by Keri Lake
“Every day. It’s simple really. I tell you where he lives. I give you the code to enter his house. You kill him, and my nightmares end.”
“Do they? Because I’ll be the first to tell you they don’t. Every day that I look out my window, I’m reminded of a life I extinguished. Every night when I go to sleep, whose face do you think I see, with such vivid clarity, it makes me sick? I don’t think you’re the kind of person who can live with that, Ivy. I don’t think you have enough blood on your hands to accept those consequences.”
“And you do?”
He strokes his hand over the shadow of stubble scattered across his perfectly chiseled jaw. “You know very little about me. But one small thing I’ll impart is that I didn’t have a clean slate when I entered the priesthood, and I’m no stranger to killer’s remorse.”
“What is this? Why are you here? What’s the point of this? To guilt-trip me into giving up? To tell me to accept this shitty situation until the asshole dies of natural causes?” Now I’m the one crossing my arms, shaking my head in refusal. “I can’t. See, tomorrow? I’ll have to go his house and play whatever twisted little game he wants to play, for two and a half hours, because that’s the deal I made to keep him from pounding down my door in the middle of the night.” I won’t even bother to tell him the last time I was there he made me go down on him while he listened to some fucked up audio of the Toy-Box Killer. The time before that he decided to play gynecologist and made me his patient. And those are relatively mild compared to what he’s made me do in the past, but not even I can confess that shit aloud.
Something dark clouds his eyes as he stares back at me—darker than the usual broody Father Damon stare. “This is what you’re forced to do to keep him away from you?”
I don’t even bother to answer that, considering I’ve already blackmailed a priest. “Whether it’s by your hands, or mine, I’m cutting him out of my life, one way, or another.”
“One of my parishioners owns a security company. Perhaps he can—”
“I’ve had the locks changed. Cameras installed. A number of things I can’t afford to do, but I do them, anyway. Somehow, he gets in. Somehow, he snakes his way back into my life. You want to know why I’m so cunning? I know how it feels when someone emails your boss.”
Huffing a sigh, he runs his hand through his hair and down his face, and I know, by that gesture alone, he’s finished with this conversation. Which means, somehow, I’m going to have to work up the balls to push one of those World Famous Knives through Calvin’s spinal column on my own.
“I want to help you, Ivy, but in spite of what you think you know, I’m not some killer for hire.”
“Then, we have nothing else to discuss.” Spinning on my heel, I only just reach out for the knob, when I’m yanked backward and his hard chest collides with my back.
“We do have something else to discuss. This tension has to stop. My mind has been filled with a number of dirty, sinful thoughts. Ones I can’t seem to shake.”
“I’m afraid, if you can’t help me, then I can’t help you.”
“You put this fucking curse on me. Ten years, I’ve remained celibate, and all I can think about is being inside you.” Admittedly, the visual of that sends a ripple across my thighs. “I want whatever game this is to end.”
“Did you delete my picture?”
“I have every intention of deleting it.”
I snort at that and feel his grip around me tighten. “But you haven’t, yet. Why is that?”
“Because what I want is forbidden. And for now, it curbs that craving, but at some point, it won’t be enough.”
“So, what do you want me to do about it?”
The brush of his lips at my ear sends a tickle across the back of my neck. “I want you to find another church. Another priest to torment. I’ll see what I can do to help your situation, and then that’s it. No more emails. No more pictures. No more temptations.”
“So, you intend to cast me from the flock because you can’t control your own urges.”
“That’s exactly what I intend to do.”
“Well, I’m afraid you’re gonna have to ante up, Father. A few church pamphlets on domestic abuse don’t cut it.” My body spins around fast—too fast.
“Why are you doing this? Why me? Why not hire someone to do your dirty work?”
“Because I will do whatever I have to, just to get that evil prick out of my life. Even if that means fucking you over.” Palm sliding over the thick bulge protruding from his slacks, I grip tight to his shaft and catch the subtle arch of his back. “And over.” Doing this only proves my point, because my whole body is trembling right now, wondering how he’ll retaliate. How far he’ll go to protect his morals.
I hate myself for putting him in this position, but every time I think of letting it go, leaving Father Damon out of this, I imagine Calvin smothering Mamie with a pillow, just before he dumps my body into a shallow grave.
His jaw is tight, body guarded, as if poised to crush me, and when he glances down at what I’m doing between us, I catch the slight dip of his brow—a plea trapped inside so much frustration, he must want to throttle me right now.
“And over again.” Lips set to his ear, I grip tighter as I whisper, “Fight me, if you’re so hell-bent on self-righteousness.”
Not a breath later, his body sets into motion, moving like a machine as he backs me into the wall. It only takes two seconds for him to hitch my skirt up to my waist and yank my panties down to mid-thigh. With a victorious smile, I watch his lip curl as though he’s disgusted with himself, as he loosens his belt and unfastens his slacks.
“You shouldn’t tempt me.” The anger in his voice is convincing enough, but the tremble of his body betrays him, screaming of excitement and yearning, and the hunger of a man who hasn’t eaten in a long time. The veins in his cock throb as he holds himself like a warning, a weapon designed to split a woman in two. That’s how thick he is, and to think all this time, he’s been hiding this impressive beast beneath vestments and virtue.
What an absolute shame.
Lip caught between my teeth, I hike my thigh up over his hip and rub my thumb over his weeping tip, ready to guide him inside of me.
“Touch yourself.” His raspy voice makes him sound like a man on the edge.
“I’d rather just get right to—”
He silences my explanation with a palm over my mouth, his shoulder flexing as he strokes himself against me. “No. You’re so content to tease me? This is what you brought on yourself. You don’t get to call the shots.” He swaps his hand for his lips in a kiss that steals my breath and renders me momentarily weak. Pressure between my thighs tightens my muscles, and I let out a sharp breath through my nose, as he shoves two of my fingers, along with two of his own, inside me.
The moan that leaks from his mouth vibrates across mine as he guides our fingers in and out, pumping slow and steady. The delicious stretch over all four digits doesn’t even come close to what I imagine his cock might feel like inside of me. Wet sucking sounds echo through the room, an embarrassing confession of just how much I’m enjoying his punishment.
The tight clench of his jaw must mirror the malice burning inside of him, telling me I’ve pushed this holy man too far. He withdraws his fingers, eyes on me as he slips them into his mouth, sucking my arousal clean. “You even taste like sin. Imagine that.” Sinking to his knees, I watch him fist his cock, gaze riveted on where my fingers still work my pussy. He braces a hand on the wall, steadying himself, and bends forward to lick the slickness leaking down my thighs. “Move your hand,” he commands in a ragged voice, and I do as he says. “Hold your skirt up and open yourself to me.”
Following his commands, I lift my skirt with one hand and press two fingers across my folds, exposing my clit to him. Orders like these are nothing new, but the desire to do as I’m told comes as an unexpected surprise. The thrill of watching this man, who’s denied himself pleasure, get off on what we’re doing i
s a welcomed change from all the times I’ve been forced to do the same for Calvin.
“Yeah, just like that.” His fist pumps faster, the veins in his neck pulsing as furiously as his arm. “Now tell me what you want, Ivy. Tell me what dirty things you want me to do. Confess your sins to me.”
Dear God, I’m probably going to hell, but this is the hottest fucking thing that’s ever happened to me, so I go along with it. “I want you to lick it.”
“No, no. You’re dirtier than that, Ivy. C’mon.”
“I want you …” It takes me a second to realize my ass is grinding against the wall. “I want you to eat my pussy.”
“That’s a good girl.” The man is far more exciting than I gave him credit for, oozing with all kinds of masculinity and authority. But not in a way that makes me sick, like with Calvin. No, Father Damon is having quite the opposite effect, much to my surprise. “Now tell me … how do you say sinner in French?”
“P-pécheresse.”
He slides a nearby chair beside me, and props one of my feet onto it, opening me wider to him. “Feed it to me. Pécheresse.”
The man is dirty, with a darkness seeping out of his pores like little devils rising out of the flames. I feel like I haven’t even broken the surface of what lies beneath all that rectitude he wears like a second skin.
Thrusting my hips forward sends my clit straight into his lips, and the second his shadowy beard makes contact, my ass twitches with the tickle. His lips come together over my slit, still held open by my fingers for him, and he sucks as if he’s broken into an overripe fig, lapping up the juices. I cry out, digging my nails into his scalp, and grab a handful of his short-cropped hair. My hips make small thrusts while his tongue dips into my folds, and when his fingers curve up inside me, I can’t hold back the moan that bounces off the walls. Surely, someone walking by could hear us, but that doesn’t stop him, or he just doesn’t care, evident in the sounds of satisfaction rumbling in his chest while he fingers me, sucks me, and pumps his cock like a one-man band of pleasure.
Short staccato breaths beat against my pussy, as his hand furiously works his shaft.
“Please, Father. Stop.”
“You want me to stop?” he asks in a voice that sounds more like a growl.
“No!” God, what am I saying? I don’t want him to stop, I want this to stop. This squirming for something I can’t quite pinpoint. This sensation that has my muscles all bunched and knotted like they’re about to snap, but can’t. “Please don’t stop. Make it … go away!”
This isn’t supposed to feel good. It’s supposed to be detached, meaningless, mindless sex. The way it feels when I’m with Calvin—purposeful and not at all enjoyable. I’m not supposed to feel anything, but I do. I feel him probing every corner of my darkest fantasies, springing forth a surprising revelation that maybe I’m not opposed to sex with the right person.
If only the right person wasn’t a goddamn priest.
“This is … what you … deserve …” His words are broken by harsh breaths and the sound of slapping flesh. “For teasing me, pécheresse.” Two more pumps of his cock, and warm jets pulse upward, painting my thighs with his release. “Ah, fuck!”
I reach down to touch myself, taking in the view of his climax, but he pins my arm to the wall.
“No.” He pushes to his feet, towering over me, and leans down to kiss me as he rubs his hand over the front of my skirt. “You’re going to suffer. Just as you made me suffer all day.”
I want to laugh and cry at the same time, as every fiber of my body quivers at his slightest touch.
“It’s miserable, isn’t it? Feels like everything is on fire.”
Another kiss presses me into the wall, and he rubs his weeping cock up and down my slit, further exacerbating this unique torment I’ve never felt with another man. “This is what happens when you tempt me to sin, Ivy.”
If he thinks that’s a turn off, he doesn’t know me very well.
“Don’t worry.” I clench my jaw, frustrated by the tension wound so tight within me that all I want to do is rub myself against something to make it go away. “I’ll touch myself later. I’ll remember the look on your face the whole time.”
Something flickers in his eyes, and he shakes his head, removing his shirt to reveal tattoos that decorate his shoulders—most notably, an iron cross that ends just above his elbow. The second he bunches the shirt in his hands and sets it to my thigh, presumably to wipe away his release, I grab his wrist and push up to kiss him again. “I’m a dirty girl. Pécheresse, remember? Have a good night, Father. Sweet fucking dreams.” Straightening my skirt, I slide my panties back up my thighs, wet with his cum, and smile as he watches me the same way a lion might look upon a gazelle, licking his lips. I keep my eyes on him as I pass on my way toward the door. “I hope all that sin leaves a bitter taste on your tongue,” I say, before heading back to work.
13
DAMON
Damn her.
I wish I could say the guilt of having glutted between a woman’s thighs was enough to set me straight and put me back on the path of righteousness, but that isn’t how temptation works. No, sin is far more conniving than that, and Ivy is about as deliciously wicked as they come. So, as the young couple sits before me, detailing out their plans for marriage and an ongoing devotion to the church, all I can think about is the scent of Ivy that lingered on my skin as I drove home, wishing I had that taste on my tongue one more time. I didn’t see her during morning mass, not that she had a habit of coming to church everyday, but that didn’t stop me from looking for her, anyway.
“We intend to write our own vows for the ceremony.” The blonde, Melissa, whose mother organizes the youth group activities, smiles at her fiancé beside her. “I already started mine,” she says, and giggles.
Their clasped hands remind me of Ivy’s in mine, and the phantom sensation of her squeezing my knuckles, as I denied her orgasm, casts a shiver down my spine.
I wish I didn’t need sex to feel the same level of satisfaction I did last night. I wish I didn’t crave the scent of a woman and nails digging into my flesh—basic human appetites that a man of my position has no business indulging. I hate that Ivy gives off some magnetic attraction that turns me weak and somehow powerless against my desires. And I wish my body didn’t hum with some annoying thrill at the thought of her lying helpless beneath me, but it does. It begs for more of her. So much more than the tempting little sample she offered me in that office.
This perverse and wrecking covetousness threatens everything I stand for, and still, my body refuses to relinquish this insatiable appetite for her. It refuses to forget the way her full and heavy breasts pressed against the fabric of her shirt, sketching the perfect shape of her pert nipples. The prop of her calf in three-inch heels that I can almost feel scoring down my back, painting a line of excruciating delight. The hem of her skirt riding up quivering thighs, while she offers me a small glimpse of my ruin. Wearing down my tightly-leashed restraint.
Damn this woman.
“And sex?” The mindless question tumbles from my lips before I can stop it.
Both eyes shoot to mine with an incredulous look—a cross between repulsion and surprise.
“Children. I assume you plan to have children that will be baptized through the church.”
The look of disgust withers to something more bashful, and Melissa blushes. “Of course. We’re hoping to start a family right away.”
“Very good.” I release a held breath, frustrated with myself. Much bigger issues weigh down on me, like how long it might take for the police to come snooping around, looking for answers, seeing as one of the caretakers finally reported Chuck Beatty missing a couple days ago. How long will Camila keep her silence about who came for her that night?
And why the hell did my dead wife have a lawyer’s contact information tucked inside her phone case, where I ordinarily wouldn’t have stumbled upon it.
I don’t need to be thinking about Ivy, o
r how much I want to pin her to that wall and watch her face all screwed up with ecstasy as she screams my name. No, that’s definitely the last thing that should be spinning inside my head right now, but she’s like an ice pick jabbing against my skull. A needling agony that won’t leave me be. One not even prayer can cast out of me, because she’s so firmly rooted in my mind, which is why I can’t reconcile these sins. Not yet, and certainly not with Ruiz, who has been nothing short of a mentor these past few years.
Priests like Ruiz, who were born ready to serve God, have no concept of what it’s like, how good it feels to be buried inside a woman, watching her face twist in pleasure. A man who’s never tasted an apple is only bound by his own curiosity, while a man who’s indulged in the delicious fruit is enslaved to the tart flavor that lingers on his tongue. Ruiz couldn’t possibly understand this affliction because he’s never had a woman like Ivy, whose coy demeanor and voluptuous curves trigger some sort of muscle memory, awakening this dormant lust. Forgetting the taste of her poison, after having licked it from her most forbidden places, is like trying to forget how to breathe. Impossible.
I crave more of it. More of her.
The meeting rolls on, as we finalize dates and expectations, and when it’s over, my thoughts of Ivy have once again commanded my body. I need distraction. Something to erase the visuals of her skirt hiked up, offering herself to me like a sacrifice. ‘Fucks sake, every muscle in my body is tense and trembling, desperate to find a quiet place to release. Balls heavy and aching, I squeeze them to temper this torment, and groan with the small bit of attention.
I’m due to make my rounds at two of the local nursing homes this afternoon, and the last thing I need is to offer the body of Christ with a hard-on poking through my slacks.
I head back to the rectory for a cold shower and a quick bite. Along the path, I catch Father Ruiz staring off toward the back of the church.