Page 116 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part 1

“If it stops you running off like a baby, I’ll take my chances with Hell.”

“Baby? Do I look like a fucking baby to you?”

He leans close, and his voice deepens. “You want to go out, piccola? Earn it.”

I lunge for the handle, but he grabs my wrist. We wrestle, hips colliding, teeth bared. The scuffle moves muscles I didn’t plan on using. Sharp pain slices across my left thigh, and I hiss. I try to twist away from him, to hide the blood trickling down my leg, but he’s already crouched. I’m nowhere near the size of a child, but that’s exactly what I feel like when he grabs my hips, jerks me into position before his face, and holds me still while he inspects my leg.

His breath hitches.

I wrench away and go for the door.

He’s on me in an instant, shoulder to my midsection, arms snaking around my thighs and hauling me off my feet as if I weigh nothing.

My stomach lurches as we rise, and I fold over him.

“Put me down!”

He strides back down the aisle, ignoring me.

I kick my legs and at once regret it. The maneuver slices metal deeper into my thighs.

“Basta!” Enough!

Crack!

Pain explodes on my left ass cheek. I make a choking sound and then dangle like a doll down his back, watching my hair sway with his gait. Stunned.

“You—you spanked me!”

He stops and growls, “And I will do it again, piccola. Only, next time, you will thank me.”

Piccola! That’s the second time he’s called me that. It means “little one.” Or “babe,” as in…

Heat licks across my skin. I hang there, feeling the sting from his palm bloom and spread to places that need no encouragement. Cisco stands there too, breathing hard, fingers twitching as if he’s struggling to control his temper. He shifts one giant hand to support my weight by gripping my ass. The other hand nonchalantly slides into his pocket, and he continues walking.

The nerve. The fucking audacity.

“You think you can spank me?” I shriek. “I’ll spank you!” Engaging my core, I lift at the hips, arms raised high. He must think I’m trying to backflip off because he grips me tighter. Joke’s on him. I fold and descend with two hands. Thwack! “See how you like it!”

My hands are smarting, stinging, on fire, and yet he just keeps walking, big and unbothered. Blood rushes to my head. I go for a second spank, but he makes a turn, and my strike goes wide. I grab for balance.

“Fuck me,” I mutter, attempting to plump his rock-hard glutes. “Are you made from marble?”

I smooth my palms over his buttocks. People often say attractive men look like Michelangelo statues. I used to laugh and scoff—men like that don’t exist. Not now, not ever. But this … this makes me believe.

Cisco tenses at my touch, just for a heartbeat, and a sly thrill darts through me. If I slide my hand around his narrow boy hips to the front, I bet I’ll find out what else is hard. That’s when he kicks open a door, flicks on a light, and then the floor tilts.

Nausea lurches in my stomach, and my head spins as he flips me. On the way down, I reach for his pocket, fingers grazing fabric, hungry for that key. He’s faster. An elbow blocks my hand, and then I’m slammed down hard, butt-first, onto his desk. My teeth rattle, and stars explode behind my eyelids.

His hands clamp onto my shoulders. “You good?”

My vision swims. I blink. “Yep.” A beat. “I mean, no.”

“Stay.”

“I’m not a fucking dog.”

“Mercy, you are bleeding!” His voice booms, crashing through the church like thunder.