Page 89 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part 1

One more second.

I just need one more glide of tongues, salty and good.

She fists my hair, ripping strands until needles of pain shoot through my scalp and I gasp, stealing her breath. Suddenly, she is dragging me up, up, and up until we break the surface.

Air punches into my abused lungs, sweet and pure, but still nothing compared to the sensation of her lips.

Sound warbles into existence. Humidity rushes in. The water is warm again when I am sure it was arctic a moment ago.

Reality hits me.

What I just did.

What I sensed in the room. The whispered words I’d forgotten.

I don’t know what it means except that I thought I was the only one, but there is another.

“Cisco.” Mercy sputters, tugging my hand underwater to gain my attention surreptitiously. “Hey.”

I meet her eyes—Dio, such beautiful eyes—and a wave of aching hunger rolls through me. A shudder of need follows in the aftershocks, and I groan.

“Cristo—” I palm my erection through my trousers and wince as hot sparks of pleasure scorch through my nerve endings. I let go and wince at the throb. It feels worse. I grab it again and squeeze tight, strangling the demand into submission. I forgot how torturous it feels to deny myself … I forgot how good it feels. Tossing my head back, I squeeze my eyes shut and try to breathe through the pain.

It’s what I deserve.

Deal with it.

Thank God no one can see my hand deeper into the water … I hope.

Voices grow louder. Some concerned, some angry, some curious. Vaguely, I register that the Reverend Mother has arrived, and she’s not happy about the sparring match.

“And you two—” Her voice sharpens into clarity.

“It was my idea.” Mercy squeezes my free hand beneath the surface.

What have I done to deserve someone like her, to have her keep my shameful secret without jumping to conclusions, to give me a chance to explain.

Even now, I betray her kindness. She holds my hand in solidarity, but all I want to do is move it to replace my other hand, to force her fingers around my shaft. I can almost feel it now, her quick, furious tugs, pumping me. The visual slams into my mind, heightening my arousal.

“Father Angelotti?”

I open my eyes. Father. I am a priest. Not someone who should be entertaining sordid ideas. I don’t know who spoke the word to me, but I turn toward the deck.

Mercy and I are leaning against the pool’s edge, shoulders beneath the surface, my feet on the floor. The Reverend Mother, Thea, and Wesley are on the deck, watching us. The rest of the teams are ushering the nuns and orphans outside. Evacuating?

Everything is muddled, but I don’t think it’s about me. I don’t think they saw my devil the way Mercy did.

“Should I get Raphael’s staff?” Thea asks, noting my smarting cheek. It must be swollen from one of Mercy’s hits.

“No,” the Reverend Mother clips. She points her walking stick at them. “We don’t abuse divine relics for voluntary foolishness.” She casts her disapproving stare at us, at me. “Honestly, Father. I expected these kinds of shenanigans from the girls. Not from you.”

I want to apologize, but can’t. My mouth won’t work. The curse is still hungry and brimming beneath my skin, rattling the cage holding it down. It wants violence. It wants to feast on sin. But it will settle for sex. My cock throbs at that, and I flinch.

“You don’t look so good, mate.” Wesley peers at me from over his spectacles, brows drawing together. “You feeling alright?”

“Of course he’s not,” Mercy snaps. “I probably broke his rib or something.” To me, she adds, “This is your own fault for suggesting a sparring match.” She points at the boys. “And you lot for taking bets.”

“I’ll get the relic.” Thea pleads with the Reverend Mother, “It’s no problem, I’ll⁠—”