Sweetest Sin: A Forbidden Priest Romance

by Sosie Frost

  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?

  I no longer had impure thoughts. The images of my lust didn’t take a recognizable form. They centered inside me, manifesting as the surge of blood from my veins to my cock, as the involuntary clenching that twitched my shaft.

  Instinct overruled sanity. I wrapped my rosaries tight in my palm and squeezed.

  It didn’t quell the desire to rut. To thrust. To overpower.

  Heaven help me.

  “Tell me,” I ordered.

  Honor watched with wide eyes as I stood. She clutched the chair, panting a quiet breath. Embarrassed? She would be, revealing those naughty thoughts about a man who could not lust.

  “Father, I thought priests didn’t need specifics.”

  But where was the torment in that? “Tell me, Honor. Unburden your soul. What sin do you fantasize about the most?”

  I stalked to her chair, circling behind her so she could not see me unless she turned. I doubted she would be brave enough to face me as she described in detail what dark secrets tangled her mind.

  “I can’t speak them out loud,” she said.

  “Afraid it might come true?” I drifted close.

  “I know it won’t.”

  “Then speak these evils so we can cast them from our minds. Confront this temptation, Honor. Tell me what it is you dream about, and we will fight it together.”

  Or lose ourselves trying.

  She trembled as I helped her from the chair. I stood her before my desk, facing the crucifix hanging on my wall. She stared ahead.

  My gaze never left her.

  I prayed, but I glorified her—the bobbing curls of her hair, the elegant slope of her shoulders, the perfect curve of her hips. Every inch of her was worth worshipping. She licked her lips.

  The pink of her tongue stirred me. I had tasted it. Teased it. What I wouldn’t have given to feel that tongue upon my body…

  “Father…” She nearly turned away before confessing to her sins and delights.

  Unacceptable.

  I gripped her hips and held her in place. We both stiffened as I threaded an arm over her midsection. She went still.

  This woman was burning alive.

  She fit within perfectly against my body. My hips pressed against her lovely curves. I could no longer hide my shameful erection, but the hardness shocked her, stole her voice and her strength.

  Her legs wobbled, and I captured her before she collapsed into me. Honor permitted my lecherous touch as I kept her standing.

  I pressed my hand against her thigh, amazed by the stretch of the denim over her perfect legs. I palmed the jeans, wishing I could feel her soft skin. Her head fell back against my shoulder.

  Was this the path to Heaven or my first descent into hell?

  I’d never touched anyone like this before—her body so tightly pressed against mine, the beautiful swell of her thighs tucked against my swelling cock.

  Honor moved only to wiggle against me.

  Shameful, blessed shimmies.

  “Father…” She kept her eyes forward, upon the crucifix. My sorrowful, lusting angel. “This. This is what I’ve thought about.”

  “An embrace?”

  “No. No, it’s more than that.” She mewed, a pitiful and aching sound begging for a release. I had no idea if she longed to be free of my hands or released from the peaking desperation of her body. “I imagined this, Father. But without clothes. You behind me. Over me. Touching me.”

  My body racked with pain as I strained to imagine that wondrous moment too. She bent, back arched, the curve of her hips inviting me to lose myself within the beautiful folds of her virgin slit.

  I stepped us forward, pressing against her back to lower her onto my desk.

  Her breathing stopped.

  So did mine.

  This was more beautiful, more powerful, more precious than anything I’d imagined before.

  She waited, timidly, her legs pressed together but her body presented to me.

  This was why they called it mounting—that animalistic declaration when a man overwhelmed with lust gorged himself on the surrender of another person.

  I leaned over her, grateful for the barrier of her jeans and my robes. She groaned, eyes closed, lip bitten as I trailed my hands over her arms. Her hips accidentally—or purposefully—bumped as I covered her hands with mine.

  Her palms flattened against the desk. She arched for me. I kicked her feet to spread her legs.

  And she became…vulnerable. Waiting. Wanting.

  Irresistible. Dangerous.

  The destruction of my faith.

  “Did you imagine this, my angel?” I breathed over her ear. “This moment?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “And what was it we did?”

  “Everything, Father.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I imagined…I wanted…you to take me.”

  My innocent Honor, willing to bend over, to be straddled, to be overpowered by her priest…

  …And yet she couldn’t speak that profane word.

  I wouldn’t say it either.

  That foul, raw expression had no place in my dignity…and it was far too tempting to indulge in it. Giving it life meant giving it cause to corrupt me.

  More than I had already been corrupted.

  “Was it like this, Honor? With me behind you?”

  “Yes. And other ways. Beneath you. Me over you.”

  “These are the wicked thoughts you’ve suffered for over a month?”

  “Forgive me, Father.”

  The shiver built from the base of my spine. The tremble when she called my name, the reverence in her voice. I wanted to hear it. I wanted her cry it aloud. To call my holy title as I rammed within her, giving life and meaning to her sinful precognition.

  I arched, pressing against her. She groaned.

  Music. A choir of angels.

  My fingers tightened over her hips. She breathed, sighed, wiggled.

  Forward. To get away. Her breathless words shadowed with indecision.

&nb
sp; “Father, we should stop.”

  Stop.

  The desire burned in me. I could stop. I could also enjoy the soft swell of her flesh pressing into the hard demands of mine.

  “I can’t…” Honor clenched her eyes shut. “This feels too good.”

  My little angel, overwhelmed and undone by a simple press of my hips.

  If only she might have felt more. A touch. A lick.

  The true taking of her willing body.

  I moved again. The tightness of my robe and pants aided the strain against my wretched flesh. I could give myself pleasure with a simple movement. The natural position of her body offered a channel for me to rut.

  How much greater would it feel without her jeans…

  My fingers groped over her hips, searching for the waistband, the button, the zipper containing those beautiful curves.

  “Father Raphael.”

  Honor gripped my hand. She squeezed, protecting the button.

  Protecting us both.

  I sucked in a ravenous breath and hauled myself from her. She immediately turned, her hands covering her face.

  What had happened?

  We sweated, panted, ached as though we’d rolled on the floor for hours.

  Too close.

  Much too close.

  “Father…” She swallowed. “I’m sorry, I…”

  I held up a hand, surprised that the rosaries were still clenched between my fingers. “I know my limitations now.”

  “Good?” She cleared her throat. “So do I. You are my limitation.”

  “It’ll become easier.”

  She eased away from my desk. “And if it doesn’t?”

  “You’ll have to trust me.”

  Because I no longer trusted myself.

  Honor pressed a hand to her cheek. She appeared panicked. Desperate.

  Poor thing.

  “We passed the test.” I faked a smile. “Go now. Set up for the meeting. I’ll…step out. Pick up the pizzas.”

  “And I’ll…” She laughed, a surrender in itself. “Splash water on my face.”

  She deserved only the holiest of waters. Consecrated and cool.

  She retreated from the room, her hands raised. “And I promise to behave.”

  It did nothing for my cock, but it gave me confidence. “So do I.”

  The door closed behind her, and I fell into my chair, uncomfortable and pained. My body betrayed had me.

  This was a punishment from God—a warning that I had gone too far.

  Nothing would ease that ache, especially as I had a full night of meetings and groups to attend. Thank Christ for busy schedules.

  I doubted it would help.

  I prayed—Latin, the entire Rosary. Twenty full minutes of intense, soul-wracking prayer.

  And my erection hadn’t diminished.

  My penance would be this discomfort. My ache, my shame.

  At least it was a just punishment.

  Chapter Nine – Honor

  I added more hours to my rotation at the food pantry.

  It wasn’t a magnanimous donation of my time. Guilt motivated me to work, and I had to do something to save my thoughts and my soul.

  Not like my antics with Father Raphael would help me.

  I’d been bent over a desk by a priest. We fought the temptation and won, but it hadn’t shielded me from a wicked curiosity. The sneaking, unrelenting What ifs plagued me.

  What if he had unbuttoned my jeans?

  What if we had touched?

  What if we surrendered, just for the briefest, most amazing, most fulfilling of moments?

  And I knew the answer to that. I felt the hellfire a little closely.

  So I added another shift to the food pantry, and I volunteered to help make the flyers for the festival. It was the least I could do, especially as every time I tried to pray—even my rosaries—I thought only of Father Raphael.

  The pantry received a large, monthly delivery from the diocese’s county collection program. The rest of the goods—cereals, canned products, and household supplies—were donated from the parish and from collections. Most of the boxes had yet to be unloaded. I looked forward to doing the inventory, stocking the shelves, and filling out the spreadsheets.

  It was all good busy work that prevented my mind from wandering. Especially since I wielded an X-acto knife to open the delivered boxes. The last thing I needed was to get distracted with the blade and come out of my shift looking like I endured the Stigmata.

  The older ladies who ran the pantry weren’t the kind of Catholics who liked that joke. I was willing to bet Father Raphael would laugh though.

  And he had a wonderful laugh.

  The shift passed quickly. It took an hour before the little bell rang in the reception area. Judy manned the sign-in sheet out front, but she called for me to join her, a slight catch in her voice.

  “Honor!” She peeked into the shelves. “Your…mother is here.”

  What in the world?

  I dropped the box and snuck to the front, my heart stopping as Mom picked up the sign in form and jotted down her name in huge, bold script. She grinned and waved her hands to gather me in a hug.

  “There’s my busy little bee! I feel like I never get to see my baby anymore.”

  It might have been deliberate. The more hours I had with the church and classes, the less time I had to spend in the apartment.

  I greeted her with a forced smile. “Mom, what are you doing here?”

  “What’s it look like?”

  I prayed she meant she was volunteering. “Um, you’re…”

  “Shopping, silly!”

  Judy grabbed her cell. She twisted a finger through her devil-red hair, just waiting for the gossip to spread through her rumor-mill phone tree. I took the clipboard from Mom and smiled politely to Judy.

  “I need a couple minutes. Can you cover me?”

  Judy hummed. “Absolutely, sweetheart.”

  The door jingled as I led Mom outside. I made a mental note to rip the metal bell off the frame the instant I returned.

  “Mom, what are you doing?” I kept my voice low. “We don’t need food from the pantry.”

  “The house is empty, Honor.” She sighed. “I’m not used to having two mouths to feed.”

  I silently calculated the amount in my bank account, subtracted gas and my cell phone bill, and hated the number that returned. But I’d make it work. If I lived on Ramen last semester, I could certainly make a better meal with a real kitchen instead of an illegal hotplate.

  “I’ll go shopping after this shift, okay?” I said. “I’ll bring us home dinner too.”

  “Don’t be silly. That’s why the pantry is here. The women at the church told me to come by, and here I am.”

  “You have to be pre-qualified.”

  “And we are. Times are tough, but you knew that.”

  “No,” I said. “I’m working. I can afford groceries. This food is for—”

  “Those who need it.”

  “And that’s not us. It’s young families. Women who left abusive husbands. The elderly who had nothing for retirement. Disabled veterans. But I can make ends meet, Mom.”

  “And you are, baby.” Mom brushed my cheek. “But you’re working so hard. You’ve taken on so many responsibilities in the church. If I had half the ambition that you did…a lot of things would be different now. No drugs. No booze. No jail. But this is the reality. Your father is gone, God be with him, and we fell on harder times.”

  I wouldn’t let the bitterness eat through me. “You’re not taking food from the pantry.”

  “We’re not. You mean, we’re not taking food, right?”

  It wasn’t often Mom’s newfound optimism faded, and a harder edge shadowed her voice. But the program and steps made it clear that she was to accept herself and others and be grateful for life. No resentment, no anger, no sorrow anymore—not when she was alive and free from the addictions.

  “I know this is hard,” Mom said. “Your
father worked long hours to avoid charity—”

  “Dad put in fifty or sixty hours a week until…”

  “Until he died.”

  No. Until she had needed his help. Until he had to reduce his hours and sacrifice his ability to support the family to enable Mom as she drank herself almost to death.

  I swallowed the lump in my throat. Mom’s lips pressed thin, and she folded her hands.

  “Honor…I lost the appeal for the SNAP program because of the drug conviction.”

  I wish she’d kept her voice down.

  I smiled politely at Mr. and Mrs. Popp as they headed into the pantry. The entire congregation would spread this gossip by the end of the day.

  “We’ve survived without it before,” I said. “I can pay for groceries.”

  “For now…” Mom took my hand. “Honor, baby, I didn’t want to burden you with all this. It’s just been so nice having you home again. I missed you growing up, even though you were right there the whole time. Now I hoped we could reconnect and…really become a family again.”

  A family without Dad.

  “But there’s a problem,” Mom said. “The diocese was kind enough to give me a little money every month for rent. However, it was only temporary. It runs out next month.”

  My stomach curdled, and any hope I had of staying even a part-time student vanished.

  We needed more money?

  I’d have to cut back on the volunteering. Get a full-time job. I had no idea if I could find anything good without a degree.

  “We might be able to renew the program,” she said. “But we need a letter on our behalf.”

  “A letter?” I liked that spark of hope. “From who? The charity’s manager?”

  “No, from someone in the church.” She gave me a sheepish glance. “Father Raphael would be perfect. And you seem to have a good rapport with him. If you could convince him to write a letter to the diocese—”

  “You want me to ask Father Rafe for charity?”

  “I want you to ask him for help.”

  I could reveal my innermost fantasies to him.

  Kiss him.

  Arch as his aggressive and gentle and fierce and confident hands gripped my hips.

  But this? Asking anyone for help was mortifying, let alone wishing for a favor from the man who explored such terrible and wonderful feelings with me.

  I’d been humiliated by my desires, but still had my pride. I’d survived childhood and adolescence without charity.