Page 111 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part 1

I run the water into the hand-washing basin and wash them one by one. A black lace bra. A slip of red silk. My scarred and tattooed hands look grotesque against the fragile fabric. My mind flashes to the sparring match, to the feel of her body, all muscle and heat and defiance. All life.

I clench my jaw, plunge the silk into the soapy water, and force the thought away with every scrub. Finally, I reach into the basket and collect the final item. My mind blanks when I see what it is. The lace panties she wore under that oversized T-shirt. The ones she slipped off while I watched.

Freshly dirtied laundry just for you…

My fingers brush the damp silk.

“Dio mio,” I breathe.

They’re wet with her arousal. Before I can think, before the priest can stop the man, I bring the fabric to my nose and inhale.

Musky, feminine, and all her. It invades me, filling every hollow, aching place. The hunger stirs. Wants more.

How is it possible that she has this effect on me, yet there is no us?

Is it just my hunger? Am I confusing this need with something more? Was she thinking the same things about me as she touched herself with her toy, wearing these, making them wet?

Just for you…

The laundry door slams open behind me. I jerk my spine straight. The panties vanish into my cassock pocket as I turn to see who’s here.

Sister Helena has returned. She gives my basket a once-over, then nods, approving of my work. I nod back, my face a stone mask.

She points to her wrist, as if there’s a watch there.

“The time?”

She nods and looks at the door.

I startle. “Confession. I’m late.”

She takes my basket with a smile and ushers me out.

“Bless you, Sorella,” I mutter, and then hurry to the church, to my sanctuary, desperate to ground myself.

The nuns are already here, waiting in the pews.

I apologize for my tardiness, dip my fingers into the holy water basin, and make the sign of the cross as I hurry down the aisle to collect my stole from the oratory.

By the time I plunge myself into the familiar dark of the confessional, I am almost in control. Taking a breath, I slide the lattice cover open and flick on the occupancy light. The red bulb casts everything in a fever glow, reminding me of the place we’re trying to avoid rather than strive for.

Thirty-Eight

Cisco

“Bless me, Father…”

The nun’s sins are small, quiet things. I reach into my pocket for my rosary, and my fingers close on silk. My breath hitches. I fumble, find the rosary there too, but it’s tangled with Mercy’s panties.

The nun is still speaking. I try to listen, but all I hear is my pulse pounding in my ears. I am sitting in the sacred dark, a vessel for God’s forgiveness, and I am clutching a woman’s slicked underwear.

I try to pray, to count out the Pater Noster for the nun’s penance, but I can’t feel the beads. Instead, my thumb slides over the lace, counting the stitches, the seams…

My cock throbs, and heat licks up my spine. I know I torture myself with this in my hand, but I can’t let go. I go on like this for an insurmountable number of penitents. I lose track of time, mumble through my part, but am lost in the dark, thinking, feeling, and praying for things I can’t have.

Is there a way I can have it, though?

Is this familiarity with Jasmine something else? Is there another explanation for the sword reacting to her? Why did my devil come out at the pool hall?