“She’s not.”

“But in case she
is—”

“She’s clean!” I
didn’t mean to shout it, but the word spat out with more venom than if I
proclaimed another addiction. “She’s been sober for a year. Whatever happened
in the past is over.”

“But—”

“Yes, she
was
an addict. Yes, she went to jail. Now she’s out, and she wants to be a part of
the community. Is that a problem?”

Judy offered me
that sappy head-tilt, like everyone did when they thought I was acting like a
child.
Naïve
. But I was never innocent to Mom’s problems.

“We just want to
be certain we can trust her during our functions.” Judy folded her hands. “What
with the old issues and the money problems, and she signed up to help in the
concession stand—”

The thought
horrified me. “Do you think she’s going to
steal
from the concession
stand?”

“No, of course
not—”

“I told you she’s
better. She’s worked hard. She’s a new person. She’s not the woman she was for
the past sixteen years.” I gritted my teeth. “St. Cecilia’s isn’t very
forgiving, is it?”

“Honor—”

“I have to go take
care of some things for my
mother
.” I swung my purse and laptop bag over
my shoulder. “Cover my shift.”

Judy paled. “Honestly,
Honor, I didn’t mean anything by it—”

“Like hell.”

I slammed the door
behind me and made it to the car before the anger prickled tears in my eyes.
That frustration wasn’t directed at Judy or Mom.

At least, not the
new Mom.

I shouldn’t have
needed to defend her. Mom was clean. New. Forgiven. She started fresh—alone,
without Dad to help.

Wasn’t that enough
for them? Wasn’t it admirable that she tried to fit together the pieces of her
shattered life?

No one liked her
past, not the church, not me, but that was the darkness we weren’t supposed to
forget. Those ragged, empty years
had
to stay there. We
had
to
talk about them.
Acknowledge
them.

Accept them as
something that happened.

But I wasn’t a
fool. Accepting that terrible past was about as easy as confessing sins.

It gave me an
idea. I checked the time. Father Raphael held Reconciliations on Wednesdays,
and I could make it to the church before his hours were done.

Maybe it’d be
easier that way.

I arrived at St.
Cecilia’s with ten minutes to spare. No one waited in the sanctuary, and the
confessional door was propped open, waiting for a penitent soul.

I prayed before I
went inside, knowing full well what happened the last time I entered. I
willingly trapped myself in the memory. This favor pained me, and I hoped
having a solid wall and screen between us would…help?

Make it easier?

Give us distance?

I sunk onto the
kneeler. The door closed, and I blinked in the darkness. Father Raphael shifted,
and the light cast by his phone abruptly darkened.

“Go ahead, my
child,” he murmured. “I’m listening.”

How could a man be
this intimidating and yet so
comforting
? I nearly forgot to speak. His
voice embraced me just as dangerously as his arms.

“Bless me,
Father…” I crossed myself and sighed. “I…need a favor.”

“Honor?”

“Hi.”

“Hi.” His words
warmed, like he was smiling.

I loved that I
made him smile.

“Do you have a
minute?” I asked. “There’s no one else here.”