Page 42 of Of Angels & Absolution

“Perhaps it’s a harmless fantasy,” he says. “Do you really want that? Or do you simply find the thought tantalizing because it is forbidden?”

Those words, spoken in that smoky sin of a voice, makes my insides quake with need. I remember what he had me do last time, and the yearning demands my attention. I squeeze myfingers around my knees, so I won’t move them higher. “I want it.”

“What else do you want?” he asks, his voice drenched in sin itself.

You.

The word springs into my mind instantly, without a moment’s contemplation, stark in its simplicity. But I don’t let it past my lips. I don’t tell him what I pictured that day when I saw him watching, the sacrilege of imagining a priest defiling me in the lewdest way, and that the image is what finally shattered me. It’s what made me come undone in Angel’s arms, and it’s what has kept me from confession for the past month.

How can I want not only this sin, but to wallow in it with my own brother? How can I want to drag a man of God into the pit of this hell with me?

“I want to stop feeling like there’s something wrong with me.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you, lamb,” he says, his tone both reassuring and so, so sexy that I can’t help my hands from moving up my thighs, toward the place that damns me every single time. “Haven’t I told you that?”

“Will you tell me again? Tell me what to do, Father,” I say breathlessly. “Please. Like last time.”

There’s a long pause, and I can hear him breathing on the other side of the partition. I tell myself his breathing is labored too, but I can’t tell for sure.

“You liked that?” he asks at last.

“Yes,” I whisper, sinking a hand between my legs.

“What did you like about it?”

“I liked you giving me permission,” I say, pressing my fingers against the fabric covering my soft flesh. “I liked hearing you say those words, hearing my innermost desires spokenaloud. And I liked the way you commanded it, and listening to your voice while I did what you told me to do.”

“What did I tell you to do?” he asks.

I swallow hard, my thighs clenching around my hand. “You told me to touch myself,” I whisper.

Before he can answer, a rush of cool air bathes my feverish skin. My eyes fly open, and I yank my hand away. My brother is standing in the door of the confessional, staring at me. My face burns even hotter than before, and by the cruel smirk twisting his mouth, I know he saw what I was doing before I could jerk my hand back. With only a moment’s hesitation, he steps inside and pulls the door closed.

We’re so close I could lean forward and press my lips to the front of his pants; the place he never lets me touch. Shamefully, my mouth waters at the thought, and my knees squeeze together.

Saint pulls me up, slides onto the narrow bench, and pulls me back down, so I’m sitting in his lap. In my state of heightened arousal, it’s all I can do not to whimper and press my bottom deeper into him, seeking the curious ridge of his desire I felt on the stairs that night.

“Lamb?” Father Salvatore asks from his side of the booth. “Are you still here?”

“Yes,” I say, my voice breathy with desire.

“She’s here,” Saint says, his voice laced with derision. “Fingering her cunt in the confessional.”

“Don’t,” I hiss, but it’s too late. He’s already told on me, the way I told on him, the way I told the judge that he went under the bridge with Eternity, and she never came out.

I hear the groan of wood in the other side of the booth, and then the door opens again, and I’m staring up at Father Salvatore. He looms over us, his face inscrutable, his dark eyes burning with intensity behind his wire-rimmed glasses.

I try to rise, but Saint clamps his arm around my middle like he did the last time.

“Show him,” he says harshly.

“No,” I gasp out, wanting nothing more than to flee back to my dorm and never return.

His arm tightens around my ribs even further, crushing the breath from me. “Show him,” he growls again, dragging my skirt up my thighs. They’re flushed red from my arousal, and my panties between them are soaked through in the center. I’m sure he can see the wet spot, and I want to expire.

“Let me see,” Father says, his voice gentle but firm. “What were you doing, lamb?”

“N—nothing,” I stammer.

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