Page 26 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part 1

My pulse quickens. My arm drops. Whiskey sloshes over my hand, and I curse, flick my fingers, and try to wipe the mess on my sweatpants. What am I doing? When I look up next, everything inside me clenches.

The towel has fallen, and she’s now approaching the window, her arms up, fingers tousling her hair.

Naked.

Mercy is naked.

Pale skin. Wet hair. Curvaceous, hourglass figure. She moves like liquid grace.

When she reaches the window, I see everything from her thighs to the top of her head. The light in her room, the break in the rain, and the darkness here make the view clear enough that I see her perfect, round, and generous breasts. I’m almost certain her pink nipples are taut, and are those freckles on one shoulder? Narrowing my eyes, I press my forehead against the louvers and sharpen my gaze. Yes, they’re freckles.

There’s a coppery tint to her hair where it’s drier. Same color pubic hair. On her skin, darker, irregular patterns are too hard to distinguish, but are probably random old scars from the line of duty.

A long, shuddering breath whooshes from my lungs. Dio, Mercy is stunning. She is beautiful. She is ruin. And she is my kind of woman.

Which is why I should not be looking.

I lift the bottle to my lips and force a mouthful of whiskey down. One, two, three burning gulps. I rub my eyes to clear my focus, then return to the louvers.

Mercy pouts at her reflection in the rain-spattered glass pane and shakes her damp hair out. Wet strands stick to her face and neck, clinging to the curve of her collarbone and around her breasts. They are perfect. Stupidly, unfairly perfect, and I can’t stop staring, and I can’t even see them clearly. I have seen thousands of breasts—too many as a young man who thought he could fuck his way out of damnation. But none were like these. These are alive. Real. They move with every breath she takes. I can just imagine how they would feel in my hand. My mouth. Firm but soft.

My hand trembles as I knock back another burning swig of whiskey.

I can’t think when I stare at Mercy.

Everything is a blur except for one, inevitable truth.

If I am not her “Saint,” then someone else is.

Something dark and insidious tightens in my stomach, all hunger and gnashing teeth. A living thing beneath my skin ripples with the urge to go to Mercy. My grip tightens on the bottle until a high-pitched crack sounds. I glance down and find a stress fracture in the glass. A few deep, controlled breaths, and the tension releases from my posture.

But I don’t look away.

I can’t.

Instead, I sip the whiskey and stare.

She stares back. My breath halts in my lungs, and I count to ten, waiting to see if she notices me in the darkness. In Rome, they say these Sinners are witches. Maybe Mercy is. Maybe she feels me watching her from a darkness she can’t penetrate because she decides to put on a show. Her fingers slide down her neck and linger, tracing the collarbone. I wait with bated breath until her hand slips down to cup her breast, testing the weight and then pinching the nipple until her lips part. I swear I hear her throaty moan from here. Or maybe it comes from my own lips.

Mercy drags her nails down the center of her chest. Pink lines appear in her skin, blooming and then fading. She repeats the motion, harder this time, until I see her flinch.

“No,” I gasp.

But there is nothing I can do to stop her from reaching down to brutally squeeze her thigh, right over a dark, blurry circle. Bruises? The memory of her pulling down her pants in confession hits me squarely in the chest. Those bruises she’s been agitating must be from the chain cilices she told me about. She rubbed her wounds, then similarly, like a child picking at a scab. Her voice shook when she told me she needed the pain to stay human.

“Don’t you dare,” I warn as she tenses, no doubt bracing herself for a harder squeeze.

And she does. It’s a flesh-denting, face-crumpling crush.

“No,” I whisper.

Mercy grits her teeth, takes a breath, and presses harder.

“Stop!”

As if hearing me, she freezes. Frowns. Looks out into the night again. I should be concerned that she might know I’m here, but I am only filled with pride that she listened to sense.

“Brava ragazza,” I mumble. Good girl. There is hope for you yet.