by Lana Grayson
“What are we?”
“Healed.”
I hardened, lost in the grace of her words. I could fight my urges. I could deny my instincts. I could hate myself, my thoughts, and my soul. But I couldn’t refuse her.
My body craved her touch, and my heart begged for her comforts, her kindness, and the words we could never whisper.
I caressed her cheek. Her mouth parted in a breathless sigh, and I stroked my thumb over her soft lips. She kissed me before she revealed too much.
“Then let’s sin, my angel,” I whispered. “And we’ll both be healed in that beautiful darkness.”
21
Raphael
Her kiss burned like fire and tasted of forbidden fruit.
And it felt like something good.
Holy.
She acted as though I were fragile. As if I would crumble if she touched my chest or that I’d lose myself if she parted her lips too much. But I never feared for myself. My control faltered near her. I never trusted myself with her innocence, purity, and submission.
But she did.
She gave herself to me, without care for the sins I’d committed or the scars that shaped me.
I kissed her, softly and with a deliberate reverence for the gift she promised me. Honor smiled. She mewed over my lips, but she wanted more. She tugged my hand and led me to the shadows in my bedroom.
I hadn’t slept there for three weeks, not since that night I had first taken her. Was it guilt or joy that kept her in my memories? Her scent lingered on my pillows. I still felt her in my sheets. And any time I closed my eyes, I saw her beautiful dark curves cast upon my ivory sheets.
Was it the devil’s torment?
Or was it a secret blessing?
I kissed her, even as she pulled me onto the bed. She encouraged me to climb over her.
Dangerous woman.
Her legs opened for me. I followed, a man possessed, to nestle within her softness. How could she trust me this much? Didn’t she realize how badly I strained, how her simple devotion hardened me in lust and vile thought?
“All summer, I’ve lived in shame,” she whispered. “I can’t feel guilty for wanting you anymore.”
“Wanting you is my temptation, my angel.”
“Save me, Father.” Her lips met mine. “I would sacrifice my eternity to spend a lifetime with you.”
God, help me.
With a single breathy whisper, this woman became more than temptation to me.
She became my prayer. A reason to live.
The moment of my salvation.
Honor arched to kiss me. She offered more than I was willing to take, and I still gorged myself on all that was her.
I pulled off her shirt, tossing it somewhere beyond my bed. She helped, wiggling her hips and slipping from her skirt and panties. Every brush of her skin hardened me. Dark velvet against my calloused hands.
Why would a woman this perfect damn herself for me? My desires tormented my thoughts. Would I praise her? Or would I have her stripped? Rutted. Used.
Honor smiled at me. Her lips twitched in shy and lovely gratitude.
She surrendered to my touch.
And I’d have spent days in prayer to understand why.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “This isn’t something to fear. This is us. Me and you. Together.”
I let her move me, taking a kiss as she rolled me onto my back. Her bra fell away, and she angled herself over my hips. I clenched a fist before my fingers curled with the instinct to seize her, twist her, pin her to the bed where she belonged.
Instead I savored how my angel posed over me in regal grace. I leaned forward only so she could remove my shirt. Her fingertips tickled my chest.
I’d never liked being touched, but Honor’s caress was nothing to fear. She traced my muscles and summoned a raw heat inside me with every press of her fingers. I tensed, and she was there. Over me. Kissing my shoulders, my neck, my lips.
I closed my eyes. “Do you trust me?”
“Always.”
Heaven.
“Why?”
Honor’s breath was warm against my skin. “Because you are a good man. You are a good priest.” She pulled away only to stare into my eyes. “And because I know you have a good soul. I’m not afraid of the thoughts you have. I’m only afraid that I won’t be able to share them with you.”
“I’ve never confided in anyone like this.”
“I may be your first…but I hope I’m not your last. You deserve every kindness you give to others.”
She smiled, lovely and bright. That only made it worse—the need throbbed inside me. Honor wiggled her hips over mine. She pressed against my cock as it ached for her.
I regretted that I wore my sweats. Every shudder that tore through me delighted her. She teased her body against mine. Her head fell back, and her hair caressed her chest. The dark curls hid her budded nipples from my view.
The tease enthralled me.
Honor moved to pleasure herself, to grind that secret part of her against my hardness. I doubted she knew how her shimmying body and parted lips burned me. She danced on me. My Salome, for whom I’d promise the world and all its sins if she enthralled me with another grind of her hips and brush of her hand.
I couldn’t help myself. I cupped her breasts to see more, feel more, touch more of her sacred skin. My thumbs rolled over her nipples. Honor flinched—not in pain or shame. She wanted this.
And me.
Such a delicate creature, but powerful. Forbidden. Her curves tempted me to do worse than touch, and yet she thrust her breast into my hand and sighed as I rolled the aching bud in my fingers.
This caress wasn’t meant to test her willpower. I wanted to give her pleasure. I longed for her to accept it, surrender to it. She tensed, eager for release already.
And I could give it to her.
My desire for her was as dangerous as sin, but she needed no protection from me. I worshipped her spirit. I adored her body. I’d bless every curve with the brush of my fingertips. For a chance to earn her devoted whisper, I’d submit just as she had surrendered.
Body. Will. Soul.
My hands drifted low, and her breath caught with a smile. She angled her hips to press against my cock, and every wiggle gave her a thrill of pleasure.
Once, I believed this would be an abomination, that she would please herself and it would desecrate her in some way.
Never again.
Her eyes fluttered closed as the rough cotton teased her slickening body. She wetted for me. I felt her heat and imagined what softness awaited me. Every arch forward rewarded her with a groan of delight, and every retreat of her hips shuddered her breath.
She deserved more than the bunched fabric of my pants against that heavenly secret.
My fingers threaded between her slick petals. Honor’s shiver surged adrenaline through my body. She braced herself against the heat of my hand. I stared into her eyes and teased that swollen, delicate, beautiful nub.
“Father…” Her words gasped between the strikes of pleasure. “I want you.”
And I wanted her.
Hard and gentle.
Fast and slow.
Upon her back and on her knees.
Was it possible to both praise and destroy this woman? Could I adore and desecrate her in the same touch, the same breath? She wetted for me, readied and begging for my invasion.
My mounting.
My love making?
I feared taking her too hard, just as I worried I’d never take her enough. Honor soothed me.
She tugged the waistband of my pants low. My cock sprang free, thick and vulgar and throbbing hard enough to stand. The weight and size of it thudded against her slit.
I shouldn’t have taken pride in the length. I’d impale her if she did what I prayed she’d do.
What I needed her to do.
This desire had to be dark and terrible. It was too powerful for anything good.
My cock would pierc
e inside of her. Siphon her breath and strength and rend through her.
Beautiful innocence teased the devil in me. I wouldn’t survive denying myself the pleasure.
She tugged too gently over my shaft, still unsure of what I liked, the pressure I needed. My little temptress had no idea what she did to me. She straddled me, unaware of the fires that would burn us both.
It didn’t scare her.
Not my rasped breath. Not my fingers curling within the blankets.
Not even my pulsing cock, threatening her most vulnerable softness.
Honor moved before I could toss her away or pin her down. She rubbed the head of my cock against her silken folds. The heat nearly seared my flesh and bones away, revealing the aching soul beneath.
“I want this,” she whispered. “I want you inside of me. Taking me. Overwhelming me.”
And she could have it.
She lowered over me, and her tightness welcomed my length. Slowly. So slowly. She eased down upon me, every inch which invaded her a declaration of trust and forgiveness, desire and understanding.
I filled her.
She enveloped me.
I shuddered.
She groaned.
And within an eternity of moments, breaths, kisses, and shivers, I was sheathed inside her.
Her body clenched, but her grimace wasn’t of pain or shame. Her lips parted, and she whispered my name as her hips moved a gentle inch.
I would have come then.
That soft, forbidden slickness trembled over my cock. She groaned, moving once more, just enjoying how I pushed through her, how she stretched over me. She glided only an inch or two along my length, but shivered in a quick, fierce, and desperate response.
“Show me.” I didn’t recognize the strain in my voice.
Seize or give. Bless or defile.
“Pleasure yourself, my angel.”
Give yourself to me.
Teach me.
Absolve me.
Honor leaned over me, her hands on my chest and her hair falling before her face. She tensed, but she didn’t allow herself that peak. She kissed me. Her words murmured between parted lips and flicked tongues.
“Together.” She dared to take more of my thickness. “We’ll take our pleasure only from each other.”
She moved against me in such passion. Every arch of her back and grind of her hips took more of me within her—by her own will, at her own pace. Her breathing quivered, and I tensed as her fingers gripped me.
Not to hold me down. Not to pin me. Not to take.
Because she needed to feel me. She depended on my strength to keep her upright. Her slit wetted, and my cock slid deeper, harder, faster. She groaned my name and clutched at her bouncing breasts as that delight and trust and connection unified our bodies.
I held her hips and squeezed. She whispered a deliciously tempting prayer for a mercy I wasn’t ready to give.
“Do you know the story of Lilith?” My voice growled, low in wonderful agony. “It’s old Jewish folklore. Lilith was Adam’s first wife.”
“First?”
I held her tighter. Controlled her. She fell onto my chest.
I could do so much to this body.
My hips arched, and I buried in her deeper. She groaned my name as I slammed her harder, lifted her higher.
“The story says she refused to submit to Adam.” A thrill teased me. “She wanted to stay on top.”
Honor’s soft words panted in desperation. “Who wouldn’t?”
“Tell me honestly.” I gritted my teeth and crashed her hard against me. “Do you trust me, my angel?”
She didn’t hesitate, and her answer moaned as she took my cock harder within her perfect slit.
“Yes, Father. I trust you.”
Then it was time to trust myself.
I pulled her from my cock. Honor knew what need possessed me. She willingly rested on the bed beside me, drawing up to her hands and knees under the guidance of my trembling hand.
Glory and sin warred over her curves. She glistened with sweat and baited me for a bite, a kiss, a touch.
I moved behind her. Every twisted fantasy and wicked desire that possessed my mind was born of this image.
An angel upon her knees.
A woman submitting to her man.
A passion and pleasure bound within the depraved lusts of a sinner.
I asked her to trust me. I had no right to demand it of her, not when I didn’t trust myself.
But I readied myself at her hips. I kissed between her shoulders, down her elegant back, to the curve of her thighs. Every primal need roared through me.
God, forgive me.
I pressed my cock against her folds.
I once believed this would become the destruction of my faith. The rage, fear, uncertainty, and sin burned away—sins purged in the absolution and truth I found within her.
Honor arched as I mounted her, her mew a timid tremble and the milking clench of her heat a dizzying gratitude.
I sheathed within her. Entirely. Completely.
This was pleasure.
Not a conquering of one body, but a surrender of both lovers in amazement, worship, and overwhelming desire. Lust transformed, lost in the flames of passion, not hellfire.
I didn’t claim. I didn’t take. I didn’t fuck.
We were one. A single body, mind, soul, heart. Everything good and pure I had preached and taught and lived to experience, made whole in a union of our bodies.
Peace.
Forgiveness.
She trembled, and I took her in my arms. I no longer forced her onto her hands and knees. She joined with me, my arm over her waist.
I thrust within her, again and again, earning a sweet cry and the warning tension which ripped through her. It mirrored my own.
Every invasion welcomed. Every intrusion forgiven. Every pleasure gifted.
I lost myself in her tightness, and she found me in a beautiful promise. She blessed me with her delirious cries. Whispered promises I couldn’t reciprocate.
Together we suffered and sinned and worship. We built to that beautiful moment when our hearts ceased to beat, when everything crashed upon the singularity of pleasure. A mythical peace. The crash of sin and sorrow and passion and wonder that destroyed our separate souls to create one.
She came for me, and her pleas sighed and begged for my own release.
I was already there. With her. In unison with her.
I caught her in my arms before she collapsed. We both fell to the bed, and I pinned her between me and our sweet oblivion.
She trusted me. Her body so delicate and holy. I thrust within her completely to hear her moan, to savor the tensing waves of her pleasure. Her orgasm stole her breath and words, and I knew my place in the world was to protect her in this moment of pure surrender.
My ultimate sin became a glorious conversion.
Nothing shamed me, nothing bound me, and I released my soul within her.
How had I become so blessed?
Her thoughts, her words, her very touch purified what had been ruined. In her arms, I wasn’t broken. She made me new. Whole. Her whisper spoke to me like Heaven’s sigh, and I was the one renewed within her gifted virtue.
I lost myself within her for too long. I jetted until I was spent but never softened. I stayed within her and kissed her neck, whispered every honesty, and accepted pleasure for the first time in my life.
Only once my body burned too hot, only when I feared I’d be turned into a pillar of salt for staring at someone so holy, did I pull away.
I collapsed upon the sheets.
She nestled at my side, cradled against me, head resting upon my chest. I brushed her hair and rested in the quiet comfort of our silent admissions.
But it wouldn’t last. This peace was only the first complication—the most damning and mournful sin of all.
Honor spoke first. Her words hollowed like in solemn prayer. I recognized the sound. She begged for answers to questions
she never wished to ask.
“What do we do now?”
My poor angel.
“Nothing,” I said.
“You know how I feel about you.”
“Don’t.” I stared at the ceiling, hating the darkness, the walls, the truth that bound me so far from her arms. “Don’t speak it.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t tell you.”
She stiffened, but I didn’t let her move from me. I savored a false warmth and forced a moment of quiet peace that was little more than a lie.
“I spoke with the bishop after the funeral mass. Benjamin had helped to keep me in a single parish, to teach me family, community, and togetherness. Now that he’s dead, no one is petitioning the diocese on my behalf.”
Honor shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
“The diocese is moving me across the state at the end of summer.”
22
Honor
I never thought I’d refuse salvation.
When I was younger, I prayed. When I was older, I questioned. And when I became an adult…
Faith meant everything and nothing to me. It strangled me. It gave me hope, but it stole it just as easily.
I believed more in disappointment than miracles now, and the faith that remained broke my heart as much as it healed it.
I curled up on the couch at home. The sun had set, but I didn’t bother to move the homework from my lap or turn on a light. I didn’t want to do anything but stare into the shadows and curse the very faith that made me the woman I was and the angel he saw.
And it hurt.
Worse than the fear of sin or the ache of temptation.
Hell wasn’t a place of fire, brimstone, and torment. It was this. Loneliness. Realizing that the one thing I wanted was the one thing the Lord wouldn’t provide.
Father Raphael wasn’t a man. He was a priest. That distinction, that damned white collar, tethered him to something bigger, more important, more blessed than me.
It wasn’t right to hate it. Or him. Or myself. But without an enemy to fight or a hope for a prayer, I had nothing.
And so I sat in the dark, waiting for answers, hoping for a sign.