Page 119 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part 1

“Ow!” I jerk back for the tenth time.

“Piccola, this needs to be done.”

“I know.” I pout. “I’m not a baby.”

His lips twitch.

“Then count for me.” When I don’t reply, he pauses and locks eyes with me again. “You know how to count, yes?”

He drops the cloth, jaw tense. I heed the warning and start counting.

“No. In Italian,” he demands.

“Fuck you.”

“You are not earning this yet.”

A bolt of heat arrows down to my clit. My pulse quickens, and I have to bite back a moan. Just like that, he’s got me all bothered and needy again.

“Uno…” He dabs. Fire strikes.

I curse again, but take over counting. I get to ten, and he mocks me with praise.

“Brava ragazza.” Good girl.

I’ve never been more turned on in my life. At twenty-five, he says enough and tosses the cloth in the trash. Then he just stares at me, long and hard.

“Go on,” I grind out. “Get it out of your system.”

“This is my decision, not yours.”

“Counting?”

“Next time you need pain, you ask me.”

“Oh.”

“Understood?”

He doesn’t seem to care if I answer. That he’s leaving tomorrow is irrelevant. He goes and wets a fresh cloth in the bathroom sink, then returns to my wounds. Only water this time. No pain.

I watch him in silence, not sure what to make of him. I want to tell him this is none of his business, to scold him for destroying my one tool for controlling my anxiety, but with every second that passes, every drop of blood cleaned, his wildness eases.

When I’m with you, I feel peace.

His shoulders drop, frown lines disappear, and a softness enters his expression.

Something inside me settles too.

Forty

Mercy

Wounds clean, Cisco sets himself to anointing them with a rosemary-scented balm he found in the bathroom. His fingers are warm and so tender across my raw flesh that I feel no pain.

“I know you think this helps,” he grumbles. “But in the long run, it doesn’t.”

“Says you.”