Page 123 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part 1

He harrumphs, and then he’s not looking at the ceiling anymore. His mouth is on my breast, sucking my nipple hard. A zip of bliss shoots to my core. My orgasm hits hard, wrenching a hoarse cry from my lips. I’m not even touching myself. I’m just stuck between us, his slicked fist and cock grinding over me.

I see stars. Can’t breathe.

Somewhere through the haze, I hear his breath stutter, a curse, and then a deep, drawn-out groan of pleasure I’ll never forget. He spills onto my still throbbing pussy, fucks over it. Never inside. We’re both sticky, shuddering messes. Somehow, this is so much sweeter. There’s nowhere to hide.

Spent, he falls forward, hands planting beside my hips. A breath drags into his lungs, and then his sweaty forehead drops to mine. We stay like that for a long moment, heaving in each other’s air like we’re drowning.

I wait for it, the shame. The guilt. I wait for him to say it first. We fucked up.

In no way, shape, or form can what we did be categorized as innocent.

Cisco grabs my face, crushes his lips to mine, and drives his tongue in deep. He kisses me, inhales me. Big, open-mouthed, wet, and hungry kisses. It’s like we’re starting, not ending. So much emotion, so much raw honesty. Such want.

I can’t breathe.

“I can’t…” I shove him, but he’s still made of marble. “Cisco, please.”

He growls into my mouth, pins my head, and deepens the kiss.

It’s not that he won’t stop, it’s that I want him to keep going. I want to stay.

I twist out of the collar with ease, and then I’m swiping the key from his pocket and wrenching out from beneath his grip.

He stumbles back, alarmed, hair sticking up. A white square is missing from his throat. Black cloth gapes over his tattooed torso. That’s all I notice, and then I’m out the door.

Forty-One

Mercy

Isprint from the church, bare feet smacking cold stone, lungs burning. The midnight wind grabs at my coat and whips it around my bare legs. I reach the main building and slow to a jog, lungs heaving.

The grounds are empty. All the windows are dead except maybe a faint gold glow from the nuns’ floor. Not even a ghost, not even a creeper or little Jinx dashing about. Just the wind, the pitter-patter of rain, and my heaving breaths as I bolt for the abbey’s porch steps.

My coat catches on the door when I shoulder through. Instead of setting it free, I shrug out of it, leaving it on the floor. Goosebumps prick my skin, but I ignore them. I ignore everything except the banshee heartbeat in my chest.

God, the things I did in there. The things I want to do again.

Fuck shame.

Fuck being me.

I hit the steps hard—one, two, three at a time, staggering and nearly face-planting at the first landing. But I keep going until I arrive at the third floor.

The corridor is quiet. Each door is closed but mine. Cisco’s old room. It’s propped open because his scent is still in there. Incense, sweat, and something the opposite of priestly. It drove me insane earlier. It’s why I whipped out the old battery-operated friend and went to town.

My steps slow as I arrive at the door, but then I stop and spin to face my old room. Jasmine’s now.

I should talk to her. Maybe get ahead of this thing I’ve done. She’s been quick to anger since she returned from Spain, and for good reason. She doesn’t deserve to be betrayed. I step toward her door.

“She’s sleeping.”

I spin so fast that my hand hits the wall.

Hannah is behind me, hands in hoodie pockets.

“Jesus—fuck!” I press a hand over my heart. “Where did you come from?”

“The archives,” she intones, as if it’s obvious.