Page 69 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part Two

The climb to my room is a blur. My heart pounds like thunder in my chest. All I see is the shape of her hips, the curve of her ass, the way her dress clings to it, and the aftermath of our last devotion in my mind.

Inside my room, I close it and turn the lock. Click. Still facing the door, I press my palms to the cool wooden surface and take a moment to collect myself. Am I really doing this? A glance at the framed seaside photograph beside the doorframe is enough for hunger to riot beneath my skin.

“You probably shouldn’t be alone with me,” I whisper to the door.

Rustling behind me can mean only one thing. She’s removing her clothes. My pulse spikes.

“In case you missed it—” She pauses to slip something off. I hear the scrape of fabric on her skin. “The scientifically proven study I conducted downstairs on the probability of priests not losing control when they fuck was a complete success.” Shoes kick off. One hits the back of my legs. “Chances are slim. Anyway, there are two types of hunger. Asmodeus said⁠—”

A growl rips from my throat at his name. My fingers curl against the wood, nails gouging marks into the surface.

“I don’t want to hear his name here tonight,” I grind out. “Not ever from your lips. Not when . . .”

I face her, and my mind blanks. She sits on the bed, hands resting back on the white sheets, naked and luminous in the moonlight. Balmy air and the occasional gust of rain blow in through the curtains. The mirrored closet on her right creates two of her. My mind can’t compute.

Her lips are already parted, her pupils are blown wide, and her hair is a chaos of golden fire. She crosses her legs, attempting to hide herself from me, but I glimpse a dash of copper pubic hair, and it drives me to madness.

She’s breathing hard, breasts rising and falling. Maybe she’s thinking about what I’ll do to her.

All night.

She trails a lazy finger up her stomach, over her ribs, around her pink, peaked nipple. “When what, Padre?”

“When, ah . . .” I swallow as she cups the full weight of her breast and plumps until she moans. My erection throbs in response, and my mind goes blank again. “I can’t remember.”

I cross to the bed and drop a knee beside her hips. The mattress creaks under my weight.

“Uh-uh.” She sits upright and pushes me backward. The sharp motion jiggles her full breasts. Impossible to ignore. I want to take them into my mouth and suck on them until she screams, but she keeps holding me back. “You need to get naked first.”

“Sì.” My hands fly to my buttons, but again she stops me.

I’m still staring at her breasts when I bare my teeth and growl, “What now?”

“I want to take it off.” She’s staring at my Roman collar.

My jaw clicks shut.

Curtains billow, raindrops splash down the eaves outside, and our breaths rise and fall together.

I’ve always insisted the collar is mine to remove because that day marks the end of my penance. If someone else takes it off, everything I’ve worked for remains unfinished.

Before Mercy, that’s what I thought. The picture frame feels like a fire burning at the back of my head, but I hold her gaze steady. I drop my hands to my sides and nod.

Her breath stutters. She swallows hard and dips her chin, almost as if she’s holding back tears. My heart swells, and I graze my knuckles gently down her cheek.

“I am yours, piccola,” I murmur. “Do with it what you will.”

“Are you sure?” she whispers. “I know why this is so important to you, why you want absolution.”

“You are important to me.” I cup her face and guide her eyes to meet mine. Looking into them deeply, I confess, “You are the reason I can’t sleep, Mercy. The reason I ache. The reason I am not sure I want to be saved.”

She gasps. “You would go to Hell with me?”

“I would go to Hell for you.”

My fingers spear into her wild tangle of hair, and I crush my mouth to hers.

Twenty-Four