Sweetest Sin: A Forbidden Priest Romance (22 page)

I pulled her legs
to the end of the altar, pressing a hand to her chest to prevent her from
rising.

This was what I’d
wanted to see.

What I’d dreamed
of.

Honor defenseless,
aching, naked. Waiting on the altar for the moment of utter sanctity when I’d
rend through her with every perverse and befouling desire that hardened me for
sin.

My innocent angel
slickened for me. She had no idea the dangers that awaited her.

I stepped to the
altar, wrapping her legs around my waist. Her breasts rose and fell in quick,
harsh breaths. I clenched my jaw and pumped my cock. My soul threatened to tear
me apart if I didn’t seek relief in her body.

“Forgive me,” I
whispered. “I can’t fight this temptation.”

“It’s okay, Fath—”

I thrust inside
her, one solid and demanding strike. My cock forced itself in, rutting to the
hilt and grinding flesh against flesh as I sheathed my impossible length within
her delicate slit.

I expected her to
cry out.

To squirm. Fight.
Beg.

I thought she’d
try to run…as I had so often fought to escape.

Honor arched
instead. Her whisper cried my name in
sweetness
.

And her body
shuddered in shivers of delight.

I withdrew, each
inch without the comfort of her molten slit a pained and terrible punishment. I
pulled to end and teased my cock with the agonized shudders that wracked my
spine.

Nothing compared
to this feeling. This tightness. This squeezing and unrelenting tremor that
enveloped my body from the clenching of hers.

I sliced through
her again, filling her, stretching her when her body tensed over me. I made the
room I needed for my own pleasure.

And Honor groaned
for me. She clutched the altar. Her breasts. My hands.

It didn’t hurt
her. She
liked
this.

I gripped her
thighs and positioned her where I could slam myself inside her, where every
undulating squeeze of her softness rolled me in pleasure, panic. So tight. So
perfect.

I lost my soul,
but it escaped only to be trapped between us. In her. The only place safe
enough, wicked enough, primal enough for it.

She bit her lip.
Hard. Her eyes closed, and the curls of hair haloed behind her. Every thrust
bounced her body for me, and her cries pitched high and pleading as I slapped
against her.

How could
something so dark and sinful feel so beautiful and raw? My natural desire was to
take, to seize, to own. But my sins were corrupted into something even more
insidious.

Every thrust
indebted me to her. It saved me from darkness.

She let me do this
to her.

She took
pleasure
from what I did to her.

And her soft mews,
too timid to even whisper in the church I defiled, called for
me
.

Deliriously.
Passionately.

I grabbed the
rosaries and pulled her to me. The beads acted as a leash, and I stole a kiss
as I pinned her under me.  I took her deeper than before, punishing her in
pleasure.

“Father…” Her eyes
closed. “
Rafe
…”

I stiffened. She
begged for a release—from my hands, my demands, and the pleasure I thrust
within her.

And so did I.

It built with
every slam of my body against hers. The dark, forbidden passion boiled inside
me. Sparks of ecstasy centered in the worst shadows of my soul.

And yet, her
pleasure shuddered as a beautiful, vibrant gift. She offered it to me. Drew
closer, held my hand over the rosaries that I clutched in my trembling fingers.

I took her harder.
Kissed her.

My words rasped.
“Will you ever forgive me?”

“I already have,
Father.”

Her breathing
shuddered. Every sharp gasp a song of songs.

I had no defense
against her. She stripped me bare, even as I yet wore the cassock and collar. Though
I destroyed everything I once adored, she cleansed my soul. She understood. She
soothed me. Comforted me.

Honor came for me
with a sweet innocence, and in that moment, I realized I never had any control
over her. Any punishment I feared I inflicted faded. She wasn’t afraid. She
wasn’t lost.

She came and came
and came, breathing pure pleasure and calling for my release with hers. Her
body tensed too hard, but my hands guided her through the ache and into that
pure bliss so forbidden to me.

Beautiful.

I groaned as the passion
swept through me, lashing me as sharp as the barbs of a whip and as sweetly as
the caress of an angel.

I buried myself in
her. Every loathsome jet of heat should’ve scalded her, poisoned her. Instead
she arched to take more of my seed. She moaned with me. Accepted everything I
was and would be and defied our temptation with a need purer and more honest
than my committed sins.

I collapsed over
her, panting on the altar, over her body.

Honor laid back
and closed her eyes. Goose bumps rose over her soft curves, though she sweated
too, a delicate sheen that purified her as we rested.

She reached for
the rosaries, but I stilled her hand.

“They’re yours,” I
said. “I used them for strength, to prevent me from doing
this
. I have
no need of them anymore.”

“But Father—”

“Nothing can save
me now.”

Sin wasn’t easy,
despite what people said.

It was hard to
commit. Hard to confront.

Harder to stop.

I knew what I did
was wrong. I tried to live a life of faith and integrity, and I had failed.

But, for the first
time since I burned myself on desire, I sang at Mass with an honest heart.

I was guilty. I
had sinned. And Father Raphael needed my help.

He suffered
because of our night together—erotic, sensual, and blasphemous. I knew what I had
to do. No matter my sins, I had to return Father Raphael to a state of grace.

But first, I had
to convince him that he deserved that forgiveness.

I’d texted him,
but he had a meeting immediately following Mass. I wouldn’t be able to talk
with him until the festival prep later. That meant I had the afternoon…

Off?

No work. No
classes or homework. No volunteer hours. I could go home and relax.

With Mom.

The thought
twisted me, and I hated myself for it. Why did I look for any excuse to leave
the apartment? Avoiding my mother shamed me more than anything I had done with
Father Raphael.

Mom hadn’t stopped
talking since the church, and I doubted even she could remember what she
chattered. She dropped her purse in the entry and prattled in the kitchen. I hung
her bag over the back of the chair before the strap was soaked in a puddle by
the door.

“Do you want
coffee? I want some coffee.” Mom hummed to herself and fished in the cupboard
for the grounds.

She still had a cup
of coffee on the table, cold from the morning. I moved it and groaned. The
envelope underneath was splattered and wrinkled.

Her bank
statement. Unopened. That wasn’t good.

“Well, that was a
beautiful Mass today, wasn’t it? Hungry?” Mom didn’t remember where she kept
the bread. She opened the wrong cabinet twice and set the peanut butter next to
the plates in her forgetfulness. A side effect of the drug abuse for so many
years. “Just
beautiful
. Your choir is doing so good, honey. I’m proud of
you. I tell everyone, I say to them
that’s my baby singing that solo.”

I nodded, offering
her a sheepish shrug. “I know, Mom. I can hear you.
Everyone
can.”

“All the more
reason to sing it loud and proud that my baby is doing her best by the Lord in
every way she can.” She held her arms out. “Now where did I put that peanut
butter…maybe I’ll make ham and cheese instead. Would you like that, baby? Did
you want coffee?”

I looked up. She
didn’t realize we didn’t have the money for lunch meat. She laughed about the
peanut butter and got the coffee brewing.

“I swear, I don’t
know where my head is sometimes,” she said.

She smiled. It was
too broad, too…unfamiliar.

I tried to
remember a time when Mom exhibited any signs of…
life
. Back when she was
sick, she never drank for the thrill or the bubbly high. She downed enough to
go numb, and then she drank more to stay down when the world kicked her hard
enough. And the pills? The Oxy did the trick when she couldn’t carry a can or
bottle.

Was this really
Mom? Was this the woman under the drugs? Her skin had cleared, and a few social
programs had helped to fix her teeth. She smelled of soap instead of body odor
and alcohol, and her words slurred only when she got too excited to unjumble
her thoughts. She jumped from one topic to the next, almost manic, and I could
hardly keep up.

Then again, I
hadn’t really tried. I couldn’t. Not when I had so many events and practices
and classes and…

No money.

I stared at her
bank statement. It was more frightening now that she was sober than it had ever
been when she was sick. At least then we had a reason to lose so much money.
Mom didn’t have a job—hadn’t had one for years. She never really understood the
value of a dollar.

Her account was
nearly overdrawn, and I had no idea where the money had gone.

But I could guess.

“Hey…Mom?” Why did
I hesitate before calling her name? “I think we ought to sit down and talk
about the bank account.”

Mom hummed as she
heated a frying pan. Grilled cheese it was then. “Oh, not just now, baby. Let’s
get something to eat first.”

“There were
withdrawals this week for one hundred and eighty dollars.” I felt sick. “Cash
from the ATM. Why are you pulling out cash?”

“Don’t you worry
about that.”

Oh, but I did. I
was worrying. Cash never lasted long around Mom.

I hated to think
it. Alyssa and Samantha hadn’t wanted to tell me about the gossip spreading in
the church. I glanced up, staring through her graying hair and smile to find
the woman I remembered.

One hundred and
eighty dollars paid for the electricity and groceries.

I hated that I
searched her expression for any signs of deceit.

“Mom, is something
going on?”

“Of course not.”

“We needed that
money.”

“Well, if
you
must know…” She flipped her sandwich too late and burned it. “I’m planning a
surprise.”

I didn’t like
that. “Surprises that cost this much money?”

Or a surprise that
would account for just enough to hide a bottle of cheap whiskey under the sink and
a handful of pills in her purse?

“Okay, Honor. You
caught me.”

I held my breath.

Mom plated the
crispy grilled cheese with a dollop of ketchup on the side. She pushed it to
me.

Close, but it was
Dad who had liked the ketchup. I preferred pickles on mine. I ate it anyway.

“I had this great
idea,” Mom said. “You’re so involved in the church, and it’s wonderful. The
woman’s group and the festival and this special Battle of the Choirs.”

I peeled a bit of
cheese from the bread and ate it to avoid speaking.

“I wanted to get
that sense of community too. Really thank the people who have been so kind.
So…” Mom held her arms out. “I’m going to host a dinner party here for all
those lovely people at St. Cecilia’s who have helped us.”

I dropped the
sandwich. “You
what
?”

“I want to invite
some people over. Judy, Ruthie, a few other ladies in the women’s club. We
could even invite Father Rafe. He’d love a home-cooked meal.”

“Mom, you’ve never
cooked a meal like that in your life.”

“Nonsense.” Mom
frowned as she remembered. “I’m sure I have.”

“Not in the past
sixteen years,” I said. “I don’t think you know how to cook.”

“We’ll learn.”

“You don’t just
learn
this stuff.”

“Of course you do.
Everyone does.”

Maybe when they
were younger. Maybe before the drugs addled their minds. Maybe before they
became a woman who couldn’t remember that she put the bread in the freezer and
the peanut butter in the cabinet.

“Mom, I don’t
think we should do this. Money is…really hard to come by. And we’re behind on
the bills—”

“The Lord will
provide, Honor. He did in the past.”

“No, He really didn’t.”
I tossed the statement on the table. “
Dad
was the one who provided.
Dad
shifted his schedules and took harder hours and did everything he could to make
ends meet. But now he’s dead, and I’m here trying my hardest. I gave up my
school, my job, everything to come here, and we don’t have enough money to—”

Mom crossed her
arms. “Honor Maria Thomas, you tell me right now what this is
really
about.”

“I just don’t
think it’s a good idea to have them come…
here
.”

Mom looked over
our apartment, her mouth drawing into a thin line. “I spent half a year
confined to a space smaller than this. I am
proud
of this home we have.
I am
proud
that I can walk out that door anytime I want without a guard
on the other side. I can wear my Sunday best and not an orange jumpsuit. I can go
to
church
and talk with those nice God-fearing people.” She shook her
head. “And I’m not going to be ashamed if I invite them into my
home
.”

“But this isn’t
home!
”
I couldn’t hide the bitterness in my voice. “Home was across town. With
Dad
.
In the house he built with his bare hands for us. A house we don’t have
anymore.”

“Home is where
your family is, Honor.”

“If that’s true, half
of our home is buried six feet under.” I pitched the bank statement onto the
table. “Dad’s dead. This family is broken.”

“Don’t you say
such things.”

“I hope that money
is going to a dinner, Mom. I really,
really
do.”

“Honor—”

I stood. “I gotta
get to the church. We’re doing the festival prep later.”

Mom stood in
silence, watching as I grabbed my purse. I hated myself for leaving, for the
words I said and the bitterness in my voice when I spoke of family.

But she had never
acted like a mother.

And, God help me, I
wasn’t acting like the daughter she needed.

The door closed
behind me, and I nearly wept.

I didn’t believe
her story. A
dinner
party? With all that cash missing?

She had been clean
for an entire
year
. Why was she throwing it away now? After all the
confessions? The jail time?

Dad’s funeral?

She wasn’t the
woman I remembered, but I couldn’t allow the mother from my past to return. How
was I supposed to help her if I couldn’t face her?

If I hadn’t
forgiven her for everything in the past?

I drove to the church,
hating how Father Raphael’s voice haunted me. His words repeated in my mind.

Do you resent your
mother
?

Lately, he was a
bad priest, but I knew so much good existed in him. First he lost himself in
sin, and now Mom destroyed herself in vice. Two good souls depended on me to
make things right. The easiest way to heal Father Raphael was to remind him why
he became a priest.

To protect his
flock.

I slipped into the
church and greeted the few parishioners still lingering in the halls. His
office door was closed. I stared at the handle.

I hadn’t come to
experience the thrill of his state. I wasn’t there for a kiss or a touch. I
wouldn’t even return the rosaries I wore around my neck.

I came to talk to
him. My heart ached, and I longed to hear his voice whisper a kind word.
Advice. Maybe see his smile and accept a compliment or two.

Was it a sin to
imagine a life without guilt?

Probably, if only
because it led to my most dangerous temptation. If I let myself imagine that
life, I’d fantasize about something deeper than lust and desire. A moment
without vows or collars.

But I had enough
sins to atone for. I wouldn’t tempt myself to steal more of Father Raphael than
I already had. For that reason, I turned from his office and meant to escape
back into the church.

I nearly collided
with him.

And the warmth and
joy that shuddered through me was worse than any sin.

“Hi,” I said.

Father Raphael gave
me a knowing and twisted smirk, like he’d read through my intentions. “My
angel.”

“I…” I pointed
past him. “I was going.”

“Why?”

“It’s not
important.”

He took my hand,
squeezing over my palm with a burning authority and firm grip. He tugged me
into his office, closing the door behind us.

I breathed deep as
he passed. He was richly drenched in the sandalwood incense from today’s Mass.
So regal and sensual. How could a man smell so
important
?

He guided me to
the chair before his desk, but I didn’t sit. I stared at him—his lips, his
eyes, the way his collar shone so bright.

“You, above all
others, know my office is always open.”

“I know, Father.”

“You’re nervous.”

I licked my lip, a
twitch more than an invitation, but he leaned in for a kiss. I closed my eyes
as his tongue flicked over mine.

Wine.

He tasted of wine.

Or was it my
imagination? My guilt?

His hand brushed
my cheek. How could the world and all its mysteries make sense during a kiss
but shatter as soon as our lips parted?

“I haven’t seen
you since that night,” he whispered. “I was worried.”

“Why?”

Father Raphael
moved the collar of my shirt to the side, touching the rosaries. I’d slept in
them. Held them. Kept them as close to my heart as I could.