Sweetest Sin: A Forbidden Priest Romance (14 page)

“
Why
?”

Now the tears did come.
For him, but not for her.

“Because every time
I’m near you, Father, I reveal more and more of my soul.”

“As you should, my
angel.”

“It’s dangerous.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re a
good priest…and you’re a good man.” I leaned against the confessional door, my
words a whisper in the silence of the sanctuary. “And that makes you more
dangerous than any temptation.”

The women of the
parish didn’t understand my vow of celibacy.

Of course they
liked
it—something about a strong man resisting his weaker urges gave them confidence.
They could trust me. Tell me their secrets. Ask for my advice in their
marriages. Reveal their affairs.

And I was immune
to their common and vulgar sins.

We all suffered
from lust, and not nearly enough of my flock prided themselves in virtue.

I did.

I had.

And the righteous
power my faith and commitment afforded me was a protection against those base
instincts. Or, at least, protection against the one threat to my vow.

Honor
.

So far, I had
defeated my temptations. I’d overcome my depravities with fasting, prayer, and
enough cold showers to dramatically lower the electricity bill for the rectory.
But sleepless nights were a small price to pay for conquering sin.

If I could only
teach Honor the same restraint—the same denial of that sensual and devious
desire—I’d protect her virtue as well.

Mondays were my
days off, though I often kept busy with volunteer work, meetings, and the
occasional emergency, spiritual or otherwise. Idle hands and minds were too
often lost in the past, and I refused to sully my present and future with the
sins of my childhood.

Or the nightmares bred
from it.

So I exercised,
prayed, showered, and visited Benjamin. He slept as I watched mindless TV at
his bedside. The nurses said he had been sleeping more. I prepared myself for what
that meant, but it hadn’t helped. My mind darkened, and I returned home only
because, aside from Sundays during Mass, Monday evenings usually brightened my
spirits.

Men lived for two
things. Sex and food. I could indulge in one of those pleasures.

Mondays were
casserole day. The women’s group often prepared meals for me for the week. I
owed a debt of gratitude to anyone in the congregation who brought me lasagna, a
pot of chicken soup, or spaghetti. My responsibilities didn’t leave me a lot of
time to cook. Even if it had, it wasn’t like I’d stayed at home long enough to
learn family recipes from my mother.

Most of the women visited
around dinner time, competing with the others to bake the freshest bread,
create the most elaborate casserole, or share the most secret of recipes. I
didn’t mind having my meals organized for the week.

Especially since
the women’s group volunteered their newest baker to bring me dessert.

Honor had promised
me something…
sweet
.

She arrived late.
Ten o’clock. She rapped a soft beat against my back door. The rectory was
nothing more than a two-bedroom house on the property next to the church, but
Honor treated it as though it were the gateway to hell.

Or Heaven?

Did she still fear
she’d lose that grace…or had she already mourned its destruction?

She wore a light
dress, something casual and pink, perfect for the close summer weather that
layered the parish in a constant, simmering heat. She clutched a cake carrier
in her hands, brandishing it before her as if the plastic case would protect
her against that threatening sweetness.

“Evening, Father
Rafe,” she whispered.

“Honor.”

She squirmed under
my quiet stare.

Why did I like
that so much?

“I brought you
something.” She licked her lip. Unintentionally? “Dessert. The women’s group
said you had a sweet tooth.”

“Guilty as
charged.” For this sin and many others. “Do you want to come in?”

“I don’t know if that’s…”
She arched an eyebrow. It only widened her dark eyes, lost in naïve innocence.
She stared at the buttons of my cassock. I hadn’t loosened the collar. It made
the invitation
safer
. “Is it appropriate?”

“Why wouldn’t it
be?”

“Because…I’m…”

“A woman?”

“Yes.”

“Or because you’re
my angel?”

She nervously
sighed. “That’s probably it.”

I wished I hadn’t
smiled. My voice slithered and coiled. Was I no better than a serpent? I should
have wound myself within a fruit tree instead of guiding Honor into my home.

“Do you not trust
me?” I asked.

Her heels clicked
against the wooden floors of the kitchen. She stepped inside, spun, and
cornered herself against the counter and cabinets.

“I trust you,
Father.”

“Do you trust
yourself?”

Another glance
over my silent home. Empty. Isolated. No one would see what happened tonight,
no one to judge the words we’d speak, the glances we’d share, or the sins we
might commit.

“I baked you a
cake,” she said. “I thought about an apple pie, but…you know the connotation.”

“What
connotation?”

At least she
recognized when I teased her now, but she wasn’t brave enough to chastise me
yet. Maybe not ever.

“You know?
Apples
?
Tree of knowledge?” She set the cake on the counter. “If I brought you
something with apples, somehow we’d defy God, get evicted from our homes, have
to toil the earth, realize we were naked…” Her eyes pinched closed. She nearly
crossed herself. “I mean…I think that was part of the story.”

“It was,” I said.
“Adam and Eve ate from the tree and recognized their nudity.”

“See. Cake was a
better idea. We don’t need any more of that temptation.”

On the contrary.
Honor wiggled, nervous and uncertain.

If any innocent
person needed to confront her fears, it was my angel, trapped within mortal
sins and her own dark thoughts.

I would lead her
to that temptation. Teeter her over the brink. Then I’d bring her back.

I’d save her.

My pride should
have shamed me, should have sent me to prayer to beg forgiveness for my own
arrogance. Instead, I pulled a bottle of red wine from the refrigerator.

Honor shook her
head. “I really should be going, Father.”

“One glass of wine.
While we share the cake?”

She twisted a
finger in her hair, the curls bouncing over her shoulders and against the swell
of her chest. Her breathing quickened. I longed to hear even a single gasp.

“Are you testing
me, Father Rafe?”

“Testing you in
what way?”

“
Any
way.
Every
way. The more time I spend with you, the more often I think your
lessons
are meant to weaken me.”

“Just the opposite.
I intend to strengthen you. Teach you the humility of virtue.”

“It does feel
humbling.”

“Why?”

She accepted a
glass of wine, but she didn’t sip. I swirled mine, preferring this brand of dry
red to the sweet variety used in Mass. Honor stared at the liquid, crimson and
lovely, a perfect complement to the darkness of her skin.

“You already sent
the letter of recommendation for my mother, didn’t you?”

“Of course. We’ll
have a response from the diocese next week.”

“Thank you.” She
breathed easier, a cleansing sigh. “It’s a relief.”

I sipped my wine.
“What was the hardest part of coming to me? Admitting you needed the help…or
speaking with me?”

“Are you asking
because I ran out of the confessional?”

She’d done it
twice now, but that wasn’t the reason. “No. I’m asking because you wanted to
speak with me
inside
the confessional.”

She shrugged.
“Lately…our conversations have been a little intense.”

“And?”

“I wanted to keep everything
separate, so it doesn’t interfere with…your role.”

I frowned. “I told
you. I am and always will be a priest. This is my job and my calling.”

She finally sipped
her wine, gazing at me with narrowed eyes. Skeptical.

She probably had a
right to be.

“Do you think
you’re protecting me?” she asked.

I didn’t hesitate.
“I’m saving you—just as you’re saving me.”

“From what? Each
other?”

“From what
challenges our faith. How did you feel when you kissed me, and we pulled away?
Or when we embraced, but didn’t sin? We defied our desires, and it gave us the
confidence to keep fighting.”

She frowned. “Is
it confidence or pride?”

“Can’t we have
both?”

“Not if it leads
to another sin. Some sort of arrogance that we’re
beating
a force we
don’t understand.”

“Understand
us
,”
I said. “We’re strong enough to defeat what would destroy us.”

Honor took a small
swallow of her wine. She didn’t answer, but she didn’t look away. “You know I
bake when I’m guilty?”

“Prayer is more
effective.”

“Not as
cathartic.”

I tugged the
rosaries from my pocket, winding them in my fingers. “Perhaps I should teach
you how to pray as well.”

“Or maybe I can
teach you my grandmother’s best recipes. Cookies. Cakes. Pies. I can do them
all.” Honor tapped the cake carrier with a finger. “I used to spend a lot of
time with her when I was younger. When Mom was…sick, before I could watch
myself. I won’t make a cake from a box because of her.”

“You made this
from scratch?”

“Only way I know
how.” She lowered the wine glass. “I think I wanted to impress you with it.”

“Why?”

Her smile slipped.
“I don’t know. I’m living on the edge of sin and absolution, and I’m not sure
where I want to fall.”

“In absolution, my
angel.”

“Maybe. But this
dark part of me is beating the batter and icing the cake and thinking…” Her
voice lowered. “Maybe when he eats this…he’ll remember me.”

Sweet
sacrilege.
Beautiful blasphemy.

I edged close, setting
my wine next to hers. She stiffened as my hands fell to her waist. The
delightful heat sliced through me, but, this time, I didn’t touch her for the
sheer heretical thrill of it.

She gasped as I
lifted her, setting her on top of my counter. I didn’t ask permission. I didn’t
stop.

Honor tensed as I
slipped between her legs. Her shuddered whisper tore through my body, my own
private spiritual conversion.

“
Father
…”
Her hands tucked in her dress, ensuring I didn’t receive even a peek of the
delights I could only imagine. “What are you doing?”

“Having a slice of
cake.”

“Like this?” Her
lip trembled, begging for more than a hushed murmur. “So close?”

My voice laced
with something darker than the chocolate icing. “Do you trust me?”

“Of course,
Father.”

“Then this
shouldn’t be a challenge to you.”

I reached over her
head, drawing near to her,
so near
. Her breath tickled my cheek, and
every pounding beat of my heart pushed my wretched blood lower. It hardened
that part of me my faith struggled to tame.

I set the plate on
the counter and pulled the knife from the drawer. Honor watched as I sliced it
with a single, penetrating thrust. The icing slickened the knife, and it slid
inside like silk. I lifted the moist slice, and it slapped onto the plate.

Dark, dark
chocolate.

The sugar dizzied
us both, but I smelled only her, that candied apple halo.

“What are you
thinking?” I pushed it towards her.

“Terrible things,”
she said.

“Impure thoughts?”

“The only kind I
have anymore.”

“Let them in.”

Her eyes widened.
“But…”

“Think about what
you want. What thought punishes you the most? Which one aches inside you? I
want you to focus on it. Hold it in your mind. Together, we’ll master it.”

She looked away. “I
want a lot of things, Father.”

“Tell me.”

“Well…the cake is
probably the most innocent.”

I hoped she would
say that. “Then you will have cake.”

I reached for a
fork, but my hand stilled. Why only test the weak? Why not ensure I was still
strong enough to guide the angel who needed my help?

I broke a piece of
the cake from the thick slice. It fit within my fingers with a blasphemous
familiarity. The motion was reflexive. I fought to deny the instinct to bless
the dessert.

After all, if it
were made at her hand, it was already consecrated.

I held the cake
before her. Her lips already parted for more than a quiet breath.

Honor was a good
Catholic girl, devout and practiced. She needed no instruction.