Page 68 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part Two

Heads nod. Some cross themselves.

“Three more to go,” Mercy adds, laughing nervously. “Almost done.”

Not nearly.

I won’t be done with her until we die.

We leave the table as the rain doubles down, and the laughter mutes behind us. Inside, the bar is dim and quiet. A few trays of dishes and condiments remain from the recent meal, meaning they didn’t get far with washing them. I’ll do them in the morning.

Mercy heads straight toward the downward stairs, but my feet are rooted to the floor.

She spins, cheeks already flushed, expression growing irritable. She must think I’m about to renege on my promise, because her beauty spot disappears.

“You said whatever I want,” she breathes out.

“Sì.”

“Then what . . .”

I pull out the timer and rest it on the bar, wincing. “Mercy . . .”

“Uh-oh, he uses my real name.”

“You’re not in trouble. I just . . . I hope . . . I don’t want to go down there.”

“You don’t?” The wildness returns to her eyes, and she glides up to me, running her palms up my torso until I release a shaky breath. “Then where?”

“Anywhere.” I cover her hand with mine, then press her palm over my heart.

Some kind of wickedness flickers in her eyes. She holds the power over me now.

“Okay, on one condition.” She taps the tip of my nose.

“Anything.”

“We finish the three novenas.”

My eyebrows knit together. “But you don’t like praying.”

“Oh, we won’t be praying, buddy. We finish what we started downstairs.” Her plump lips curve. She lifts on her tiptoes and whispers in that husky rasp I would die for, “Three devotions left, three orgasms, and then I want to see you lose it.” Her exhale shudders. “I want you to fuck me so good I’m useless for anyone else.”

Blood rushes to my cock. I almost sway from the force of it.

“Not just for the nine-minute every hour novena thing,” she purrs. “I want all night. Capito?”

“Only you get away with mocking me, piccola.” A sharp laugh barks out of me, releasing tension. “We will collect your bag on the way.”

“No need. It’s already in your room.” The sly look she gives me makes my pulse race.

She laces her fingers together with mine again, this time guiding me toward the stairs leading up to the rooms. I take two steps, then stop. Her eyes flare wide.

“The timer,” I whisper.

She nods, and I rush back to the bar to collect it. When I do, my clumsy fingers knock the condiments, tipping bottles loudly.

“Cristo!” I fumble with the fallen bottles, standing them upright before they spill too much.

Her deep chuckle from the staircase makes my cheeks heat . . . until I see something that will make my devotions even better. Before she notices, before I have a chance to think, This is not something a priest should be planning, I swipe a small bottle of olive oil and drop it into my pocket.