Beauty and the Blitz (31 page)

The praises I would sing to this woman from now on…

I imagined how the rest of her would feel, explored with my kiss, my lips, my tongue. Her silken skin would heat like fire. Her graceful neck would pulse where I pressed my mouth. I’d bite the hollow of her throat, and I’d earn another breathy cry. Her breasts would heave in gasping, wanting waves. I imagined cupping her, offering a sable brown nipple to my lips.

If only…

I’d worship this woman. Ease my kiss lower and lower until I explored the soft path to the waiting crest between her legs, the Heaven which begged for its own adoration.

A kiss.

A lick.

A sin turned to beauty.

Her fingers tangled in my cassock, and the rosary beads cut into my skin. My soul screamed. I managed only a bitter and resigned grunt.

I pushed her away before my thoughts burrowed within a slickness that taunted my dreams.

She panted, torn from my body, shocked and confused.

My heart cracked, but it continued to beat.

The guilt of the kiss faded, cast away as I recognized the strength simmering between our bodies. I stood tall. Honor adjusted her blouse. Her lips were swollen and puffy from my ravaging…and yet she met my gaze with every determination I expected.

My angel.

She would best this temptation with me.

Or I would break us both in licentious arrogance.

“I stopped myself this time,” I said. “Are you strong enough to deny yourself?”

Honor didn’t smile. Her eyes widened with a naïve ignorance I envied.

“Yes,” she said.

“Are you sure?”

“As you said, Father…” She seized a breath to end her shuddered gasps. “The consequences are too damning to fail. I can resist you, and I will deny myself.”

I took her hand. Her pulse raced, but she accepted this challenge with grace.

“My perfect angel…”

I touched her face, stroked her cheek, tangled my fingers in her hair. Then I pulled away, just to prove that I could.

She licked her lips, and I kissed her again, gently and softly. Her tongue met mine. She mewed, but she broke the kiss.

Pride would be her undoing.

If it hadn’t already conquered me.

“We have work to do,” I whispered. “I will teach you to resist this temptation, to defy sin, and to shield your faith from the most dangerous threat to your innocence.”

“The devil?”

“
Me
.”

I shook my head, memorizing the crook of her nose, the dramatic arch of her brows, the almond curve of her eyes.

This woman would be the death of me.

And I prayed I’d wake in Heaven.

T
he lights were
out when I got home after the choir audition.

After the kiss.

It wasn’t late—St. Cecilia’s didn’t exactly have a thriving night life…despite what thoughts lingered in my mind of Father Raphael and his private sermon.

After I returned to the nave and earned my spot into the special choir, I schemed with Alyssa and Samantha about a three-piece harmony. Once it got late, I’d grabbed my bags and computers and headed home.

Not in any particular hurry.

It didn’t feel like home anymore…because it wasn’t. We lost the house after Dad died, despite his life insurance policy covering the remainder of the mortgage. Mom had used the money for
other expenses
. It was the polite way to phrase our misfortune to the few family members and friends Mom hadn’t driven away.

Her new apartment was small, and my bedroom a corner of the living room. Mom had offered me her room when I moved back, but it was just as tiny and leaked around the window. Even closed, the room had a bad draft. Mom didn’t care—said it helped the hot flashes.
So many things in my life changing, and all of them at once
, she had joked.

She forgot to lock the door.

The neighborhood couldn’t even be trusted to have a communal mailbox without extra locks. I’d have to remind her to be careful.

I edged inside and forced the door closed behind me, lifting the handle so it wouldn’t grind against the peeling linoleum. The lock clicked.

Home
.

The thought still soured in my stomach. At least the extra choir practices meant another excuse to get out of the apartment. I hated myself for thinking it, but I hated even more the uncomfortable, greasy, weird feeling I got being at home.

Like I didn’t belong here.

No. Like
she
didn’t belong here.

Mom’s shoes cluttered the entry—two pairs, weather-worn and fading. I kicked them into the coat closet. The busted hangers had dropped the winter coats onto the floor. She’d left them there. I shook them out.

A single white pill tumbled from the pocket.

It crashed against the rug as soundlessly as thunder.

I sucked in a breath, checking the other pockets. Nothing in them but lint and crumpled receipts. The pill was a loner, one lost from over a year ago.

I hated to even touch the foul thing. If she knew she had an Oxy left…

I glanced over the apartment, dark and cluttered. Newspapers wadded near the door—she said she’d take them to recycling later. I made a note to toss them out with the garbage that night. The pots from last night piled in the sink—she wanted to let them soak a little longer. I’d start on them before they smelled.

The bills piled up on the table.

She put them off. I hated them the most, so I usually did that first.

But the electric company was closed, and the landlord didn’t like calls after hours. I spent my afternoon and evening at the church and didn’t have time to sort through the finances.

Not that I could focus on anything important now.

I drowned in my own thoughts.

No.

In my own
slickness
.

And how horrible and sinful and delightful and amazing had that discovery been?

My body betrayed my soul, my lips their own cautious whispers, and my heart the only defense it had against an untouchable, unobtainable man. Yet I had the power—no, the
control
—to pull away from his arms.

I had ended the kiss, returned to the sanctuary, and looked upon the altar and the cross and the sanctity of the church without
guilt
for the first time in a month.

I could do this.

I could fight the temptation.

At least…in the church.

At home, in the dark, those feelings returned. I warmed in the right and wrong places.

I forced a breath and focused on cleaning the entry and living room so I could get to my bed. I had homework to do. Plus, I’d promised I’d update the food pantry inventory spreadsheet. Theirs was made in Microsoft Word and with the aid of an
adding machine
, and I was pretty sure my head almost exploded when I tried to work it.

I really needed to sleep. When was I going to fit it in? Between my two summer courses, the choir practices, volunteering for the festival, and working at the food pantry I had no idea where I’d squeeze in more hours for the things we desperately needed. Like sleep. And working part-time. Or
full
-time, like we needed. I wasn’t ready to give up on earning my degree before finding a job, especially since I knew how difficult it’d be to find any good paying work in my field.

Unless…I had to shift my career goals.

I’d taken business classes at school. Despite growing up in the church and wanting to help others through charity and social work…those jobs didn’t pay the bills. The
overdue
bills.

And the debts.

Dad’s lingering funeral costs.

College.

I bagged the trash in the living room and groaned as the garbage overflowed.

How did Mom ever manage this on her own?

The answer was obvious—she
didn’t
. Not when she was still high and drinking or after the year she spent sobering up.

No one had said it, no one had even thought it, but I knew how it would look if I admitted to only moving home once Mom got clean and times were easier. But it was Dad who said to leave. He told me to focus on my education, my career, my life.

So I didn’t end up like her.

The woman sharing my home wasn’t the Mom I remembered. She wasn’t the woman who raised me. She was better now. Human again, instead of the raging animal sneaking drinks and stealing pain medications.

And yet…I still panicked. I still checked. I still
waited
for the day she’d make a mistake and reveal that the past year of sobriety was a lie.

I was tired of sneaking into her bedroom and peeling the bottle from her hands, just so I could check to see if it was a beer or…

A bottle of water.

Good.

Why was it I could
kiss
a priest and yet feel more guilt for doubting my mother’s sobriety?

I cleared her nightstand of the extra bottles and magazines. Mom didn’t wake up, snoring in a twin bed. It wasn’t ours. She and Dad had shared a hand-crafted bed. I never asked where it ended up, lost and ruined. It’d meant the world to him, that bed.

He was an honest, generous, loving Catholic man who lived for his family and showed that love through his trade—carpentry. He’d made most of our furniture by hand.

And it was all gone now.

Nothing but memories remained.

I finished straightening the apartment. It could wait for a deep clean after Mass on Sunday.

A thrill tickled through me, something entirely inappropriate for the thought of returning to the church. I took a cool shower, changed, and snuggled into my mattress in the corner. My phone buzzed as I rolled onto my side.

I shouldn’t have looked.

I didn’t have the contact in my phone, but my secret messenger wasn’t so mysterious.

Sleep well, my angel.

As if I could sleep now.

The heat burst within me once more. I swallowed, but my tummy twisted in such a
good
way.

Who would Jesus text?

I gripped my phone and typed back, loving the delicious thrill.

Are you allowed to text me?

He replied immediately.
Who would stop me?

This man? This priest?

No one.

How’d you get my number?

His message beeped.
The phone tree
.

Betrayed by the women’s club and its eternal preparedness. I took a breath, wishing my body would stop shivering in exquisite goose bumps. I typed a cautious message.

I was just going to bed…

I counted the seconds for his reply.
What a coincidence. I’m already in bed.

It’s early, isn’t it?

I’m up at 5 every morning.

I giggled.
Good thing you don’t wake anyone with the alarm.

I also don’t need to worry about doing my morning prayers naked.

Oh, that wasn’t fair. Those terrible, wonderful images swarmed my mind. Father Raphael—bowed in prayer, concentrating,
regal
. Those hardened muscles straining as he prayed on his knees.

I didn’t let myself imagine anything else.

The distance granted by phone made me bolder. I bit my lip.

Lead me not into temptation, Father
.

I wouldn’t dream of it, my angel.

Then why did you text?

A delay.
I knew you’d be getting ready for bed.

I knew his game. It might have offended me if it wasn’t so prudent.

Is this a hand-check, Father Rafe?

Would you prefer to bind your wrists before bed to ensure your purity?

Nothing
pure
came from those thoughts, though plenty of people
came
from having them.

I dropped the phone on my belly as I exorcised that riveting imagery from my mind. It didn’t work.

And the phone buzzed too low. The sensation bolted between my legs. I whimpered.

Father Raphael knew exactly what he was doing.

Be strong, my angel. I will see you Saturday for the festival preparations.

Saturday? It felt like a lifetime. But better a wait for two days than an eternity in Hell.

I wasn’t ready to flirt. I had never learned how or bothered to tease, but this conversation made me smile, filled me with wicked joy. I wished for him to feel the same ache that would make my night unbearable.

I sent the text with trembling fingers.
Don’t miss me too much
.

He replied with scripture.

Matthew 26:41.

I had to look it up, scrolling through my phone with a bitten lip.

Watch and pray so that you will not fall into temptation. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.

I tossed the phone down, but I’d never sleep.

I feared the dreams I’d have of Father Raphael.

At least I’d enjoy confessing them.

B
enjamin didn’t have
the strength to sit for his anointing.

The nurses called it a
bad day
. They were being polite. He hadn’t eaten, hadn’t shaved, and he lost weight since I last saw him.

In becoming a priest, we didn’t just take a vow of celibacy. We sacrificed the opportunity to begin a family. While we gained the love of a community and inspiration from the church, when it came time to pass—we’d have no wife at our side, no children, no grandchildren.

Yes, there was a Godliness in suffering, but this man had served his Lord. He lived his life for the church and even took in a runaway teenage boy who needed a home.

And he gave me more than a home.

He gave me the priesthood.

He
rescued
me.

And I would not have him die, bedridden and useless, sucking on oxygen alone—even if he had the comfort of Christ. The Lord loved him, but so did I.

I wasn’t ready to let him go.

“This festival…” Benjamin waved a hand over the papers I’d spread across his bed. “What are you doing with this monstrosity, Rafe?”

God only knew. I didn’t have an answer.

I rubbed my forehead, narrowly missing my eye with the pen. That might have woken me up.

I was exhausted. I hadn’t slept well the past few days. Or at all.

Men were instructed to face their fears.

But facing temptation? That took courage, strength, and mental fortitude. On Saturday, I’d worked hand-in-hand with Honor, breathing her scent and brushing her fingers, all while the women’s group, youth group, and church volunteers helped to prepare for the festival.

Then Mass.

As if I weren’t already thankful for my Holy Orders, the prayers and ritual distracted me from Honor’s singing. Beautiful words. A blessed voice rising over the choir. The hymns and chants blended the celebration into something secret for me.

I’d fallen into fitful sleep thinking of her. Dreaming of her.

And I woke as every man woke, eager for a warm body at my side.

Cold showers did little once the body broke after exhaustion. I’d allowed myself three strokes of my hardness in the shower this morning, then I denied the pleasure. That left me frustrated. Impatient.

At least Honor felt the same. Her texts this morning teased me, blaming me for her equally disturbed night’s sleep. I liked that I lingered in her fantasies, but playful texts were nothing compared to the pleasure of meeting her in the church. There, she so often turned shy. There, her thoughts truly twisted.

Dangerous games…but our kiss had returned her confidence. She’d taken the Host during Mass. Her sweet mouth had parted, and she offered that pink tongue for me to place the body of the Lord.

What blasphemy to envy Christ.

Benjamin coughed. The fluid built in his lungs, and he hacked hard.

I flinched as if he read my mind. The papers nearly scattered. I gathered them before they fell.

“This is the deacon’s work, Rafe. And the volunteers.” Benjamin didn’t wave a finger, but I accepted the chastisement. “Why are you working on this? You’re too busy with other responsibilities. How many homilies do you have to write?”

Too many. “I only had a baptism today. Light schedule.”

“You’ve always turned to projects to stay busy, when you should turn to the Lord instead.”

“I’m not—”

“What are you sorting through now?”

He’d never believe it.

“Festival politics. We doubled our festival size from last year. Now we have craft and food booths, community businesses, and other vendors setting up, including two ladies selling cosmetics. One of the cosmetics vendors applied for their spot when we first posted sign-ups. We gave it to her. Then…another vendor applied, but the cosmetic company only allows one booth of their products per event.”

Benjamin flicked his IV. “Can we speed this cancer up?”

I smirked. “Well, Judy knew the second vendor from previous festivals. I guess there was some sort of drama—”

“—Imagine that—”

“The spot went to the vendor who signed up late. Now it’s causing an issue, and I’m—”

“They needed a
priest
to mediate?”

“You’d be surprised how…combative they’ve become.”

“Rafe, you aren’t
really
—”

“It’s my parish, Father. I’m putting out fires.”

“You have greater responsibilities.”

“I know.”

“They’re more important than the festival—which your
volunteers
can handle.” Benjamin shifted. “And your duties are more important than visiting a dying man.”

“Don’t use that word.”

“Have some humility, Rafe.
We prefer to leave this body and be at home with the Lord
. I’m ready, my boy. What did I teach you?”

I knew the scripture, but I delayed speaking it. “
A good name is better than fine perfume, and the day of death better than the day of birth.”

“I’ve shown you all I can. The Lord will show you the rest.” Benjamin rested his eyes. “Unless…you have reason to come here, something more pressing than comforting a man preparing to leave this earth?”

“No, Father.”

“You have no reason, or you are unwilling to speak it?”

I was unwilling to
confess
it. If I had anything to confess. In my heart, I did what was right, what I had to do to face my sins.

Good men prayed, others distracted themselves in repetitive prayer, and some lost courage and fled. If I was to be tempted, I would be tempted and face it as a man, a vessel of the Lord, and a warrior.

But my desires damned me.

I knew I would kiss her again. We
wanted
to taste each other once more. But in recognizing it, confessing it to
myself
, gave me more power over the wicked thoughts. I’d confess if I lost control.

Until then, my sins were my own, and my triumphs belonged to Honor.

“I’m fine, Father,” I said. “Just worried about you.”

“Don’t be.” He pointed to the papers. “Pack this up, hand it to whoever is organizing your festival, and spend an hour in prayer—
deep prayer
, Rafe. No phones, no interruptions, no mourning. Clear your mind and heart, and you’ll feel rejuvenated.”

A man could hope.

Or pray.

I gathered my things, squeezing his hand before I left. I’d see him again before it was time…but the opportunities were dwindling. It wouldn’t be long.

And thoughts like that forced me into prayer. I could face temptation. I could confront my sins. I could kiss the most beautiful angel God had created.

But I couldn’t combat death.

Nor should I have wanted to, not when I believed his soul would never eternally die. Benjamin would simply leave me behind.

Alone
.

But his presence would remain within me—in his teachings, his lessons, in how he’d shown me to conduct myself, in the way he’d help me to celebrate the Mass. I hadn’t needed him to guide me in years, but it wasn’t the future that concerned me.

It was the past.

The wounds he guarded.

The life I used to have.

The pain I traded for salvation.

I returned to the church in the mid-afternoon, just in time for an emergency adultery confession which necessitated a hastily scheduled wedding. The secretary scheduled the appropriate counseling for the soon-to-be married couple and parents, and I surveyed the diocese paperwork and readings in my email.

Benjamin asked me to pray for an hour. I wished I could. Even during my visit with him, I had resolved four crises, answered a dozen emails, and sent a flurry of texts. I knew it was foolish to try and pray during my busiest time of the day. I managed five minutes before the lock-in at St. Cecilia’s middle school had to be rescheduled and my phone rang with another festival emergency.

I didn’t have time for lunch, let alone an opportunity to pray.

Or sin.

At least, not until later.

The women’s club scheduled the festival meeting for five o’clock.

Honor arrived at four-thirty.

My angel sent from Heaven to trap me within a private Hell of pleasure and penance. She knocked softly at the door to my office. I called her inside, and the thick wooden doors closed behind her. The click of the latch echoed in our silence.

We were alone.

What a wicked thrill.

Honor had gained confidence after our kiss, after spending time with me during the last festival meeting. She knew it was possible to acknowledge our desire but deny our needs, except Honor still approached me with caution. She’d trust herself in time.

I sat behind my desk, the L-shaped, cherry wood monstrosity. It was clean and orderly, almost sparse. I took care to stay organized, another aspect of pure discipline that took as much mindful care as my physical weaknesses. I didn’t stand to greet her.

Like any wild creature, I let her come to me.

Bookshelves spanned the room. Honor studied the hardbound texts with a curious gaze.

“These aren’t all Bibles,” she said.

“No.”

“And they aren’t all religious?”

“No.”

Her elegant fingers tickled the spine of a few—Shakespeare, Bronte, Joyce, Austen, Dickens, Twain…Rowling.

“Would you like to borrow one?” I asked. “Idle hands and minds...”

She smiled, those perfectly full lips twisting as she shook her head. “Maybe if I had the time. I have enough coursework to read. Plus, I downloaded a ton of books to my Kindle before it broke. I still need to get a new one...” Her smile faded. “Well, I’ll get it when we have the money.”

I recognized her tone—a shred of optimism that stretched too thin over the bitter realism she tried to hide. I knew enough about her family, more than I felt was
right
to know given the circumstances and her secrecy on the matter. My heart ached for her.

And yet…a deeper, more possessive and dangerous feeling welled in me.

Protectiveness
.

I wanted to return her happiness. I’d shelter her so she wouldn’t need to hide that pain and the problems that forced her to take on multiple jobs after transferring colleges. I wondered if she realized her mother’s name was listed on a variety of our charity programs.

But what could I do? Honor had refused help before, and her pride was as great a sin as lust.

I should’ve asked to help as many times as I could until she accepted it. With any other parishioner, any other time, I wouldn’t have taken no for an answer. With her? She’d hit rock bottom before she accepted my offered hand.

I pulled three menus from my drawer and tossed them over my desk.

“Pizza, Chinese, or burgers tonight?” I tipped the scales in favor of the pizza, pushing it towards the end of the desk with an arched eyebrow. “My treat for the volunteers tonight.”

“Pizza.” She took the bait and sat. “And you’re kind to do this.”

“I’m taking care of my flock. If they happen to be sated with pepperoni, all the better.”

She smirked, though her attention still fell beyond me, the menu, the books. She studied the office and distracted herself with the strap of her purse. Her foot nervously kicked the leg of the chair.

Unacceptable. I hated that she was uncomfortable.

“Honor…” Her named tasted sweet. “Look at me.”

“Father, we should get to the meeting—”

“Look at me.”

Her thick, dark lashes fluttered, and her hazelnut eyes met my gaze so fiercely, so intently, I couldn’t contain the heat within me. I wasn’t prepared for her beauty, and sin immediately hardened me.

I chastised myself. Benjamin was right. I should have prayed. For control. For stability.

For my cock to stop throbbing so near this beautiful, amazing woman.

And yet, she suffered too. She licked her quivering lip.

Did she mean to speak…or to bait me into another kiss? Could I be so bold when my body was already wracked with its own perverse shudders?

It was a test. One of many to come.

And, for the first time, I feared what might happen if I were to fail.

“Are you afraid, my angel?” I lowered my voice. It had the desired effect, trapping her in devout attention to my words, my mood, my will.

“No, Father. I’m just nervous.”

“Why?”

“You have a very…overwhelming presence.”

She meant
intimidating
. That hardened me more, shattering my control and straining my cock within the confines of my clothing. My saving grace was a fashion style encouraged from the Vatican. I should never have doubted the wisdom of two thousand years of celibate men wearing cassocks.

“Do you have something you wish to confess?” I teased.

Honor bit her lip, but her coy smile remained. She shook her head only once, a proud movement.

“No, Father Rafe. Nothing to confess.”

Really? I wasn’t so convinced.

“Nothing?” I asked. “Not a touch?”

“No, Father.”

My perfect angel, doing as I commanded, doing as our faiths required.

And yet...sin worked in more devious ways, and temptation lingered even when the body obeyed.

I held her gaze, stilling her breath and earning a secret shudder. “Have you indulged in impure thoughts?”

“Father—”

“Answer me, Honor.”

She twisted in her seat. Not uncomfortable, but desperate. She arched to wiggle a greater pressure against the sacred secret I imagined in my darkest, most perverse of sins.

“Yes, Father.” Her whispered words pulsed in my cock. “I’ve had impure thoughts.”

“How many?”

“Does it matter?”

“Contrition requires specificity, so that a priest may better grant you the forgiveness for your transgressions.”

“Okay…once.”

That wasn’t true. I arched an eyebrow. “Just once, my angel?”

Her eyes drifted lower, staring at the snow-pure white of my collar. “Just once, Father. Because every thought of you I have is impure—from the first time I met you until this very moment, I’ve suffered through a continuous desire. One thought, one fantasy after another. I sleep, and I dream of you. I wake, and I think of you.”

I swallowed, my mouth dry.

Was it possible to envy my angel for her sins?